#operation sunshine: already dead
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Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1 (Dark Horse, April 2024) variant cover by Martin Simmonds
#martin simmonds#comic books#comics#variant covers#vampires#operation sunshine#dark horse comics#operation sunshine: already dead#comic covers
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Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1 (2024) Martin Simmonds Variant / Marcus Parks & Henry Zebrowski Story / David Rubín Pencils / 1st Appearance of Hex, Anwar and Steven Wobang
#OperationSunshineAlreadyDead #1 (2024) #MartinSimmonds Variant / #MarcusParks & #HenryZebrowski Story / #DavidRubín Pencils / 1st Appearance of Hex, Anwar and #StevenWobang Our ragtag group of young, alienated vampires head down to the swamps of Florida to disrupt a nasty ancient vampire party and to put into motion "Operation Sunshine" — their plot to steal a magical object that can turn themselves back to human and put an end to the elder vampires once and for all. Website Link In Bio Page If Applicable. SAVE ON SHIPPING COST - NOW AVAILABLE FOR LOCAL PICK UP IN DELTONA, FLORIDA https://rarecomicbooks.fashionablewebs.com/Operation%20Sunshine%20Already%20Dead.html #RareComicBooks #KeyComicBooks #DarkHorse #DarkHorseComics #ComicBooks
#Operation Sunshine: Already Dead#1 (2024) Martin Simmonds Variant / Marcus Parks & Henry Zebrowski Story / David Rubín Pencils / 1st Appearance of Hex#Anwar and Steven Wobang#Rare Comic Books#Key Comic Books#DC Comics#DCU#DC#Marvel Comics#MCU#Marvel#Marvel Universe#DC Universe#Dynamite Entertainment#Dark Horse Comic Books#Boom#IDW Publishing#Image Comics#Now Comics
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Preview: Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1
Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1 preview. Our ragtag group of young, alienated vampires head down to the swamps of Florida to disrupt a nasty ancient vampire party #comics #comicbooks
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#comic books#Comics#dark horse#Dark Horse Comics#david rubin#henry zebrowski#marcus parks#operation sunshine: already dead
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Comic Crypt: OPERATION SUNSHINE: ALREADY DEAD #2 Preview!
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FUCK ME DEAD
SniperTF2 x TeenMerc! Reader
((Year is set in the 2020s))
Tags: Brainrot slang, fluff, platonic relationship, reader consumes tiktok media brainrot and tries to infect sniper
"Fuck Me Dead" is an Australian slang for ffs so please don't misinterpret it as an NSFW fic.
NOT PROOFREAD
Ever since you got the job working as a mercenary for 2 old fucks fighting for a piece of land it's been pretty fun. When you were first offered a position it was equicoval. Why the fuck were they offering a minor a job in a battle-like field? Was this even a legal operation??? Nonetheless, you accepted the offer.
After a good few months of working with your team, you've managed to form a bond with most of them. More specifically, Sniper. The Australian raised New Zealander had become your best friend. Or at least to you. Despite being a introverted fuck when it came to people in general you had managed to get on his good side.
You've hung out with him, watched videos on the Internet together. Though he could never understand "what you kids mean these days", he liked spending time with you.
"Sniper." you called out from his door frame.
"Whaddya want you ankle biter." He replied, visibly cleaning his gun after the day's match.
"Do you have skibidi rizz."
He's stunned by your words and turns to look at you concerningly.
"Mate what? Skibidi rizz..?"
"You have a negative canthal tilt and poor features have you tried looksmsxxing or mewing?"
“What the bloody hell is a looksmaxxing???"
"You look like a true autumn lowkey. Wanna be in my OOTD for my GRWM where I show my new Stanley cup I just got?"
".. Wha-"
"Level 5 gyatt rizz LeBron James you are my sunshine my only sunshine tiktok rizz party she ride the dick like a carnival digital circus pomni rose toy edging mewing streak gooner cave is it acoustic? Tiktok shop Ohio sigma tshirt am I deer pretty or bunny pretty. "
"Sheila wai–"
"are you an alpha or a beta male. And swear it on skibidi."
At this point you would have already killed the poor soul because what the fuck were any of the words you just spat out at him. Did you cast a spell on him?? You.. you witch???
"Mate did you hit your head." He stares at you horrified and concerned for your mental state.
".... No."
"I think you should go see medic."
#tf2 headcanons#tf2 sniper#tf2 sniper x reader#sniper x reader#team fortress 2#team fortress 2 fanfiction#tf2 medic#tiktok#the brainrot is real#tiktok brainrot#tf2 x reader#tf2
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series masterlist | read on ao3
pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader
word count: 9.2k
rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood.
tags: previously established friendship, lies and manipulation, canon-typical crime, mention of guns, mention of alcohol, the United States government comes with its own warning, reader does not speak Portuguese fluently and is written as such
notes: WE'RE HERE. oh my god. ohhh my god. this has taken MONTHS. it's a little gross, a little freaky. take it. read it. love it (please?) more to come. over and out.
“All truths – even the laws of science – are subject to revision, but we operate by them in the meantime because they are necessary and they work.” — The Elements of Journalism, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel.
You wake up in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping. Your heart is beating fast in your chest; you almost tumble out of bed with the force from pushing yourself up. The phone rings—Mom’s landline—the trill high and bubbling from the kitchen. Following the noise through the fog of half-sleep, you pad across the quiet house slowly. You reach the phone by the fifth ring, answering on the sixth.
“Hello?” Your voice is raw with sleep.
“I was starting to think you were dead.” Marcus Pike’s voice reaches your ears, flowing down the line like water.
“Marcus?” you ask. Looking out the window above the sink, you see that the sun is not out yet. The sky is pitch black, forcing you to seek out the microwave’s clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”
“Seven in D.C.,” he says.
Right. That cushy, not-so-new gig out in Washington. He went from art theft investigator to a DOJ special agent in what felt like the blink of an eye.
“How did you get this number?”
“Your folks still live in Kendall County,” he says.
“And I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” you counter.
“They’ve got that yearly trip to Mexico. You house sat for them at the start of every summer.”
“Back in college,” you say.
“You still answered, didn’t you?” Marcus asks.
You can’t help when you laugh. “You haven’t changed.”
“Nope,” he says. You picture him in an office somewhere, shaking his head with a satisfied smile. “Neither have you.”
You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood. He moved away from Texas by the time you were already out on the east coast. Your job at The Metropolitan Post keeps you busy. Maybe a little too busy, absolutely quashing your personal life.
“Not that it’s unwelcome, Marcus, but—”
“You’re wondering why I’m calling you in Texas at the ass-crack of dawn,” he finishes for you.
“Sort of, yeah.”
He hums into the speaker, taking a moment before he speaks again. “I was wondering if you had time for breakfast?”
“Marcus, that’s a four hour flight,” you say.
“I’m not actually in D.C. right now,” he says.
“Okay…”
“I’m staying in San Antonio.”
“So that’s why you’re calling. You got bored, huh?”
“Something like that,” Marcus says. “Meet me at the Sunshine Diner? It’s on Commerce. Say, seven o’clock?” It’s like he’s rehearsed the line over and over again.
“Marcus—”
“Great.”
“Marcus,” you repeat.
He says your name back to you in that same firm tone.
“What is this about?” you ask. The playfulness can’t hide the weirdness surrounding a surprise trip down here.
“I’ll tell you when I see you, alright? All will be revealed.”
You roll your eyes, curiosity unsatisfied. Clearly he’s unwilling to tell you anything over the phone.
“Sure, fine. Breakfast at seven. I’ll see you there,” you say.
The drive from Boerne to San Antonio is only thirty-two minutes. Those thirty miles stretch to feel like thirty-thousand, but before you know it, you’re parked halfway up West Commerce Street. You see the diner, its sun-faded metal sign taunting you from the driver’s seat. None of the cars on the block look like they could be Pike’s. They’re too old or too dirty to be rentals, a sea of Texan license plates before you.
You sigh to yourself, pulling the handle on the car door as it creaks. “Now or never.”
The sun hasn’t brought enough heat to ground yet, the morning air still tepid as you walk onto concrete. Peering into the diner’s windows, you spot Marcus before he sees you. The absence of a suit over his shoulders throws you off. When you think of him, you picture Special Agent Marcus Pike. Sitting inside at a table alone, he looks more like the guy you used to know.
A bell jingles above you as you open the door to the restaurant. He looks up, face absent of surprise or question. It’s seven on the dot. He knows you like to be punctual. The kind waitress smiles at you when he waves you over, letting you join Marcus at his corner booth. He waits until you slide into the seat opposite him to say anything.
“Hey, stranger.”
“Hey, yourself,” you say. “You still have to answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“A man can’t find the sudden urge to visit the great state of Texas?” he asks.
“Not when that man is you.”
He’s got too many bad memories here for this be a vacation. He has never told you outright, but you aren’t stupid. The personal tragedy of a failed engagement and prospects of greener pastures for his career is enough to draw any man away from home. If Marcus is here, there’s a reason.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
“That’s what phones are for. Remember this morning?”
“This…isn’t something I can really talk about over the phone.”
You furrow your brow, eyes squinting as you assess his body language. Shoulders tight, hunched close to his body. He runs a hand over the light scruff on his jaw, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when his wrist meets the table again.
“What’s wrong?”
“There isn’t anything wrong,” Marcus says.
“You can’t talk about it over the phone, and you look like someone’s got you in a gun sight across the street,” you say. “But sure, nothing’s wrong.”
“Look—”
“What can I get started for you today?”
The waitress from earlier approaches your table with a peppy sway in her hips, dark ponytail swaying gracefully behind her. She pulls out a notepad to go with her stub of a pencil, ready to take down your order.
“Two coffees,” Marcus mumbles. “Two cream, two sugar.”
Then she turns to you. “How do you take it?”
“Black.” You don’t look at her, staring at Marcus as he taps his fingers against the plastic coating on the table.
“I’ll be right back with those.”
When she ambles away, you say, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Instead of giving you an answer, Marcus reaches into his back pocket. What he puts on the table almost makes your heart stop.
“Where did you get that?”
You’re staring at a face—your face—on a second-rate identification pass. A name that doesn’t belong to you sits under your photo in bold black ink alongside credentials you certainly don’t have. There is no Molly Hills that works at the Justice Department. At least, not until you made her up.
“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus says.
“I already got into shit over this, Marcus, so if you’re here to—”
“I’m giving it back.”
You pause. “Giving it back?”
“Well, it’s yours. Figured you might want it.”
“There’s nothing that badge can get me that I’d want anymore.”
You were naive when you made it. Green, ready and willing to do anything to get the story. You’d paid the price, too. Lost your job, lost your place, almost went to federal prison. A lot of trouble for a silly little journalist. A long nightmare you don’t want to relive.
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
Irritation consumes you. “Marcus, did you come here to see me or did you come here to piss me off?”
“I need your help.”
He needs your help? That’s a chance in a million. “Aren’t you the federal agent?” you ask.
“This is something that I can’t do,” he says lowly. You don’t believe him. “I’m serious. This is serious.”
“What is this?”
The waitress returns with your coffees, setting them down in front of you. She asks if you want anything else. Not right now, and she’s gone again.
“There’s something you should look into,” he says, voice low as he brings his mug up to his lips.
“I don’t do that anymore,” you say.
He gives you a look of disbelief. “Of course you do.”
“I sit around on my laptop for nine hours a day sending out push notifications and rearranging the homepage, Marcus. I don’t even write.”
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
He knows about your…issue. It’s what gets you into trouble, always has.
“That’s why you’re really here,” you say.
“I’m here to catch up with a good friend,” he says. Reaching across the table, he takes your hand in his own. “It’s been too long.”
Marcus skirts around the topic from there, ignoring the disappointment etched into your forehead as he tells you about Washington: the job, the cases—all the pertinent details left out, of course. You start to play along, sliding the badge off of the table and into your bag. Even if he won’t tell you, you at least want to try and enjoy his presence. It’s been a lifetime since you’ve had it.
Apparently the job is hard work, but you could’ve figured that. Demanding, he tells you. Not much time for a life on his end of things either. You tell him about New York; about your one bedroom claim to fame on the edge of Clinton, about the house plants you’ve managed to keep alive for some time now. Not once does he bring up your old life, how things used to be. You’re relieved.
Marcus is gone when he finishes his coffee, scooting out of the booth to stand and rearrange his shirt.
“I should get going. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” he asks. “It was good to see you.”
As he turns on his heel, your words stop him. “For the record, I don’t like this. You’re not being fair, Marcus.”
“I’ll call you soon,” he reasserts. And then he’s gone.
You don’t see which car he gets into. You don’t even care. When it’s been long enough and you get sick of staring at the brown dregs at the bottom of your mug, you fish the badge out of your bag. Putting it on the table again, you examine it. Not even half a decade and you already look so different. Weathered, maybe. In this photo you are so very bright and smiley.
Staring at the piece of plastic, you realize you resent it; you’re disappointed in yourself, begrudging Marcus for bringing it here as some sort of token. A reminder. A chit. You owe him, and this is his way of calling in a favour. With you, the man never has been one for the direct approach.
Turning the badge over in your hands, you notice a scrap of paper lodged behind the plastic. Marcus has written something on it. A series of random numbers and letters.
18USC209-14489.
It reads as gibberish. You toss the thing back into the shadows of your bag and flag down the waitress for another cup of coffee.
You try to ignore it; that lingering pull. It’s more like a sinking feeling than anything. You start making lists to distract yourself. Lists of chores to do, things to buy, times to remember. Keeping your hands busy with dishes, sweeping, tending to the back lawn. You hand-wash the guest room bed sheets to keep your mind from wandering.
Marcus hasn’t called for a couple days. You’re starting to think he never will. Even with him leaving you to this alone, you’re trying to keep the temptation at bay. It’s a game you play with yourself: whenever you’re seconds away from looking up the sequence on the back of the badge, you instead search for the specific statutes of federal law under which you almost went to jail for breaking. You’d say it’s pretty effective.
One week after that coffee, you almost trash the badge altogether. All that hunk of plastic does is take up space, both in your mind and your bag. You can’t look for your keys without your fingers brushing past it. Every time, you pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. As you stand over the sink, waste disposal roaring with life, you prepare to drop the card down the drain.
Screw Marcus. He could ask for any favour, but not this one. He didn’t even have the guts to ask you in the first place—he’d stuck you with it, laying this mystery burden over-top of you, smothered.
After a long while, you turn the disposal off, card still intact. You turn it over and over again in your hand, flipping between the two sides. Brain idle and eyes closed, the pause of silence is ultimately what does you in. The series is burned into the underside of your eyelids, a white shadow against the dark. It looks like a code; a sequence used to file records.
18USC209-14489.
You are bent over your laptop before you can stop yourself, fingers flying across the keys. You type in the first half, results for Title 18 showing up in a fraction of a second. Federal crimes and criminal procedure. Marcus has given you a case.
Looking further, you find chapter two hundred and nine of the code—extradition. Beyond scope, limitations, and a lengthy list of countries that the United States has extradition treaties with, this webpage is useless. The public access government site isn’t going to tell you anything about what the rest of those numbers mean.
That’s when it clicks. The badge. Marcus gave it back. What was it he’d said? This was something he couldn’t do. Something you should look into. That he needs your help.
Immediately, you know what he’s asking. You don’t like it one bit. Of all the things he could ask of you, spend this life sized favour on, it had to be this?
You open another browser tab, accidentally clicking the bookmark of your email. There’s one new message waiting in your inbox. The address that sent it is professionally scrambled, the body absent of text altogether. Attached to the email is an unnamed file. It takes a moment to load before filling your screen: a one-way plane ticket to Reagan National, tomorrow at noon. You don’t have to know the address to know Marcus is the person who sent it to you. What he wants from you is clear now. The question lies in whether or not you’ll do it.
Except it isn’t really a question. You know it and he does too. The email keeps you up all night, finally caving at two o’clock in the morning. You pack a bag, something small, and call the cheapest hotel in Virginia that you can find. Your parents are due back in just a couple of days. Leaving a note on the fridge for them, you write that a work emergency called you home early. The identical text you send them won’t go through until they get back onto American soil, but it’s all the notice you can give.
The drive to San Antonio Airport is warm, the sun beating down on you through the windshield. In your head, you try your best to convince yourself that this is a good decision. At least the car will be there when they get in from Mexico City. You’re mostly focused on this playing out as a dead end. Maybe whatever Marcus is sending you to find isn’t all that important. The man isn’t exactly a journalist, or a lawyer; there could be no story here. He could be wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t been before.
Keeping your eyes open in the airport feels next to impossible. Even with the overwhelming chatter, the announcements, and the never-ending foot traffic, you almost fall asleep three separate times. A Styrofoam cup of cheap espresso is your only saving grace. You’re sat at the gate when your phone sounds off in your pocket.
Marcus Pike. You answer immediately.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Good morning to you too,” he says.
“Do you think this is funny?” Your hostility over the phone is drawing eyes. You get up from your seat, wheeling your luggage behind you as you search for a quieter corner.
“Quite the opposite. But some of us like joy in our lives, keeps the mood up.”
“I know exactly where you can stick that joy, if you’d like any suggestions,” you say. “What’s waiting for me in D.C.?”
“National Mall, the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Capitol building…”
“You know what I mean.”
“And if you’ll remember, I already gave you the details on that specifically,” Marcus says. Can’t talk about this over the phone. “I’m calling from work.”
Of course he is. Positing you to violate federal law, and he’s calling you at the office. You’re starting to think he wants you both to go to jail.
“What am I going to find when I get there?” you ask.
“Something important. Something I know you’d want to see.”
“Don’t put this back on me,” you say. “I’m doing this because I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
It’s what he has always said. That you don’t owe him, there’s no favour to be traded here. That he helped you because he’s your friend. You’re not about to go rehashing memory lane fifty feet from the American Airlines help desk, but last time you checked, helping a friend meant moving boxes out of their apartment or sitting a shitty pet—not sparing them from federal prison. You owe him, and for the longest time you thought you always would.
“If I do this, I’m never doing you another favour again,” you whisper. He says your name, almost exasperated. You cut him off quickly. “You can lecture me when I’m in D.C.. Next time, get your own damn cup of sugar.”
Boarding is frustratingly slow. You have to kick some whiny kid out of your seat as his mother gives him a coddling lecture—no sweetheart, you can’t just sit wherever you want. You nod off moments after reaching altitude, not waking until your seat neighbour shakes you by the shoulder.
The older woman is sweet, strands of long hair greying at her temples and forehead.
“I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we’re here,” she whispers.
“Thanks,” you sigh. Glancing out the porthole window, you can see workers in their fluorescent vests loading luggage onto dollies. Idly, you ask her, “You ever been to Washington?”
“Oh, once. A long time ago. It was lovely,” she says. “How about you?”
You turn to the woman, giving her an easy smile. “Never been,” you lie.
“You’ll love it,” the woman says. “It’s the city of big things, you know. Everything important happens here. Everything good.”
“People really think that, don’t they?”
You’re speaking to yourself, the woman already close to disappearing as she walks with the toddling line of passengers off the plane. You’re the last to de-board, giving the pilot and flight attendants a polite nod as you leave. The air inside of Reagan National Airport is stale. You almost hold your breath the entire time you wait for your bag, taking in a deep gulp when you step outside of its main glass doorway.
Hailing a cab is easy. The ride is a smooth twenty minutes before the stout driver drops you off in front of your hotel. Check-in, the trip up, and swiping your magnetic key card through the door’s lock all blur together. Your surroundings pull into focus when you realize that you’re on your knees. The upper half of your body is hunched over the porcelain toilet in the bathroom as you wretch into the bowl. All that comes up is bile, green and oil slick.
When the vomiting finally stops, you wipe at your mouth and turn on the shower. You avoid the mirror as you strip, stepping under the steady spray. The water is ice cold, beating against your skin like hail. Pulling the shower curtain closed, you sit facing away from the stream. It soaks down your back, running in a dozen bitter rivulets. The cold seeps into your skin, freezing bone-deep.
You lodge your head between your legs to keep the nausea at bay. Your mind stays quiet as the water trickles into your ears and down your face. It feels like hours before you will yourself out, gripping the sides of the tub to stand. You leave the fresh towels where they are in a wicker basket, wet feet padding across tile and hardwood to the queen bed in the middle of the room. Wrapped in crispy white sheets, wet and naked, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep.
Everything glitters in your dreams. Marcus’ eyes especially, twinkling as they look anywhere but at your face. He sits across from you at this overbearing table—on the side of the good guys. Here, you are logically the bad one. The lawyer your father paid for brushes up against your shoulder as he pulls a stack of paper the rest of the way across the darkened wood. He flips through every stapled page and nods silently. Then he slides it over to you.
You remember this. Even if you can’t decipher the lawyer’s garbled speech, you know that he’s directing you on where to sign.
It’s a good deal, he’ll tell you later. You’ll be standing in the hall of the courthouse, feeling small and stupid in this cheap suit as you wipe tears from your eyes. Seven years behind bars down to two years of federal probation. The ankle monitor will take some getting used to, but, y’know—
Consciousness comes in a slow roll, eyes opening to stare at the curtains you left open. The puff of a sigh passes your lips as you watch the stars outside the window, the sky still dark. If you look long enough, those glowing dots start to morph into Marcus’ deep brown eyes gazing back at you.
The image unsettles you enough to get out of bed. You pull the curtains closed and dress yourself, transforming into another person over the span of twenty minutes. Your own face slowly disappears under layers of makeup, your clothes a business professional clown costume. You know that you’re ready when you can’t see yourself in the mirror anymore.
The cab is called from a payphone across the street. You give the company your name, Jane Doe, paying in cash when the wheels stop in the middle of Penn Quarter. You walk the four blocks to the Justice Building without feeling any part of your body, sweating in the Washington cold.
The building itself is hard on the eyes, the visitor entrance not far from you now. The line to get in is short. You’re waiting less than ten minutes to get through the security screening. An officer rummages around in your purse for a moment. The badge—your badge, or Marcus’?—burns in your pocket. When he hands you your things again, he smiles. You smile back.
A tour group is forming in settled clumps just beyond the entrance. A woman in a button-down blouse and thick heels gathers the tourists, leading them down a cascading hall. You lump yourself in with the group, folding your coat over your arms as you pretend to listen to her history lesson. Really, you’re eyeing the halls, looking for an elevator.
It doesn’t take long to find one, the group rounding a corner into another hallway. The buttons are calling you as the tour turns down a thin corridor. Taking the opening, you part from the crowd, shoving the cylinder of fabric wrapped around you into the nearest trash can. The coat will be missed, but not dearly.
The elevator arrives in a matter of seconds, sleek metal doors sliding open. You press at the button violently to close them again after picking the third floor. A sigh leaves your nose when they pull shut. You’re acutely aware of the blinking bulb of a camera to your left, watching your every move as the car ascends. Right now, you are fine. You look like any other employee.
Inside the heat of the building, you can feel your limbs again. You swallow back the spit that’s gathering in your mouth. It isn’t anxious hyper-salivation, but accumulating drool. Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear but from thrill. Some people like to fuck in public, picking up a rush from the real potential of getting caught. You like this, but not for the anticipation of failure in your mission—in the prediction of your success.
There is something wrong with you. Inside of you, maybe. Biological. A dark and inky well, a pocket of spoiled flesh. Marcus has reached in and pressed at it, prodded around with sharp fingers until he could coax the oozing stream of rot out of you. You hate to admit that it felt good—feels good now, as the runoff drives you to the very brink of smart and sane decisions.
You call it professional curiosity. Others might label it being a nosy bitch, too cerebral for your own good. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach, though. The last time you chased a story, you almost choked. You get a little obsessed sometimes, what can you say? Everyone has their vices. Information is yours.
They have a name for it somewhere. L’appel du vide, you think. The call of the void. It turns people reckless, irrational. But this isn’t really your fault. You didn’t ask to be here. No, you were sent. An agent of someone else’s bidding, a man only a few floors from the one you step onto now.
Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing. It turns you on; it makes you want to kill him. If he is the good guy, and you are decidedly not, then what happens when you start working together? Does that make him bad or you good?
White hats stay on the good guys, but right now you can’t help but feel like Marcus has taken his off. And the million dollar question: why? You hope it’s for a good reason. If not, you really might kill him.
You remember this door, déja vu jolting you back in time. Bringing the badge out of your pocket, you hover your hand above the scanner. If this fails, security will be immediately alerted to a false attempt at access, and it’ll be over. Holding your breath, you tap the card against the bulky scanner. If it doesn’t…
The machine seems to wait, teasing you, before a small light in the corner blinks green. The lock on the handle dislodges for you, a soft click in your ears. You press down on the handle, push forward…and you’re in.
You don’t know how much time you have before someone else enters the file room, getting right to work. Starting at the bottom of the many shelves, you carefully rummage through box after box as you read over their labels. You go through shelves one box at a time, moving from sitting to standing every few minutes. Each file is left exactly how you found it. The last thing you need is anyone asking questions after you leave.
You go through fourty-five boxes in fifteen minutes, exhausting yourself in the process. Scooting into a corner between the wall and the end of a shelf, your head thunks against flaking paint behind you. This room must hold hundreds of boxes. There’s no way you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for in time.
Phone in front of you, you look down at the black screen. Dim LEDs reflect off the screen from the ceiling. That’s when you see it. The box next to your shoulder, the handwritten case file numbers on the front: 18USC209-14489.
You twist around quickly, practically tearing your body in half. Pulling the box off the second-lowest shelf, you keep it in your lap and shovel through the contents. There must be a dozen file folders here, all thick with paper. You start with the lightest one, flipping it open.
It’s mostly photos. Glossy, high quality surveillance images. Various men are featured in each of them, the same group of four rotating every other picture. They all look a little rough and tumble—you know the type. The images show them doing mundane things; walking a dog, sitting in a car, exiting a building at night. You’re still missing something.
Next, you opt for the chunkiest of the manila folders in the box. Everything inside is paperwork. Some of it is formally typed up, but a lot of these are handwritten notes. You start reading, and once you do, you can’t stop. Your eyes roll across the sentences over and over again, skipping over bits redacted in dark ink. You want to make sure you’re getting this exactly right.
Washington, D.C.…proposed extradition to Colombia for the violation of…several criminal charges. War crimes, including…illegal search and seizure of….American dollars…drug cartel.
You have to stop reading, scrubbing a hand over your face. You don’t know exactly how much money that is, the number blacked out, but it certainly isn’t insignificant. Somewhere in the hundreds of millions.
You go back to the photos of the four scruffy men. The U.S. government thinks these men have done it? Seriously. They looked like dads, like men who spend too much time in their garage. The carpenter across the street.
This must be it. Marcus’ big scoop.
You keep reading, flipping through other files. Everything starts to piece together on the floor before you. Four files have names on them— Benjamin Miller, William Miller, Santiago Garcia, and Francisco Morales. You assume the first two to be brothers, their blonde hair and pale skin matching in surveillance photos.
The other two are a guess. You assume the shorter man with the dark grey-black curls to be Santiago, leaving the last man to be Francisco. He’s clean-shaven in this photo, shirt criminally unbuttoned as he leaves a grocery store.
When you get to the file detailing their (heavily classified) military careers, the suspicion makes more sense. The things these men are capable of scares you to even think about. Still, it doesn’t quite add up for you. The States cooperating with Colombia in and of itself is enough to call the investigation into question. There are very few historical instances of that even happening, and when it has, they have been more than a little self serving. The very last thing that you’re about to do is trust your government.
Getting your phone out, you take as many photos of everything as you can. With the four personal files, you’re going to need your own hard copies. You stand from the floor with them, approaching the copier at the other end of the room. With one quick pass, the machine rejects your badge. No one has been alerted to your intrusion, it just won’t let you into the copier’s system. The I.D. was amateur, made for one thing and one thing only: getting in and out of the building.
An idea comes to you. Terrible, reckless, and stupid, but haven’t we crossed that threshold already? You fumble for your phone again, weighing out two options. You have GPS disabled, roaming on airplane mode to avoid satellite tracking or being pinged by any nearby cell towers. If you try to text Marcus, it will only go through once you reconnect to cell service and it will place you here inside the Justice Building.
The evidence of the text, the location data, using his credentials to log into the photocopier…no. Too risky. Any connection to Marcus here would be bad, leaving a clear digital trail.
That leaves plan B, then.
You reorganize the files into their storage box, already regretting leaving them here. Unsure if your badge will get you back into the file room, you lodge the thin piece of plastic between the door and the latch. When you are sure that it’s jammed open, you head towards the elevator. You hold the files close to your chest as you wait for the car. When the ding hits your ears, you get in, choosing a random button. The elevator takes you up, stopping at the thirteenth floor.
Every hallway is a Greek revival monstrosity, the art deco influences hamfisted into the design everywhere you look. You wonder how Marcus gets on working here, how he likes it this way. You picture the many men that have walked along these halls, all of them the type to pride others on their sense of fairness as they jerk it to the thought of naked Lady Justice behind closed doors.
The kind of men whose life aspirations mirror those of John Ashcroft and hold appreciation for the Patriot Act. Dwelling on it for too long, you lose the sense of where those men end and Marcus begins. But you know him. He’s different.
Breezing past a set of sturdy wooden doors, you come upon an office floor. Cubicles are arranged in a strange game of Tetris, men in suits milling about. You walk straight down the aisle to a photocopier that’s practically calling to you across the room. Keeping your head down, you sandwich the papers into the scanner. You press some buttons, knowing they won’t do anything without badge access. When the thing beeps at you angrily, you make a point to sigh loudly. When it warns you again, you groan.
Someone taps at your shoulder. You do your best to swallow a sly grin, turning to meet the eyes of a man you don’t know.
“Sounds like the copier is giving you some trouble,” he says.
You shake your head. “Honestly, I think it’s my card. This is the third machine I’ve tried today.”
“Well, here,” the man says. He slides his own badge from his jacket pocket and swipes it over the photocopier’s reader. The machine beeps again, this time in the affirmative. “That should have you all set.”
You’re about to mumble a thank you, batting your eyes at the federal agent, when another man catches his attention.
Behind Special Agent Chivalry stands another man—tall, tan, and all too familiar. Marcus. Over the unknown agent’s shoulder, the two of you make eye contact. He keeps his lips pursed, barely acknowledging your presence.
“Schrader,” Marcus says. “Hate to break it up, but the AUSA’s waiting.”
“Right,” the man who helped you nods, turning to look at you again. “Good luck with your files.”
He’s walking away without a second thought as Marcus behind to share another glance. You can tell by look alone that he is decidedly unhappy about this. You’ll be getting a phone call later, or maybe another message from that cryptic email dressing you down for playing fast and loose with risk. You hope he doesn’t say anything about it at all. Can he? What’s Marcus to do? Bitch you out via carrier pigeon?
None of that matters right now. You begin the process of scanning and copying every single page of the four personal files, starting with the Millers and ending with Garcia. It’s quick work, anxiety ratcheting up the speed of your hands as you open the lid of the copier, flip to a new page, and pull the lid down again. Doing this all out in the open is bold—again, terrible, reckless, and stupid—but that’s what makes it work. No one questions the receptionist at the photocopier. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
Back downstairs, you recoup in the file room. The door shuts behind you with a solid click, the plastic card no longer keeping it open. You stick the four folders back into their box, leaving things exactly as you found them. As for your personal copies, you fold them in half and stuff them into your purse. Making sure everything is in order, you quietly slip out of the file room and take the stairs down. Leaving takes less than five minutes.
Cool air fills your lungs outside, the usual trappings of an east coast autumn. It takes a moment, walking two blocks, for everything to really sink in. You really just did that. Had your cake and ate it too. Committed a federal crime and got out without anyone blinking an eye.
The success affirms you. This is the right thing to be doing, it has to be. Marcus wouldn’t lead you astray. You wouldn’t let yourself fall down the wrong path. Not again.
The city of São Paulo thrums with energy. You can feel it, a pulsing from the ground that shoots up through your legs. The air is hot and damp, the slow curl of spring transforming into summer raising the humidity. The sky is dark but not quite black, light from the many high rises illuminating overhanging clouds.
You pass by nightclub after nightclub with young and beautiful people waiting in line like cattle to get past the door. It’s been a while since your life was like theirs; not as much of an adventure, surely, but carefree.
There’s been a notable absence of laissez-faire for the past four months. The promotion from digital producer to staff writer has you working during the day and chasing this case in your free time. All of that is set to end. No more hunting down leads, trying to find these men who’ve turned up as ghosts instead of people.
Will Miller was impossible to find, and you only got one thirty second phone call—three months ago—with his blonder brother Benny before the line went dead. Francisco Morales hasn’t seemed to exist since November 2019. All that leaves you with is tonight: a contact in Brazil who promises a lead to Santiago Garcia.
The café you enter has more patrons than you’d expect at this time of night. The coffee culture is different here; the people of Brazil enjoy a good steaming cup of caffeine even well into the evening. You take a seat at the table you’ve been instructed to—a round surface with uneven legs and a thin metal stand holding a card to indicate that this is table five. You use your phone to check the time, catching a glimpse of another piece of cold and shiny metal in the process.
There is a gun in your purse that wasn’t there three months ago. It replaced the badge to the Justice Building in the process of looking for these Delta Force soldiers that the world wants to pretend don’t exist. Marcus hasn’t called, and you know that if he can’t protect himself then he certainly can’t protect you. Lord knows if he even wants to anymore.
You pissed him off that day in D.C.. Marcus has a bad side, everyone does, but you never imagined getting on his would be so icy. You are out in the cold, that’s for certain. The gun—one here and one in a safe inside your New York apartment—is the flame that’s kept you from freezing. So far, you haven’t had to use either. Let’s hope things stay that way.
The heat is getting to you. Sweat crawls down your spine, surely leaving a dark stain across the middle of your shirt. It doesn’t matter. The lead is so close you can almost taste it. A few more minutes…
Caught up in your thoughts, it takes a moment for the echoing silence of the café to register. It takes another moment for you to notice the wall of a man that sits down across from you. He’s tall, forehead beading with sweat as his hairline fights against gravity. Opening a dictionary, an image of him is what you’d find to illustrate the definition of gruff. Well-worn. He is exactly the man to do shady back alley deals with nothing-something American journalists. He’s exactly the man you need.
“Olá,” you say.
The man nods at you, then smiles a toothy grin. He says, “Você é mais bonita do que eu imaginava.”
You take a second to translate in your head. You’re prettier than I imagined.
“Obrigado,” you nod, returning the niceties. “Disseste que tinhas informações.”
“Certo,” the man says. The absence of noise leaves your skin cold, goosebumps prickling along your arms. “You are looking for a man named Santiago Garcia.”
“Yes. You said that—”
The heavy clink of a gun against the table halts your words. Everything changes in an instant when he picks it up and points it at your neck from across the table. He is simply itching to pull the trigger. Someone must’ve told him not to.
“You should stop looking for a man named Santiago Garcia,” he says.
“Sir, I—”
“Stop looking for Santiago Garcia. There is nothing for you here, pretty girl. Go home.”
The mystery man holds your gaze for a second longer before he stands from his seat pulling the gun away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he leaves, disappearing into the night.
He didn’t shoot you. The clip could have been empty. You can’t convince your legs to move, to follow him and make him answer your questions with the use of your own very loaded gun. Heart pounding away behind your ribs, you’re frozen in place.
You don’t trust the cab that takes you back to the sweat stain that is your motel, but you don’t really have another option. Your phone, too, is compromised—you’d made the rookie mistake of making contact with your cell. The room door stays bolted once you get inside. Then you take the remote of the complimentary TV to your screen, smashing it to pieces.
Dragging your luggage out from the closet, you toss everything you’ve brought inside. Shattered bits of glass litter the linoleum flooring. You were set to leave tomorrow morning anyway. The departure couldn’t come any sooner.
Tears flood your eyes, fear and pure embarrassment ripping through your chest. How could you be so stupid? So unthinking and hopeful, it disgusts you. You’ve wasted three months of your life on this.
All of that time and work for what? A man from a million lifetimes ago, who one day calls you friend and the next refuses to pick up the phone? Marcus used you and you let him. Leaped at the opportunity. Enjoyed it, even.
When the sun comes up, you vacate the dingy motel room, tossing your old phone battery in the pool on your way out. You don’t cry on the way to the airport, or on the plane back to America. It takes all of your will not to stain the fabric seats of the Queens cabbie that drives you home. You stay bottled and composed.
Inside your place, everything is just as you left it. The wine glass is still in the sink, the dishwasher stashed with clean plates. And yet the world feels different somehow. You feel different.
Dropping your bags at the door, you stalk through the apartment to your room. Under your bed sit boxes of files, all copies of what you took from the Justice Department. You yank them from their place beneath your bed frame, almost spilling paper across the floor.
You haul them to your living room window, stepping onto the rusting fire escape. The first box turns over in your hands. Hundreds of pieces of paper fall into the Dumpster below or get caught in the wind, floating away. You repeat the process with the second box, leaving a mess on the pavement.
In the kitchen, you sit down at the tall glass expanse of your counter. Your mom made you buy a cordless phone for the place when you first moved in, assuring you that it’d come in handy. Right now, you can’t help but agree.
You dial Marcus’ number, knowing it like the back of your hand after months of staring at it with no answer. This time is no different. The phone rings and rings. Marcus doesn’t pick up. You stopped leaving messages a while ago, but this time you wait for the dial tone to end.
“I don’t know who you think you are, or what leverage you may have had… But I’m done. Done, Marcus. You drop this bomb in my lap and walk away when I handle it in a manner you disapprove of? You leave me to follow a trail that’s cold, and set me up to become another corpse in a Brazilian morgue somewhere! I won’t do it anymore. You can take your story and your justice and shove it up your ass.”
You breathe heavy into the phone, collecting yourself. “This is the last phone call from me you’ll ever have to ignore. What a relief that must be,” you say. “Don’t ever contact me again, Marcus.”
It’s icy for late February. D.C. is only the slightest bit warmer than New York at this time of year, the snow melting into grey sludge quicker than the Big Apple. Yet somehow, the White House briefing room is about a million degrees. Fanning yourself with the silk of your blouse, you wait amongst the gaggle of other reporters and journalists for the president’s press secretary. You don’t have a speaking seat yet, but you’ve only been on this assignment for a couple weeks.
You remember watching President Bush unveil the renovated room in the mid-aughts on television, picturing it as a grand theatre. But no, it’s a crammed little room without enough chairs for the number of people they delegate to it, so here you are standing in the back rubbing shoulders with a writer from the Washington Examiner. Still, it’s the White House. How many people do you know who’ve been inside the White House?
You’re watching the press secretary, lithe and airy at the podium in her off-the-rack from Saks Fifth Avenue. She’s getting questions about the president’s new education bill—a topic that your readers couldn’t care less about. Foreign policy, tax legislation, land use laws—you wait for her to get to the good parts. Rich people want to know if the country is going to war so they know where to hedge their bets. They don’t want to hear about inner city kids getting a boost in the classroom.
An hour and twenty minutes pass before you’re released, hearing from the FEMA administrator and the secretary of education. Before you can leave, you hear someone call your name. A woman stands at the edge of the room, almost like she's trying to bleed into the fabric of the curtains and disappear. She's small in stature, the stiff blue fabric of her dress settling awkwardly over her shoulders.
"Do I know you?"
She clears her throat, standing a little taller. You're now noticing the large envelope under her arm.
"I'm an intern for Marcus Pike. He told me to give this to you."
She hands you the envelope, heavy in your hands. Before you can thank her, she disappears into the escaping flood of journalists. You look at it, swiping the pad of your thumb over the sharp corner. Discreetly, you slide it into your purse and follow your colleagues out of the press room.
You know that whatever Marcus has delivered to you via mousy blonde messenger is something you definitely shouldn't have. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, heels clicking against the floor a little too hard, a little too loud. The sky over D.C. is grey as always, but a welcome change of scenery from inside.
This rental car is your office, your living room, and your safe place all at once. Getting into the passenger seat, you lock the doors and put your purse on the center console. You stare at the leather, waiting to see if it explodes or if a SWAT team converges on the vehicle. When nothing happens, you pull the envelope from your bag, undoing the metal clasp at the top.
Inside is paper. A lot of it. A thick stack of fresh white pages stamped with bold, black printer ink. You scan over the first page, trying to figure out what it is you're looking at. At the bottom is a small pink sticky note, Marcus' loopy scrawl written in blue pen: Don't say I never do anything for you.
You bite back a sour laugh, peeling the note up and stuffing it into your pocket. Then your eyes are back to reading the words on the page, piecing together dates and times, people and places. A flight log.
Dozens of them, going back almost five years. A name you've become quite familiar with in the last few months adorns every one. Francisco Morales. Yahtzee.
At the back of the pile are pages and pages of minutes. A series of disciplinary hearings that resulted in a pilot’s license suspension for Morales. From the look of things, it was reinstated shortly after only to be revoked again two years later for the same reason: drug possession.
Francisco was given a mandatory stint in rehab. The facility is redacted from the paperwork, but it doesn’t take you too long to track it down. Some place called New Beginnings Medical Hospice in Austin. Of course, the lady on the phone won’t give you answers.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says, no trace of a southern accent in her voice. Must be a Texas transplant. “We cannot give out information on any patients, past or present. We have a confidentiality clause.”
“I hear what you’re saying but—” Oh fuck it. “As I said, I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Morales’ insurance company. We’re having trouble tracking him down for billing of his fees, and this was his last known address.”
You know never said who you were, and certainly not that you were with his insurance company at the beginning of this phone call. You also know the woman on the other end of the line will zero in on the fact that this man apparently owes them money and completely ignore the discrepancy. It’s not your first choice in journalistic strategy, but beggars can’t be choosers here.
She coughs up the address easily. Somewhere in Lubbock, Texas the answers to all of your questions is sat on his ass in a trailer park. Francisco has been there the whole time. Only four hundred miles from your parents’ place, right under your nose. If you didn’t start laughing as soon as you got off the phone, you’d cry.
You’ve got all you need: the man and the myth. One flight to Preston Smith International, and you might be able to figure out the legend.
The city of Lubbock is small, but not too small. Insignificant enough that someone looking for something, someone like you, would glance over it unblinkingly. You figure that’s why Morales chose it. Property records show that his new lease to the park lot started about eight months ago; two months before Marcus put you on his trail.
Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe—and you try to expel these thoughts as quickly as they materialize—he really did it. Maybe they all did. But Marcus doesn’t think so, and you would like to have more hope in these men than that. Guilty people run, but so do the scared. Those who don’t have much left to lose; who want to hold onto what they have left. It’s not like the government is all right and fair here.
Honestly, you aren’t too sure what to think. You know that you have to know. Whatever happened, whatever story is here, you need to find it. So you found Francisco.
The trailer park is located right at the outskirts of town. You can drive through the populous area end to end in under twenty minutes, but the ride out to the Morales place is a good fourty-five. The warm weather has you sweating, forehead damp as the truck’s windshield does little to hide you from the sun. Adjusting to the temperatures here compared to chilly D.C. gave you a bit of weather whiplash. That’s Texas for you.
There’s not much to look at out here. Grass, a few sparse trees. The past three billboards have advertised some beer brand you’re sure tastes like wheat piss. Your eyes almost glaze over at the scenery. The next billboard coming up finally catches your attention.
LOOKING FOR A SIGN? This is it!
It straightens your spine a little, unglued your shoulders from the driver’s seat as you pay attention to the road. Oddly placed, here in the middle of nowhere. It is, in fact, a sign. Could be something else for you, too.
Rolling into Muddy Creek Mobile Residence, half of the trailers look abandoned. Beer cans and newspaper pile up at the steps, garbage bags left out for the elements and wildlife. Francisco Morales’ registered lot sits at the back of the park. Things look fairly tidy from the outside, meaning someone still lives here. With any luck, it might still be him.
You take a moment to walk around and circle the trailer. Every window has the curtains drawn. Not a single way to see in. A part of you wants to get back in the truck and wait him out. Drive back to the airport entirely.
There’s no way to calm your nerves. After months of buildup and being left on the hook, it’s now or never.
Climbing the few steps up, you sigh to yourself. “Maybe he’ll just…”
You deliver three sharp knocks to the door, then take a step back. The seconds stretch on painfully, wind blowing up dust behind you until finally—
The door jerks open with a creak of its hinges. You recognize the man behind it immediately from the surveillance photos you are holding.
“Hi there,” you say.
“You sellin’ something?” he asks.
“No. Actually Mr. Morales, I was hoping—
“I’m not interested,” he grumbles, moving to shut the door in your face. You jam your foot between it and the doorway before he can.
“Mr. Morales, I’d just like a moment of your time,” you say, the words rushing out of your mouth.
He presses against the other side of the door harder, slowly crushing your toes. “Not interested. Now get your foot out of my goddamn door—”
“Why would the U.S. government have a reason to draw up a warrant for your extradition?” you ask.
You know it’s the only thing that will catch his attention. You’d been hoping to lead into it, lull the man into a sense of personable security before you sprung the trap on him. He stares at you now, the door ajar, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe that’s why they call him Catfish.
“Excuse you?”
“I’m here because the government is currently in communications with the Republic of Colombia about your extradition to South America. Along with,” you pull out your pocket notepad, reading off what you’ve scribbled there, “Santiago Garcia, and William and Benjamin Miller.”
“This isn’t funny.” His voice is low, timbre rough as gravel. “How could you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “The fact is that I do. And whatever you did in Colombia? The government knows too.”
“Why are you here?”
You open the file folder under your arm, pulling out the blurred picture. “This is you, right?” Francisco doesn’t have to nod for you both to know it is. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”
#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#triple frontier#triple frontier fanfiction#frankie morales fanfiction#pedrostories#pedro pascal#fic: revisionist history
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Top New Misc Comic Releases for the Week of April 24th, 2024.
Cult of that Wilkin Boy: Initiation #1,
Deathstalker #1,
Dick Tracy #1,
Drawing Blood #1,
Feral #2,
Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1,
Pooh vs Bambi #1,
Robot + Girl #1,
Tmnt #150 +
Universal Monsters Black Lagoon #1.
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Taking the opportunity on the @choicesfandomappreciation 🌸Self-Love Day🌸 to write myself a goddamn love letter because hell yeah, me @ me, look at you go!!!
A little sad that I haven’t seen anyone on my tl showing themselves the love an appreciation they are due, so to anyone who happens to see this: you are so worthy of love.
There is one person who is going to be by your side 100% of the way, every second of your life, and that’s you. Be your own best friend. One of the sweetest acts of rebellion you can seize in a world that wants nothing more than your continued pain and conformity is to take a stand and love yourself without shame.
You are so important, sunshine. I’m proud of you for being here 💛
On that note!
(Burying the rest of this under the cut, bc I myself am inherently a walking trigger warning at this point.
TW: incurable cancer / illness / mentions of death)
Dear Aria,
Been a bit of a shitty year, huh? 🌻
If things had gone your way, you’d be halfway through your first pregnancy by now. Instead, the only thing in your body is, to quote your oncologist, one of the worst tumors he’d seen in his entire medical career.
You didn’t ask for this. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would ever ask to get sick, let alone to land themselves a diagnosis of cancer so aggressive it had already metastasised in the time between diagnosis and your first dose of chemotherapy.
This could have gone really, really bad. A diagnosis like this, even ten or fifteen years ago -- you’d be dead by now. Five to ten years ago, you’d have won a few years to settle your affairs; you’d have lost your ability to walk when they operated on the cancer in your hip bones, more mobility, depending on whether they operated on the cancer in your spine.
Had they operated to excise the tumor in your breast tissue and your lymph nodes right at the time of diagnosis ~6 months ago, you’d have needed a full mastectomy. A couple weeks later, and your tumor was so large, they couldn’t have safely operated on you anyway. Another week and you found out you were stage 4, not stage 2.
Stage 4 cancer patients aren’t a good candidate for surgery, as it happens. They might yet turn you down. Once your cancer has metastisised, that’s kind of it. You’re up shit creek, my love. You’re in “incurable” territory. You can (and will!) get rid of the tumors with chemo -- and your oncologist is pushing the surgery department to treat you as functionally stage 3, because, by no small miracle, the cancer in your bones is showing signs of sclerosis I.e. repair.
You are healing.
But the cancer is going to come back. It might come back as ovarian cancer next time, or lymphoma, but the doctors are certain that, left untreated, that “next time” is guaranteed.
Its okay though, honey. You got onto a really good chemo regime, and part of your treatment plan is preventative medicine. Yes, it’s going to mean hospital visits for the rest of your life. But it’s gonna be every three weeks, instead of weekly. It’s gonna mean visits that last only an hour or two, instead of like seven.
…Yes, it will mean you can never carry a child. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know that is one of the things that broke your heart the most. But you always wanted to adopt. That dream of a family isn’t dead and buried, and neither are you. You and me, we are going to keep it that way, ‘kay?
I know you are exhausted. But you are facing this beast with relentless joy, and I’m proud of you for that.
I know you are terrified that the chemo will stop working. I know you don’t want to die. You won’t. That isn’t your story. You have too much joy to grow and too many smiles to bring to let this be your final chapter.
I know you are sicker than you let on, to anyone, maybe even to yourself. But you know what the really cool thing is, though all of this?
✨You’re still writing.✨
Your nails have shredded away from their beds as the chemo attacks your cells, but you are still writing.
The nerves in your hands, in your arms, are getting progressively more damaged, but you are still writing.
Your regime is one of the more intense ones; you come home from treatments and your grasp of language is all but gone; it is impossible to think straight… but you take a deep breath, and refuse to get frustrated at yourself for something that is not your fault, and you. Keep. Writing.
Sometimes you have to step back from your laptop because the nausea is too much; your muscles are cramping so terribly you can’t possibly sit at your desk for another second; the headaches split your skull open.
Constant nose bleeds. Blurred vision. Fatigue so intense you don’t even have the energy to cry about it. So many injections and IV lines you're getting scars on your hands.
Through it all, you come back, and you write.
You’ve been handed a diagnosis out of nowhere that could have broken a lot of people. I know at times it would be easier to crawl back in bed and put your life on hold while you try to get better. Instead, you’ve said “nah, respectfully, fuck that” and tried your damndest to find something to smile about every day.
I know your lung capacity is reduced from the chemo toxicity, so you can’t really sing any more. Your heart’s capacity to pump blood around your body is damaged, so you can’t go dance like an idiot in your bathroom any more when you need a pick-me-up (let’s be real, you looked like a dork anyway). And write now, writing is so, so, so fucking hard.
(Not that anyone would believe that, based on the length of this post lol. But people don’t see how many times you’ve had to take a break to shake the pain from your hands. Because you try not to talk about it. But now is the time to talk about it. Now is the time to say: I see you, my love. I see how much you are hurting, and I’m proud of you that you’ve chosen to keep on going.)
You are going to get better. You’ll live with the potential for more cancer for the rest of your life, yes, but you’ll live. You’ll live, and you’ll write.
(Hey, did you know you've managed to add 63,721 words to your longfic since your diagnosis? And done a lot of original worldbuilding and lore and nuanced character studies? Good job! Cool story! Hell yeah, queer vampires! 🖤🩸🥰🦇🔥💪💓)
You have stories to tell.
The story for today is I love you.
The story for today is they all lived happily ever after.
Don’t let that light go out 💛 I'm rooting for you.
All my love,
Aria
xx
#choices spread kindness#self love day#choicesspreadkindness#aria pincushion tally:#96#tw cancer#tw illness#tw death
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Fic ideas that I WANT: KinnPorshe edition
1) Che finding out Porshe is in the Mafia now by accident because Porshe is visiting him and some guys come after him and he just owns their asses. Even better if some of Che's friends are around and he's trying play it off like, "oh he's always been a good fighter... won a few medals too back in the day." And they are all like, "and the shooting? When did he get good at that huh? I think those guys might be dead!"
2) Pretty much same as the first except it all goes down when Porshe doesn't realize Che is there so he doesn't even TRY to hold back... and afterwards his brother is all WTF was that?!?!?!
(Ps: I don't know why, cuz I haven't read the books, but I kind of feel like Che will have less of a problem with the whole Mafia thing then Porshe did at the beginning. To me he just seems more sheltered, as well as more pragmatic then Porshe and will just be like, "Well as long as you kill them before they kill you, we're cool. If you get killed I'm going to be serially pissed off, so just don't. ")
3) Porshe discovering Che and Kim's "friendship" (after learning who Kim is) and the two having to hang out for the day acting like they don't know each other or know anything about the Mafia for Che's sake... but they are constantly getting little digs in at each other regarding Mafia/Kinn related things.
Bonus if Che has already figured out all about BOTH of their Mafia connections but is keeping quiet to see just how long the two of them plan to let this play out.
4) I don't really see Porshe as the "Protect Che's virtue at all costs" kind of older brother... so I think a hilarious fic would be Kim assuming he IS and trying to get him all worked up by flirting with and touching Che... and Porshe is just laughing internally the whole time and loving every second of it because his brother is getting all flustered by his crush and Porshe can see the writing on the wall... and just thinks they are just too cute for words.
5) Kinn and Che bonding time... Porshe gets to be besties with Kinn's older brother, it's only fair that Che get to be besties with Kim's older brother... fair is fair. Especially if he starts teaching him shooting or self defense or what not and both Porshe AND Kim are like, "you are teaching him WHAT?" And then join forces for operation "Breakup Brother Besties."
Bonus if Tankhun finds out about operation "Breakup Brother Besties" and is indignant because, "how dare they!" (Because HE is besties with Porsche damn it - cue indignant huff here) And somehow half the bodyguards have been roped into spying on one brother or another, just because, and no one even knows what is going on anymore... and then we end with Tankhun, Kinn and Che' watching Kdramas together and operation "Breakup Brother Besties" is officially declared a failure.
I literally just realized how many of the fic ideas rattling around in my head involve Che.. I thought Porshe was my favorite but maybe it's secretly been Che all along.
(JK, it's still Porshe, that man is literally badassery and sunshine presented in the prettiest package ever... you just can't beat that)
#kinnporche the series#kinnporche#thai bl#kinn porsche#kinnporsche#fan fiction#fic prompt#i may write this#i may not
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Hi! Can I request twisted wonderland boys reaction when y/n tells them stories about the world they came from about how they were adopted by Slenderman and lived in his mansion with the other Creepypastas before they got through the mirror to that world?
HOLLY SHIT!!!! I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO THOUGHT ‘BOUT THIS ONE!!!!! I like you already! Well here we go! It’s my first one so it’s not be as good as me and you wanted, but i tried! Also, for me, Y/N isn’t Yuu. So Yuu also gonna react to this.
Twisted Wonderland boys reaction to Y/N’s world
Warning!: Cuss words, mention of murder and serial killers.
Sorry, WHAT!!!!!!
The mf’s are confused and scared as hell!!! Yes, even the bravest ones!
Even Jamil and Azul were dumbfounded!
Idia is frightened to the core, we all know that. Yet, he oddly found it somewhat cool
Like, you lived with some mother fucking creepy as hell killers!!! Most of them being dead/undead/ghost and monsters/demons! Who wouldn’t find it cool?!
Leona was like: I think this is why you scare me more than Cheka
Kalim cried. After hearing about Lj, Ej and Sally. Poor innocent sad boi came to hug you tightly because he couldn’t do anything to help them. Yuu had to comfort him. We stand little ball of sunshine 🥺
Vil was a bit grossed out and disgust but also sad and FUCKING SCARED!!!! Remember when he overbloted? The crazy murderer look you send to him still hunt him in his worsts nightmares.
Jack was….idk. When he heard you lived with two Jack (lj and ej) he was like: so ‘am not the first Jack you meet).
Ruggie laughed when he heard you say Laughing Jack and Eyeless Jack. He imagined Jack (too many Jack, it’s almost confusing) laughing and without eyes. Then you told more about Lj and Ej. He didn’t laugh anymore and was hugging tightly Leona’s arm. Leona return the hug because he was also scared but hush
At first, the twins and Azul were like: This is gonna be interesting. Then you told about dear Slender Man (i prefer call him the Operator, Marble Hornets vibes). Azul was dead for 5 minutes. Floyd squeezed him a bit to hard. And Jade started to sweat like he was a fountain. He didn’t sleep this night or the others for one month.
Ortho, well huh….he was like his brother. Scared but found it cool.
Now, Jamil know how you’re so good with a knife and other weapons.
Malleus and Lilia were a very bit scared. I mean, those two are old gramps. They saw many wars, genocides, homicides and other. But they never thought your world and life before you came in the Twisted Wonderland was……like that.
For Epel, Grim, Ace, Deuce and Sebek, they shitted them selves. Now A-Deuce combo and Grim are so scared that they stopped putting salt in your hot chocolate/coffee/tea and when you’re around, Grim doesn’t try to escape. Well he didn’t try it anymore since day one but now he doesn’t even think about it! How could he, a little monster who use fire magic, escape to you, a skilled serial killer and the adoptive child of a powerful entity.
Dang, even Crowley and Vargas are scared as fuck!
Silver slept but somehow recall everything you told
Crewel was a bit grossed out but mostly sad. One of his favorite puppies and possibly adopted child already had an adoptive father. (Yes i stand mama crewel, fight me) Same for Trein. (Grandpa Trein)
Just like Vil, Riddle was grossed out and frightened, like Idia. Yet, he was still understanding. I mean, his mother isn’t the best in the world, so he understand a bit the ones who has family issues, like Jeff and Isaac. Same goes for Leona once he recovered from his shock. He also has family issues.
Trey was scared but he looked at the creeps from another angle. The more he thought about it, he felt really bad for them, mostly Sally, Lifeless Lucy and BEN. They were only children who didn’t do anything to anyone, just minding their own business. But it still doesn’t excuse them for killing people.
Cater didn’t knew what to think about what you told them. He felt bad but he didn’t like them. The only one he seems to like is Bloody Painter/Helen. (Me too bro, with Ej, Toby, Jason, candy pop and lj)
Yuu felt fucking bad. They didn’t like the fact that they kill people, but they couldn’t help but feel really bad. Same goes for Sam.
Azul found himself in Toby. Let me explain. When you said Ticci Toby, he couldn’t help but ask more about him. You told him the minimum about his story, and he found himself in him. They were both bullied and rejected by society because they were different.
(as i reread this, i noticed i forgot Rook, oops-)
So Rook found them interesting but, like everyone, was scared as fuck. For the first time, he didn’t want to “hunt” someone. Now, he also know how you were able to know if he was stalking observing you
Well most of the boys found themselves in/understood the creeps
That’s it! I hope you liked it. Like I said, this is the first I do. So here you go!
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Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1 (Dark Horse, April 2024) variant cover by Tyler Jenkins
#tyler jenkins#comic books#comics#variant covers#comic covers#dark horse comics#operation sunshine#operation sunshine: already dead#vampires
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ok you already know what TF is going on!!!!
tm 45 venoshock (evil). tm 146 grass pledge (gay). tm 95 leech life (divorce snail). tm 156 outrage (eviler). tm 115 dragon pulse (because if nobody else does it i will).....tm100 dragon dance (🥰). do not feel obligated to do them all these are just a compilation of the concepts we talked abt
Oh Austro, darling. I'm about to murder you in cold blood. ;) A tale in three parts for you, my good pal. The last one of these three was also requested by dear @xfriki26, and the other two here will be under a read more to respect space. Cross-posted to AO3 here as chapters five, six and seven respectively, welcome to a miniature saga of just about every genre going, which we shall begin with by killing y'all stone dead with:
TM115: Dragon Pulse
Beep.
Beep.
Brassius thinks he may be going mad. He’d thought that a multitude of times during his ice-cold, static darkness, but this is a different form of insanity: a hammering, a fractured, desolate, desperate despair.
Beep.
Beep.
He wants the beeping to shut up almost as deeply as he cherishes its rhythm, its sheer brilliance. He could wax artistic lyrical on how fervently he cherishes the machine that affixes his sun to its true orbit at his side, paint it in the yellows and oranges of joy and the purple of dragons for its remarkable cleverness – wide, tender brush-strokes, gentle gratitude poured into every trembling sweep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
How ironic, he muses darkly, that Hassel’s heart should be the thing to fail – that loyal, stalwart, core of sunshine, that is so achingly full of acceptance and understanding and vibrance, that had dragged his beloved back from the depths of the shadows.
Between them, now, they can barely make a decently functioning pulmonary system. The breath of life, the heart of the matter – both irreparably scarred, merely patched over with bandages and craft glue and hope and the most blinding, frantic adoration. They’ve operated upon his love, as though he is a mere tapestry, sown and stitched and patched -
Hassel is not meant to be fixed. He should never be broken in the first place. He’d thought they understood one another very well, after fifteen years together. You stand tall, querido; I fall, me. Not you. Never, ever you, because how am I supposed to -
He chokes back a panicked breath, squeezes dull, greyed eyes closed. He doesn’t have contingency for this – he was never supposed to make any. This isn’t his role. And perhaps that makes him the world’s most selfish bastard, perhaps he’s awful and leech-like and unworthy of such light, but perhaps he’s also saved because he would swap them, swap them every single damn time – you already have my lungs, take my wretched heart as well, it’s better than watching this –
Beep.
Beep.
… He hasn’t even gotten around to asking him to marry him, after all this time. They’d had forever - what was the rush? The gap in Hassel’s family is glaring, he doesn’t want to invoke painful memories of people who would never wish to attend, and they are husbands in all but name nevertheless, promise rings long since sculptured from crystals and worn against their hearts anyway.
He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected the chance to be possibly lost for all time -
Beep.
Beep.
Gods, how the hell does he deal with this every time it happens in reverse? How many hours has his world watched his own slowly fade away?
“It doesn’t matter,” Hassel had told him once, tears glistening in warm, adoring eyes. “It simply doesn’t matter. You are worth every moment of the agony, darling. You coming back each time is the only thing that counts.”
He tries, physically shaking, to hold such sentiments against his core, because his dragon’s always been entirely right. He is damaged goods too, now – he can empathise, now. And later, when muted sun meets frosty moon once again, all will be harmonious in the celestial sphere. The stars do not lament; they celebrate a joyous reunion, the return of gravity to a uncertain universe, an essential dual orbit.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
His role, flipped, is now to support – to shine himself, to endure, to treasure a recovery Hassel will make. You will make it. I need you. Always have done. And I will look after you, smotheringly, achingly. Oh, you’ll hate it, even though I will see the smile in your beautiful gaze and understand that you love it.
He breathes a quivering laugh, stumbling across his own tongue.
… Well, it is night-time. It’s his shift anyway.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
He clings to his sunshine’s hand as though it’s all that tethers him to the earth, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Come back to me,” he pleads, infinitely soft. “Come back and be my husband, won’t you dearest?”
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
TM146: Grass Pledge
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“… Br…”
Brassius snaps awake from a light doze on their fifth night in the hospital, as though bidden by hope alone, to find a weak Hassel staring straight at him. Sunlight stabs at his frozen heart, piercing its outer shell instantly, and he breaks, fragments of ice shattering down around him.
“D-dear,” he whispers, heat pooling immediately in his gaze. “You’re here, you’re back -”
“Mm,” his beloved murmurs, coughing softly. “Just… just about…”
Water is poured by trembling hands, held to lips, tipped up ever so gently even as Hassel blurs before him, rendered briefly invisible by tears and heat and relief and gods, thank you -
"Br..." Hassel clears a now lubricated throat, and Brassius immediately meets his gaze - sunshine swathed by shadows, the darker moments before sunrise. As deeply grateful as he is to see the light, he curses its lack of luminence.
"Yes, my love?"
"... You okay?" He coughs again, and despite the sun's dimness, his concern is clear as day. "You... are too pale."
Brassius stares at him for a second, aghast, before dissolving spontaneously into tearful laughter, exasperation and absolute joy, and he's trembling, and dear heavens, why would it matter what he looks like -
"The sun came back out," he tells him eventually, as a weak hand clings to his as tight as it can, as he's watched with soft worry. "I'd been beginning to think it would never stop raining. I'll... I'll be fine, now."
"Good," Hassel murmurs, reassured; even as his eyes droop closed once more, and a thread of anxiety rushes back up his lover's spine, a gentle thumb runs against his in silent promise. Alright, now. "Wouldn't do... for us both to be old and broken, d-darling."
"You are no such thing," Brassius protests immediately, heart rebelling against the mere thought. "Look at you, querido. Sunshine incarnate."
Hassel murmurs a small laugh, cherishing the water that he's once more offered.
"Funny, you say that," he whispers after a further drink, a wonder held in his gaze. "I only... see one source of light, here."
Even as he's tenderly kissed, even after he drifts back off to much-needed rest, inspiration strikes his beloved, a sparkling of genius.
Oh, you clever, wonderful, miracle of a man. You conductor of moonlight. Where the sun meets the moon...
He makes plans, as he falls asleep himself: gentle, loving, delightful schemes, tears slipping beneath closed lids as he nods off.
/////////////
He prepares quietly, when they get home; sets the stage as Hassel recovers, buys the equipment, purchases the perfect jewellery, bides his time. Doting on his beloved is by far the more pressing matter, and thus it takes him weeks, but eventually...
They finish a homemade casserole lovingly prepared, just as day begins to shift; just as it begins to turn to night, he asks his beloved to head outside with him, into the garden that overlooks the shimmering beauty of the East Paldean Sea.
"My dear, where on earth are we g -"
Hassel stops instantly at the sight before him; at the ring boxes, at the arch strung over with vines and lights, at the strands of green and purple cord that sit between it all, tearful eyes slowly drawing to his nervous partner's.
"Is that...?" he swallows a sob, utterly rapt.
"It is," Brassius confirms, eyes scanning him, gauging his thoughts, reading softly a man he knows the soul of better than his own. "Should you wish it to be, anyway -"
He gets no further for a long minute, damp kisses pressed to his lips, over and over.
"'Should I wish it,'" he repeats, laughing shakily in disbelief. "And at dusk, no less. Where the sun meets the moon, you brilliant, brilliant individual."
Brassius chuckles, similarly breaking. "You'll forgive me my poetry, I'm sure."
"I will forgive you anything, my darling." He chokes down tears, conscious of time, conscious of his lover's artistic vision. He can cry later, and he will - oh, he will. He doubts he'll stop for hours.
"So, you will, then -"
"Yes, I will," Hassel tells him clearly, fondly, adoringly, trembling hand coming to a precious, flushed cheek. "Arceus himself could drag neither of us away, despite his best efforts."
They marry, as the warmth of ambient sunset glazes over them; hands wrapped in cord of alternate colours, the draconic for the biological and vice versa; they whisper nonsense vows, straight from their cores, babbled and pure and perfect; they adopt glistening emeralds or dazzling violets as the moon takes reign, and there are tears enough to proclaim the sea that spectates them flooded.
"Why now?" Hassel asks his husband afterwards, tears still glistening in his eyes, his forehead gently pressed upon his beloved's. "All these years..."
"I thought we had forever," Brassius tells him simply, voice thoroughly raspy by this point, clinging tightly to him, as though he might fall to his doom should he ever let go.
"We do, my love," comes the replying whisper, the utter certainty. "I'm sorry, for frightening you so deeply..."
Brassius sobs into him, believing him with his whole heart, and shakes his head.
"You were worth every moment of the agony, dearest," he promises him truthfully, burying himself into soft folds of fabric, and the softest man of all.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
TM100: Dragon Dance
It’s difficult to practice for a celebration, when one’s heart or lungs have had their cracks filled in as though via liquid sunshine; an astral kintsugiri leaves one less willing than they might have been to put their beloved through physical stress.
“Well,” Hassel notes tiredly as they take seats together, “come the moment, darling husband, we could just vibe with it.”
Brassius glances at him, bewilderment strewn through his grey gaze.
“You know, as in do our collective best, dependent on our emotions at the time?” Hassel’s expression creases in thought. “I think that’s what my students mean by it, anyway…”
The pair burst into soft laughter, hands automatically finding one another’s and gripping on tight.
“Everything will be wonderful, querido,” Brassius whispers, “because you will be there, and I will be right there with you.”
Hassel takes a gentle breath, and melts into his side, stinging eyes closing as he smiles warmly.
“Indeed,” he murmurs, content. “That’s all I’ve ever needed.”
“And I.”
Hassel kisses him, swallowing his tremulous voice, assuaging his lingering anxiety.
/////////
It is beautiful if mad, their celebratory dance. They don’t say vows – they already have, the words for them and them alone, sparkling in the intimacy of the dusk. They simply host a small gathering, fairy lights strung up across their whole garden now, Grass types mingling between fauna, guests somewhere between buffet tables, wine refills and comfortable garden furniture. Lilligant develops a quiet, blushing crush on Katy’s dear Heracross, who flexes happily for his smitten acquaintance; a far too competitive Breloom attempts to spar with a far too competitive Staraptor, who promptly and triumphantly puts the bird to sleep the moment he gets too feisty; Flapple doesn’t leave the side of her fathers, chirruping happily as a laughing Hassel feeds her cake with a wink and an indulgent promise that she’s only allowed a little.
“Have a heart, kid,” Larry announces dryly, as he plucks her phone from a whining Iono, who has been attempting to livestream the event. She tries to snatch it from the air, which goes about well as such a height difference might imply.
“Awww! Just tryna share the joy!”
“Enjoy it, instead. Live in the moment. Pick up tips for the future, when someone feels like putting up with you for long enough.”
“Hey!”
He smirks down at his pseudo-daughter, his face softening. “Trust me,” he mutters, glancing warmly at Katy, who’s giggling at her Heracross. “If I can find them, anyone can.”
It’s endearingly awkward and inaccurate when their dance comes, when they take centre stage; steps misaligned at points, gentle amusement tripping from their lips. Shoes are stepped on, but the twirls are dramatic, and the audience appreciates their stars nevertheless, cheers, sobs and applause raising from their friends.
“Doing well, my love?” Brassius whispers as he swept up from their bowed finale, being drawn into a gentle, loving kiss.
“Doing perfectly, my darling,” Hassel promises tearfully after a moment, nuzzling his forehead to his husband’s. “And you?”
“Can’t complain,” he teases, and they both burst out laughing until tears stream down their faces in utter joy. Breath is briefly pulled from lungs, exhaustion reigns, but nothing ruins their harmony, their victory, their perfectly imperfect wedding reception.
They may have to take tomorrow slow; they may have to take the rest of their lives at an easier pace, a gentle stroll into forever instead of a sprinting wildness - but take it together they will, every step of the way.
Got a request for The Technical Festival, which celebrates Ephemeralart and Vanillacupcakes through the medium of TMs? Take a look here; my askbox is open!
#the technical festival#ephemeralartshipping#hassius#hassel#brassius#pokemon scarlet and violet#my writing#bringing a whole new meaning to 'heartbreaking' ;)#... no I'm really not sorry thank you for asking#look okay#fellow hassius writers#I don't care HOW you have these guys get married#whether it's handfasting#a massive Paldea-wide party#epic amounts of drama#you do you and I will adore it anyway#but if you're not hosting it at dusk are you even writing a hassius wedding#tm115 - dragon pulse#tm146 - grass pledge#tm100 - dragon dance
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Preview: Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1
Operation Sunshine: Already Dead #1 preview. Our ragtag group of young, alienated vampires head down to the swamps of Florida to disrupt a nasty ancient vampire party #comics #comicbooks
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#comic books#Comics#dark horse#Dark Horse Comics#david rubin#henry zebrowski#marcus parks#operation sunshine: already dead
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Comic Crypt: OPERATION SUNSHINE: ALREADY DEAD #1 Preview
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Verses For Nicky that I Forgot to Add To My Carrd
(a.k.a. my To-Do List)
Love is All You Knead | Baker AU
(Written within @createshope’s “The Cooling Rack” Universe)
Nicolò is new to the city. He’s new to alot of things, really... freshly released from a failed stint in Seminary, from the confines of a small, conservative town in Northern Italy, from the memory of his family’s disapproval in the wake of his Nonna’s death. The only thing he feels confident of anymore is dough beneath his hands and the nourishment (to the stomach, to the soul) of baking. So when he comes to The Cooling Rack with a selection of work and the hope for a job, he is lucky to find Clary so receptive. He takes up managing part of the breads and pastries selection, putting his Nonna’s recipes to good use, learning what he doesn’t already know. It is a good start, when you’re starting over...
Magia Familiare | Witch Familiar AU
Modern Magical Universe heavily influenced by thevorpalsword’s series, Threads of Memory. Definitely worth a read! Closed ship with @leschanceux’s Joe Al-Kaysani.
In a world where Magic is a common element that manifests within people, there exists a far rarer phenomenon known as a Familiar. These people -- capable of transforming between an animal form and a human form -- possess a magic that enhances and focuses the magic of those they bond with. As such they are highly sought after by those wishing to increase their personal power, to the point that most Familiar families are kept separate from regular society, operating like royalty and making bond-matches based in political and social power structures. Nicky is born of a long lineage of Familiars, and much of his younger years were spent locked away, being taught only that which his elders wanted him to know about the world. By his twenties, he was actively resisting his family’s machinations for his future, their attempts to secure him a lucrative marriage contract and bond to a witch of their choosing. He managed to escape the influence by leaving home with nothing more than the meager possessions in his satchel.
Since then, Nicolò has been living rough, working odd jobs to supplement his need for constant movement around Europe. Because the DiGenovas are a family of historical renown, a name that is too well known in magical circles, and people still want to use Nicky’s Familiar abilities for their own personal gain. He meets Andy in Greece, where she rescues him from becoming a victim of trafficking, and with her help he manages to relocate to London and start anew under an assumed name.
And then he meets Joe, a beautiful and kind witch with magical that reaches out to Nicky like threads of pure sunshine, weaving trinkets imbued with feelings of well-being and somehow so unaware of his unique perfection. Joe, who wants nothing from him, who doesn’t even know who he is, but still extends every kindness and unearned empathy to him. How can Nico help but fall in love?
And The Spies Came Out of The Water | Secret Agent AU
Pretty much what it says on the tin. Nicolò is working as a freelance agent that contracts himself to a multitude of European governments. His primary skillset is as a sniper and intelligence gatherer, but he is also very good at infiltration and close quarters combat, if the need arises. Though he has participated in some morally questionable missions in the past, Nico maintains a personal sense of justice that often influences what jobs he does or doesn’t take. His list of enemies is growing, but... well. An Agent is not expected to live to see retirement, and Nicolò has never had a reason to think of an extraction plan. At least, not until he meets Joe.
I Left a Note on our Bathroom Mirror | Paranormal Medium AU
(General ‘Nicky Sees Dead People’ Verse, featuring a closed ship with @leschanceux‘s Ghost!Joe)
Nicolò has known there is something different about him from a young age. It’s in how he stayed quiet as a child, especially in Churches. In how he listened so attentively when his Nonna would tell him stories of a forgotten time, using voices she shouldn’t even know. How he kept listening to her, to the voices, even after Nonna died. There is something inside Nico that reaches out, and whatever lies beyond the veil reaches back.
So he became a Medium. Or... a Paranormal Investigator, which was somehow the more “legitimate” option in such a field of work. Sometimes it is simply easier to claim a machine has picked up the very information that Nicky’s own senses already know on instinct, especially when people -- customers -- don’t really understand his... craft. They want the theater of the Paranormal, rather than the reality. And that’s fine, it pays his bills.
Eventually, Nicolò learns of an apartment with a particularly noisome Poltergeist. A spirit known primarily as “Joe” has driven out the last 18 potential tenants of the place, and only the fact that it is a stunningly gorgeous apartment in a prime location of Amsterdam has kept the building landlord from giving up on renting it entirely. Intrigued, Nico offers his services in exchange for a reduced lease, the moves in. And so begins the Not-Quite-Harmonious cohabitation of a Medium and a Ghost, both of which just might be catching feelings, the more they learn about one another.
#Fandom: The Old Guard#c: Nicolo Di Genova#Nicky: headcanon#Nicky: verses#Nicky :: verse :: I Left a Note on Our Bathroom Mirror#Nicky :: verse :: And the Spies Came Out of the Water#Nicky :: verse :: Magia Familiare#Nicky :: verse :: Love is All You Knead#exclusive: leschanceux (Joe)#exclusive: createshope (Clary)#q#hc
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Something of a spoiler for Yune's past in "Out There: the 1K."
When you give your characters a heavy dose of trauma, but also address that by giving them therapy.
This is a side bit and not in the book.
Felorians are more heavily employed due to their empathic powers, and their ability to see beyond someone's physical body to the person inside. They don't share human taboos, and appearance means very little to them. This is why any felorian going into the psychiatric field is hired for this job regardless of their gender. It doesn't matter.
18 year old Yune in the office of his assigned felorian therapist, Doctor Krenit Lahset.: "I have your word, right, doc?"
Doctor Krenit Lahset was an unorthadox, relaxed person who wore street clothes to work instead of crisp attire. He felt it made him more disarming along with his mental abilities. His demeanor and personality would be a good compliment to Yune's, which was one of the main reasons why he was assigned this darksider orphan within the first day the kid arrived:
"Of course you do. I've been here for you for two years. Everything you say is confidential, Yune, you know that. Nothing leaves this room."
Yune sits on the sofa of the bright, friendly room, with his hands clasped between his knees.
“I’ve thought about going back and freeing the others - a lot, actually. But despite how much I hate her for what she made all of us do, how much I despise the way she treated me like her favorite pet, how she had a plan B to keep me there if I got my crystal back, and how much I fantasized about ending her life in a creative number of ways, ...I can’t.
I can't free them."
Doctor Lahset listens as his young patient gets up and walks to the window. The sunshine on the major metropolis of Seni doesn't matter to this kid. He can't see it. Right now, he'd willingly stepped into the dark with a tether to Lahset, trusting him to pull him back. Trust... something Yune always had a problem with. This is a major moment in the kid's healing. He had already entrusted him with a number of secrets - including his genetic defect, and the ena crystal he refused to have removed.
He sensed a well of guilt and anger ebb and flow within Yune.
"Why do you think you can't?"
"Because in the end - in the absolute end of it all - she got us out of that pipeline.
The kids I grew up with that got sent to the yards are probably all dead by now. But those of us she enslaved, the few of us she kidnapped off the street and put that damn chip into; her plan B, - sure we faced danger, and some of us didn’t make it - they were caught by Quora Ness Security and sent to the yards anyway, or killed by another criminal group, or ran away and didn't get out of range of the trigger in time to avoid their nervous system being fried - the majority of us are still alive."
They had removed that neurodestabalizing chip a year prior when Yune finally told them about it. That's also when they found the crystal.
Doctor Lahset felt that survivor's guilt build in the kid - a common emotion among darksiders. Most of the time, it was in regards to the keth attack thirteen years ago. Yune couldn't remember the attack. His was tied to what he experienced after that. Lahset had been working for two years to break this kid free from the cage he'd made for himself.
He continued to listen with his famous felorian patience.
"I can't free them. I got lucky when I got out. Even if I could go back, break down the door, blow the place up into the void, and end that entire operation, it wouldn't matter. We were never wanted to begin with. They have nowhere else to go, and I can't stop the MEC from going after them. If they found out I'm still alive, they'd be after me. They technically still own me for the next two years."
Doctor Lahset knew this, and deliberately refused to report Yune to the MEC like he's supposed to do. He and the other felorian therapists made a pact to never report darksider orphans who came from the MEC run orphanages.
"I can't free them because she was right. She saved our lives.
Yune's fists and teeth clenched, "And I despise her even more for that.”
Tag list: @muddshadow @cedar-west @athenixrose @penspiration-writing @runningoutofbooks @tobiornottobithatisthequestion @roll-top-writing @subject-2-change @dreaming-in-seams @mismatchingart @midnights-melodiverse
#writing#writeblr#ott1k#out there the 1k#Yune actually talking about his past? LIES!#Yune - age 18 - talking to his assigned therapist at the place he escaped to when he was 16.#side stories#character back story#the expanded universe
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