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And a Child Shall Lead Them   Machiavellian / @windingxpath It was such a relief to have Scott Summers show up when he did. The mutant known as Sunfire who had been a part of the X-men had a great love for his homeland and all the children that had been born mutants. Japan had been a very xenophobic society less than 300 years prior, so some old feelings just simply didn't vanish so easily. Most did accept other nations on Japanese soil. But seeing a child born to look like a humanoid feline was still spoken of as witchcraft by some.“It's one of my kids, Scott. She's got a similar mutation as Hank. She was born on a neighboring island to Hiroshima. I've seen quite a bit of mutants since then coming from that area and Nagasaki for obvious reasons.” Yoshida paused for a moment to compose himself. “Akemi Ito is her name. Her parents kicked her out when she started to get furry. They are some of the old school people who think mutants are yōkai or demons. I took the kid in here at the shelter when she made it to Tokyo. I thought I was getting through to her but apparently not.”The frustration was growing on the face of the most famous mutant in my all of Japan. “She believes it's a curse like her parents grilled into her head. She's only 14 Scott. So she's still got a lot of growing up to do.” The light of recognition illuminated Yoshida-San. “I have reason to believe she's sought out a cult leader named Suguru Geto because he's claimed he can remove cursed spirits.”Japan was an ancient land. It was not uncommon for many to believe in curses and cursed spirits. “Geto leads a cult called Taimubesseru kyōkai or Time Vessel Association in English. I'd go after her myself, but I can't leave here. Can you help me find this kid before Geto gets his claws into her?” Geto was known for not hurting children. The rumors were that he'd actually adopted two little girls after slaughtering most of their village. Yoshida-San was petrified for Akemi.~*~  Inside the four walls of the temple, Geto was smiling. He always smiled even before he slaughtered a room full of adult non Jujutsu sorcerers. He often refused to harm any children under the age of 16. No one knew why, but Geto did. Every time he looked at them no matter the gender, he was thrust back into the way Fushiguro had murdered Riko Amanai right in front of him. ”If only… He had often told himself. Akemi Ito reminded him of Riko. The only difference was that Akemi-chan looked like a giant Neko [cat]. “Are you hungry?” He asked her.Akemi-chan shook her head even though her stomach spoke otherwise. Her ears lay flat against her head. “Well I guess so.” She spoke silently. She had given all her money to Geto-Sama so she had nothing left. “I can't pay–” “Nonsense.” He interrupted. “You will eat something, ok?” Geto had a father’s smile which touched Akemi. Her nervousness started to visibly melt away. He did see a minor cursed spirit clinging to her right shoulder. It actually resembled a Shiba Ino but on a much smaller scale. The horns on its head were rather disturbing however. Geto knew he was the only one who saw it. He motioned for a friendly woman cult member to approach. “Please take our new friend in and give her something to eat.” The woman bowed her head to Geto and began to lead the girl into the kitchen. It was late and the dining hall was closed. What Geto-Sama wanted, he always got.Akemi walked past him with her head bowed in respect. She did not notice that he had snatched up the unseen curse on her shoulder. It turned into a ball of magical energy in his fingertips. She just suddenly felt better. It was like coming here was the right thing to do after all.Once the girl had left to go to the kitchen, he took the ball of cursed energy and held it in his fingertips a bit longer. Mutants were cursed energy generators. All the hatred by human society toward these people who were different meant that these spirits born of such vile emotions would continue to give rise to more curses. Mutations were not curses in and of themselves. The bigotry toward them caused curses to multiply. He stared at this ball.The whole cursed spirit manipulation technique he possessed was vile at times. Taking in a new spirit meant he had to swallow it. It always tasted like a rag used to wipe up vomit. Geto closed his eyes and choked down this new cursed spirit.He was going to have to be ready soon. A mutant child like Akemi was going to have Yoshida-San or someone close to him knocking on Geto's proverbial door. He had to get ready for this visitor. Given that the individual coming for Akemi-chan was likely an adult mutant, Geto had to brace himself for battle.  "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference." credit: james kriet

Etherea,    in its splendor, unfurls landscapes of majestic mountains crowned with ice, their slopes adorned with an unusual flora of delicate pink grasses. The air, redolent with the sweetness of nectar, carries the harmonious symphony of a world alive. Yet, one must cast a vigilant gaze skyward, for winged creatures soar through the ether, their shadows casting a subtle menace upon the land below. The citadels of Etherea, known as the Gum Cities, stand as bastions of safety, their walls aglow with the soft luminescence of bioluminescent flora. It is within these urban sanctuaries that the denizens find solace from the aerial predators that prowl the daylight skies. This realm, home to a diverse congregation of eight billion souls from disparate origins, thrives under the watchful eyes of its inhabitants. While the nocturnal avians present a curious threat, the planet remains a sanctuary for those equipped with the knowledge and tools to navigate its wonders. Vigilance is the companion of every traveler, for the terrain of Etherea, bathed in hues of vibrant crimson, offers a life-affirming contrast to the familiar greens of distant worlds. In this tapestry of life, the intelligent observer—perhaps a scholar with a mind honed by the rigors of academia—would see Etherea not as a place of danger, but as a testament to the resilience and adaptability of life in all its myriad forms. Here, in the embrace of Etherea, intelligence is not merely a trait but a necessity, a guiding star for those who traverse the pink-grassed valleys and the snow-capped peaks under the watchful dance of the cosmos.  Certainly! Here’s a detailed expansion of the themes for your blog on Etherea:   The Cultural Tapestry of Etherea: Etherea’s inhabitants, a kaleidoscope of beings from myriad origins, weave a vibrant cultural mosaic. Their festivals are a symphony of color, where the night sky is painted with the fireworks of a thousand worlds. Languages as diverse as the planets themselves echo through the Gum Cities, each word a testament to the rich heritage of its speaker. The Ecology of Etherea: The Gum Cities, nestled within the embrace of the Nebulae Forests, are a marvel of symbiosis. The bioluminescent flora not only illuminates the cities but also sustains the delicate ecosystems where ethereal creatures and inhabitants coexist. The pink grasses, a unique botanical wonder, perform photosynthesis with the faint starlight, sustaining the diverse fauna that roams the crimson plains. The Philosophy of Existence in Etherea: In Etherea, existence is an art form, and intelligence—the brush with which its inhabitants paint their destinies. Here, philosophical debates rise like constellations, pondering the nature of consciousness in a world where the mind’s potential is as limitless as the universe itself. The Technology of Etherea: The technology of Etherea is a dance of innovation and tradition, where ancient magic fuses with modern science. Transportation pods glide seamlessly through the air, powered by the gravitational pull of the planets, while holographic archives in the Celestial Library preserve the knowledge of the cosmos. The Art and Literature of Etherea: Art in Etherea is a reflection of the cosmos—vast, boundless, and stirring. The literature is as deep as the space-time continuum, with epics that span eons, and poetry that captures the essence of a single, fleeting comet tail. The Governance of Etherea: Etherea is governed by a council of wise elders, each representing a sector of the Gum Cities. Their decisions are guided by the Celestial Code—a set of principles derived from the harmony of the universe, ensuring peace and prosperity for all. The Personal Narratives of Etherea: Every inhabitant of Etherea has a story as unique as a star. From the young scholar exploring the mysteries of the Nebulae Forests to the artisan crafting sculptures that defy gravity, each narrative is a thread in the grand tapestry of Etherean life. These expanded themes will provide your readers with a comprehensive view of Etherea, inviting them to explore its wonders alongside its inhabitants. 🌌✨ .style1 { text-align: center; } table { border: 1px solid #c4c7c5; border-radius: 4px; font-size: 16px; } th { padding: 18px 16px; text-align: left; } td { padding: 16px; border-top: 1px solid #c4c7c5; } .katex-mathml{ display: block; text-align: center; } .katex-html { display: none; }

they say you'll never forgetwhere you were on 9/11i was ninei sat in the kitchenand watched the televisionplay out the violence hour after hourmy child-like mind conflated the Two Towersin Tolkien's literary fantasywith these acts of misanthropy  and i was taught at the dinner tablethat very eveningthat all of life could be reducedto capital letters defining acosmic struggle of Good vs. Eviland yetregardless of their affiliationon this defunctpolitical spectrum ofleft leftleft right leftpoliticians canonize a legacy ofinjustice and oppression andin order to suppressdemocratic expressionthey propagate the notionthat dissent is treasonbecause the wars we wage are blessedby the sagely insight of rich old menwho sit safely in mansions protected bypicket fences as white as their skinwhile they play off our emotions andturn us into thoughtless sheepcontent to stomach the whims ofpoliticians propagating vengeancei will speak this out evenwhen my voice shakesbecause i have seen the hypocrisyof this war on terrorthat relies on terrorto cultivate more terroristsin order to perpetuate the notionthat Orwell positedwar is peacefreedom is slaveryignorance is blissisn't itin my naïvetéi rejected the reality oftorture and murdered children fori nursed a secret hope thatdespite the pictures and videosthat served as empirical evidencewe were still somehowthe good guys andthey were the bad guysbut Americans rained whitephosphorous on Fallujahdropped the world's firstand hopefully lastatom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasakiwe toppled democratically elected socialistswhose interests betrayed our self-serving agendascultivating a policy of extra-judicial assassinationregime change is the name of the gamejust ask the CIAthey'd tell youbusiness is booming butthen they'd have to kill youso i switched off my TV screenand picked up booksi read Slaughterhouse-Vand treasured the way Vonnegutlooks at the lives of evenbees and butterflies as valuableintoning "so it goes"every time a living thing diesi read O'Brien'srecollectionsof Vietnama month laterhe said thatlike white liestall tales andfishermen’s yarnsevery war storyhas a bit of truthand i've seen the proofin the photographs ofAbu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bayin the aftermath of drone strikesthat left pieces of kids scatteredacross the desert sands of foreign landsi see the toxic side-effects ofsystemic violence in the eyesof homeless veterans sufferingon the streets with PTSDa flicker of fear livens adeadened gaze at the sound ofevery backfiring engineas if they're a thousand miles awayon some distant shorebetrayed by their owngovernment once againa Purple Heart isa death sentencewhen there are 22military suicides a daythanks for your servicenow die in silencelike bad religion the phrasewar crime is rather redundantand i testify not because iaim to disrespect themen and women in uniformon the contrarywhen i sayF*** warit is because icherish every brotherand every sisterwho has perished in thechurning gears of conflictthey shoved tall tales of hopefor a collegiate educationand far-flung traveldown our throatsjust sign hereright along the dotted linewe want youto march into hellfirewe want youto send missiles intotiny huts and villagestracking cell phone signalswe want youto sit downshut up andjust do as you're toldto every fallen human whohas been sent off to fight onbehalf of thisor any othercorrupt nationi sincerely apologizefor not taking to the streets to protesta vitriolic ideologyi regret filing my taxeswhen 54% or more of our budget goes tomilitary expenditures so they couldstick an M-16 in your handsand ship you off to die for abstractand so often arbitrary phrases likefreedom and justice for allyou were robbed of your libertyby a capitalist system that seeks profitlike a false prophet forbank accounts soar in times of war  and in my apathy i hammerednails into your coffinand i pride myself on  being an anti-militaristicnon-violent anarchist becausei don't hate soldiersif i did i would remainsilent and apatheticand let the governmentabuse its youthi celebrate humanityregardless of ethnicity and creedwhich is precisely why i despisethis system that sacrificesgeneration after generation forconquest and imperial notionspray tellwill we turn from theerror of our wayswake up fromthis terrorist dazebefore it's too lateand saythe State can try towhitewash history buti refuse to let thembrainwash meNotes: I worked as a FORMER Translator/Interpreter. 

Summary: “Why won’t you tell me?” Murdock mumbles, defeated.Frank pointedly doesn’t think of the reason why. The warehouse, Karen, Nelson, the headlines, Fisk.“Don’t matter if I tell you, you won’t feel it. Gotta remember, Red,” he rubs a palm through his face, “it’s what you gotta do.” Frank has to figure out how to guide Matt through the painful process of recovering his memories at the same time he deals with Fisk and the fake Devil. Notes: So, about the sheer size of this series. I had no idea that was going to happen. I got a little carried away hahaha Poems and excerpts taken from (in order of appearance):Blood and stone, Rae GouirandAdvice from Dionysus, Shinji MoonPaper cuts, Natalie Scenters-ZapicoMemory is sleeping, Sanna WaniFever 103, Sylvia Plath Happy reading!❤️     Breaking point; The point at which a person gives way under stress. The point where a situation becomes critical.   It only breaks; it does not change. It only goes from one to many.   SHATTER   This is the art of living with a ticking heart.   Red doesn’t mention overhearing Frank on the phone, so he doesn’t bother wasting time wondering if he did. Doesn’t matter if he’s being a stubborn sh*t and trying to buy himself time before another let’s-play-twenty-questions or not. Frank isn’t wasting his breath on that when he has more important things needing his attention. When he’s not sure what to do with the kid, not sure what to do with Karen, him and Nelson. Fisk and the Daredevil copycat. And he sure as hell doesn’t know how to deal with this not being a mission anymore. Because it isn’t. Maybe it was, at some point, in the beginning. Back then when Red called, desperate in a way Frank had never heard before. And Frank had gotten there too late and Red’s efforts hadn’t been enough and he had to watch him drag himself over the bloodied warehouse floor with his skull bashed in. Killing half of the Costa family on that mansion? That was a mission. Shoving a gun on the back of the surgeon’s head had been a mission. Bringing Red to the cabin too. And then he found him in the bathroom, hands shaking and unable to coordinate a single limb. Mumbling over and over again and probably not even realizing he was doing it. The same name, until his voice was barely there. He sat on that porch and heard Red lose his mind just a little bit more, saw the man behind the mask and the glasses. And then it didn’t feel like a mission. Didn’t feel like scorching sun hot in his nape, boiling water inside the canteen that barely quenched his thirst. Didn’t feel like fingertips bitten and dry from handling gunpowder. It felt like the park. Hearing the first bullet fly, the first body drop. Red wakes up again, chest getting stuck in an inhale that never leaves. It’s the third time already tonight and Frank wished he could say he was surprised. Stopped trying to fall back asleep when it became clear it was a bad night. “No, no don’t-” “Red.” “Have to, I have to get to- Frank-” a wounded noise leaves his wobbling lips and Frank sits down on the bed, sighing in exhaustion and dropping the thermal by his feet. “Where- I gotta-” “You did, it’s all good now.” Red’s nails claw into his arms before digging deep, steadying himself. Frank uses a hand to untangle his fingers from him, holding his hand tight. Lets him try to fight it before he recognizes the weight anchoring him down to Earth. “Frank,” in a whisper now, he always does that. “Frank, they’ll see us move.” “They won’t, we’re out, remember?” “No, no, I have to- Frank, did I get to them? Did I stop them?” He flinches at every little hiss of breath squeezing through his teeth, wild eyes bobbing all around the room as if expecting someone to jump at him. “We got out?” Frank’s eyes instinctively jump to the sutures in his head. The scabbing over the incision from where bone poked through. Carefully cards two fingers through silky hair, the color slightly dull with lack of proper nutrition. “You did, we’re out. Mission’s over,” his hair is growing too long. Needs a trim. “you can rest now.” “S’over?” Frank swallows over the dryness of his mouth and parched throat. Gets close enough to kiss Red’s forehead, but doesn’t. “Yeah, it’s over, Red.” Closes his eyes, presses his lips together in a tight line before pulling back. “S’over, you can rest now.” Still holding tight to his hand, Red sleeps again, breathing slowing down gradually. Like there was some measure of peace in the contact, in the assurance. Red barely remembers a thing when he wakes up. Frank lets it go, like all the other nights before.     As many things lately, Frank isn’t sure about letting Murdock alone in the safe house, but he wanted to check out his apartment, resupply too. He knew of a few things he could get from Turk Barrett, a few others from a former military lady he knew back in the day. When he’s got his supplies, he heads to Hell’s Kitchen. Not unexpectedly, there’s no news about the shootout at Murdock’s place and the attack in FDR Drive was attributed to a turf war or some bullsh*t. He does a few rounds, makes sure there isn’t anyone watching the place before he goes in, climbing up the stairs through the front door, this time. The door was replaced, but there were crime scene tapes crossing them out. The hallway had bullet holes from both sides and blood stains that hadn’t been washed out. The couch was destroyed and so was the kitchen table, which was just as Frank remembered it, so far. What stood out were the overturned drawers and the missing laptop and case files Frank remembered from when they came a week before. Stupid. He goes back to the safe house with the nagging feeling that he found something but just didn’t know what - a piece in the puzzle that he couldn’t match yet to a bigger picture. Red is putting away the red gift box he still slept with sometimes, when he thought Frank wasn’t looking, inside his gym bag when he walks through the front door. The airflow makes the garbage bag taped to the window frame inflate outwards before settling back. He’s used to Red acting a bit like a wild creature, tilting his head this way and that to fish for tells and details, a bit like a deer did to check for disturbances or predators around it. Sniffs the air sometimes like a fox hunting its prey. In the last week, they laid low and Red got the time to explain a bit to him about his senses, the accident. In return, Frank was quickly getting used to questions, prodding him for memories, trying to trigger new things out of him. Stupid things he wouldn’t usually be bothered to learn. “High-school? Uh, I remember graduating, I think. I had just broken up with a girlfriend, I think, what was her name?” He had frowned from where he was doing the exercises for his right arm. “Anyway, she found out I like guys too and was a bit disgusted, I think. She said she didn’t want to date a ‘fairy’.” Frank had scoffed humorlessly from where he was scrounging for a meal. “What did you say to her?” “Nothing,” Murdock shrugged, “but then I went and kissed a guy in front of the whole class after the graduation ceremony.” Frank had snorted. Of course he f***ing did. “I think we dated for a while, but I’m not sure.” He prods him about memories of his Dad, of his training and school. Sometimes, he goes too far without realizing it. Asking things about Red’s adult life is the surest way to get him to have an episode. It’s no surprise that, when he does remember something - a bar he used to like, the smell of the cheap drinks they served there -, he shuts down for the rest of the day. But there are a few things Red seems to be able to hold on to, Frank thinks, watching that clever glint in his eyes as Red sniffed the air. “You went to my place.” Frank grunts. Walks to the desk to take off his stuff. Keeps his handgun in the coffee table where he can reach it if he needs to and sits down on the couch, sends Red a look. “Take your goddamn feet off my ammo box.” “It’s comfy.” Frank scoffs, annoyed at Red’s little smirk. “Looking for the people after me?” “Nah. Just checking.” Murdock nods. Worries his bottom lip with his tongue in a way that Frank’s been getting real acquainted to. “Say it, Red.” The redhead acknowledges it with a subtle shift in his direction before he shakes his head. “When we met...” he frowns as if staring at a particularly difficult math problem. Frank has a hard time not getting lost in the sight of a pouty lower lip. “I went to you, didn’t I? In a hospital?” His heart does a mild leap in his surprise. “You were hurt. You smelled of... grief and anger. I remember walking inside and calling your name but then it all goes hazy.” Any expectation that he remembered anything about Karen and Nelson seeps out of him and Frank leans against the couch’s back rest. It’s the first solid memory he talked about that happened past his eighteen years old. “Yeah, I,” he swallows back down the urge to prod. Knows how well that ended up the last time. “When they got me in custody I was in a bad shape.” “Hm,” but Murdock seems lost in something else now. “I dreamed about the bombings.” Frank’s confusion must be audible in his breath or heart or whatever it was Red used to track those things, because he feels the need to explain. “In Hell’s Kitchen? I was close to one of them, I don’t know why. And then...” his eyebrows crease down in a frown. Fingers come up to scratch at the itching scab on the side of his head and drop back down once Frank catches his wrist in a firm hold. “A man was dying. I don’t know. He had a funny accent.” And Red for the life of him can’t make sense of it, apparently. Frank sighs, stands up. Takes two bottles of beer out of the dingy fridge and brings them back to the couch. He had been banking on Red remembering something about his double-life but he clearly doesn’t and that complicates a whole lot of things. Matt picks at the label of the bottle, staring sightlessly ahead, and doesn’t drink for a while. Frank chugs some of his own down, checking on him from time to time. Makes sure he’s not about to flip and tear his hands in broken glass again. The wounds from the other time were only now healing. He thinks for a moment Red’s about to ask him all the questions he’s refrained from asking, since the cabin. Why didn’t Frank take him to the hospital, why didn’t he ask anything else about the hallucinations, why did he get hurt in the first place. But instead he- “Why won’t you tell me?” Murdock mumbles, defeated. Frank pointedly doesn’t think of the reason why. The warehouse, Karen, Nelson, the headlines, Fisk, the fake Devil. “Don’t matter if I tell you, you won’t feel it. Gotta remember, Red,” he rubs a palm through his face, “it’s what you gotta do.” Murdock looks about to protest heavily before he exhales shakily. “Do you think-” he stops. Shakes his head. “Say it.” “Do you think that when my head heals...” Red trails off. Frank doesn’t need him to finish the thought to see where’s getting at, though. He looks at him, then, head tilted back to drink the rest of his beer in one go. Looks at the scabbing wound in the side of his head, hiding loose bone held together by flimsy wire, and remembers watching every step of that surgery. Piece by piece of dirt and debris pulled out of the brain and the bone. Doc wasn’t a neurosurgeon, couldn’t do much besides getting the bone in place, hope for the best. Curt, the last time he checked in with him, had thought Murdock’s memory was behaving unusually, that the episodes during the night sounded like flashbacks and, some, night terrors. It indicated trauma, according to him, not TBI-related memory loss. Also said that, besides helping Red reconnect with his environment and memories, he needed to give him a safe space, that he needed a safe way to deal with the traumatic event that led to this. That this had all the signs of being Dissociative amnesia. “Yeah, maybe.” It’s not really a lie, but Red must hear it. Frank waits for him to say anything, ask anything. Stews in the tension and waits for the silence to snap like a rubber band pulled too hard. They don’t speak a word. Red finally takes a swig of his beer.     “I can go with you.” Frank’s heart must be telling Red how not on board he’s with this, pounding furiously on his chest, bruising his damn ribs all over again. Enough that Red tries using that f***ing lawyer voice of his, probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I’m not going to get in your way but I can handle myself, you know I can-” “F*** that, Red, you can barely tell up from down when you walk up those stairs and you wanna track mercs with me?” Kid was out of his goddamn mind. Frank was seriously considering tying him up to something and leaving him behind. Maybe kill two birds with one stone, chain him to a chimney, get that head of his remembering other times. But if Fisk sent more people this way, he’d be alone and tied up and- sh*t. Not an option. “I’m a good tracker. I’ve been trained to take down enemies under extreme duress, I can-” “Shut up. You shut your mouth.” He doesn’t need a show and tell on the seventy-three shades of f***ed up of the kid’s childhood. Take down enemies under extreme duress, Jesus f***ing Christ. But Red isn’t lying. He may not remember being Daredevil, but his body remembers fighting. Knows fighting. He can be a sweet guy and he puts up a good front, but that’s half of it. There’s the other half - the devil, the soldier, the man he was trained to become. Both tearing at each other as fast as they mingle and overlap. Frank sees it in his tensing muscles, his clenching fists. The gracefully balanced pose he still holds even when way past exhausted or when his migraines hit. Elbows tucked by his waist, ready to attack. Got him imagining Red, scrawny for his age and with the same fiery stubbornness, being taught by that ninja a**hole in a basement. Getting beaten down and jumping up again, cleaning the blood off his nose with small hands and pushing forward, attacking a guy twice his size, unbothered by the power imbalance. Little Red doesn’t get out of his head even when he stares at him, then: very much grown up and, yeah, maybe not exactly tall but built lean and solid more like a martial artist than a brawler like Frank. Still very much easy to pin down. And then he hits that head of his and what will he do? Pick up the pieces of the devil from the ground in the off chance of saving him a second time while every cop and scumbag in the city is after him? But then again, Red won’ stay still. Got enough energy and control over himself now that he won’t just sit back and obey. Better to take the a**hole with him, make sure he doesn’t brain himself trying to follow Frank through rooftops. F***’s sake. Frank grabs at his collar and pulls him close, enough so they’re breathing into each other’s faces. Huffs like a bull against his face and tightens the hold when Red makes a poor attempt at escaping, shows him he has no chance fighting Frank. Not like this. “You disobey one word I say to you once we’re out that door, just one goddamn word-” “Yes, sir.” Frank growls at the taunt in his voice. He misses drowsy doped up Red from a few days ago. “You think this is funny? Those guys, Red, they’re no joke, and I don’t care what f***ed up war you were trained to fight in, kid, you’re in no condition to.” They’ll mow right through you, he thinks, heart pounding, and you won’t stand a chance. Useless trying to make Red understand risks. He never did. Or if he did, he never let that stop him. “You’ll do what I say, when I say it, the way I say it, do you understand?” “Yes, Frank.” He lets go of him when the air becomes two hot between their faces, rubs at the back of his scalp. The thought of Red, those mercenaries and the warehouse flash like lightning. “Goddamn it.” No coming back now. He produces a spare knife and shoves it at Red. Isn’t surprised at the disapproving frown. “You need it you use it, got it?” “I’m not killing-” For crying out loud- “You don’t need to kill sh*t. You’re down for the count but you’re a fighter, Red, you know where to hit and you hit goddamn hard.” Red’s look changes, turns curious. Frank knows that look. Frank just threw him a bone and Red won’t stop chewing on it until he gets to the marrow. “Did I fight you before?” He sighs. There’s no use lying when Red will know. “Yeah.” “You said I was a lawyer.” Frank evades the question, turns around to check his gear once again before they leave. “You said you were trained.” “No, don’t do that, tell me- ” “Got no time, Red, you know? We’re leaving-” Murdock slams his hand on the table, a mug breaks - Frank hadn’t seen him coming. Had forgotten how fast he was. How quiet he could be. It’s the first time he sees the Devil in those hazel-green eyes since the warehouse. The first time he thinks the kid might use that knife to gut him open like a fish. He sees him hold himself back from pouncing on the last second, his knuckles strain under his skin, his muscles twitch. The strength and the technique is there, but his body can’t handle it and Red knows it. “I have a right to know something that concerns me.” “Got nothing to say to you, Murdock, I told you before-” “Bullsh*t! It’s my life, my life , that you’re keeping from me!” Frank slams his own gun down. “You’re goddamn right I am!” It’s enough to shut Red up, taken aback. Even f***ing angry like he is, Frank’s can’t take the sight of those youthful doe eyes of his. Those sutures in his head. His goddamn head. “Didn’t ask for permission, Red, and I’m not begging for forgiveness, not now. I sure as hell didn’t ask to be here.” Red’s hand slides off the desk. Hangs lifelessly by his thigh. “Why are you then?” Frank rubs at his scalp and turns his back to him, collecting his handgun and shoving it in the holster. “Because it’s my fault, Matt.” He shakes his head, refuses to look back as he strolls purposefully to the door. “It’s my own goddamn fault.”     The ride is silent. Frank would usually opt for walking, the bar’s at a forty minutes distance if he’s going at breakneck pace, but it’s not an option with Red’s head still on the mend. Certainly not a good idea if they need to make another hasty escape. Calling Karen had been a good idea. She gave him what she knew about the dead bodies mysteriously disappearing from the morgue before they could be processed and the FBI is, apparently, unaware of it. There was no mention or even a rumor of the shooting at Red’s place around the New York Bulletin. Only reason she knew about it was because a neighbor of Red’s, former client, called her when she came home to find the the wall full of bullet holes. Other neighbors she talked to mentioned giving statements to two cops in particular and told that they should keep quiet since it was part of an ongoing investigation. Someone was covering their tracks. And if Frank’s info checked out, Fisk’s appeal had suspiciously fast-tracked a few steps. Evidence proving his innocence notably appearing out of thin air. It wasn’t anything too big to get him out of prison yet, but if Frank knew one thing about Wilson Fisk, is that he knew how to play the long game. He shoots a glance at the desolate picture slumped on his passenger seat and huffs. Decides to throw him a bone before that kicked f***ing puppy abandoned-in-the-rain look got under his skin. “A while back, Red, you... you helped on the arrest of this scumbag, Wilson Fisk.” That gets him a delicate slant of his head, curious eyes peeking owlishly up. Fingers twitch - the gesture is gone too quickly for Frank to unravel it. “Guy was a piece of sh*t. Think he was charged with some white collar crimes, but the stuff you couldn’t prove, Red. He got a lot of people killed. Had a network, a lot of bad guys under his hand. You put him there, Red. And a bunch of corrupt cops and politicians. Did a good job too, from what I heard.” Matt offers him a small genuine smile in the admittedly poor attempt at appeasing. It fades too soon. “But a few weeks ago, he made a deal with the Feds. Offering intel on his competition, some major players in the city. Got himself a deal to keep his girl clean. Got shanked right after that too.” “On purpose, I’d imagine,” the quick-witted little bastard mumbles, turning his head back to the window. Frank nods, if only to test those senses of his. Not surprisingly, Red notices it. “Where is he now?” “A penthouse,” the word comes out as a derisive scoff, hands squeezing around the steering wheel, leather creaking under the pressure. “Watched 24/7, or so they say. But it don’t sound good, Red. Guy’s too much for the Feds, the system can’t handle ‘im.” Well, actually Frank didn’t think the system was equipped to deal with anything more serious than armed robberies, didn’t think there was any place for rapists, murderers and scumbags like Fisk to “reform” or “pay”. People like them, for Frank, there was only one way to pay. “Why is he coming after me?” Isn’t that the question. How the hell did he manage to connect the dots between Matt Murdock and Daredevil when, so far, most people didn’t? Frank had done so by chance. Recognized those plush pink lips and the smooth, velvety tone: May I call you Frank? With that vulnerable intonation of someone trying too damn hard to help something that’s beyond saving. And then once he saw it, he saw everything. The purposeful drag of his shoulders, making himself smaller - and when he forgot himself, his posture would change, his jaw would set tight, elbows tucked in, spine straight. He doubted himself for a good while, too, until he spotted him through his scope on that rooftop. “You put him in that cage, Red, but I don’t know the details. Hadn’t met you back then.” Murdock mulls over the information with a thoughtful pose, nails picking at the delicate webbing between each finger. Thumb from time to time rubbing at his knuckles. A nervous tic of some kind. Frank tongues away the bad taste in his mouth, the back of his front teeth. “I remember someone dead,” he stops moving, shoulders tense. Waits for Red to continue. “A woman. An old woman. Was it him?” “You remember, huh?” That was new. Red’s been getting better, but he’s still a mess. The indifference he showed during the first week in relation to his lost memories was gone, too. Kid was trying. Hard. “I was-” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I was standing in a morgue, I was.. furious. And- and I felt guilty. I could smell her, she hadn’t been dead for long. Someone was crying, I think, but I don’t remember who. I don’t remember anything. God damn it- ” “Hey,” kid is holding his head again, fingertips lightly tracing the edges around the wound. “Hey, take it easy.” “I’m fine.” He doesn’t look it. His body sways lightly as if fighting off vertigo, his face lost color, his lips wobble before he bites down on the lower one. Slowly lets go. “I’m fine.” Frank keeps his eyes on the road and his ears on the passenger seat, alert for another breakdown until Red finally slants back. Dipping his head to rest against the cushioned seat. He’s careful when he asks. “What else you got?” Red sighs before answering. “I remember her, I don’t remember the Fisk guy. Ahm. I remember... a warehouse of some sort. By the docks. I was really hurt. And there was something burning. I jumped through a window, I think, or crashed into one, but-” he huffs in frustration. Frank nods in acknowledgment. That seems to get Murdock out of his head. “What else do you know about Fisk?” The marine only sighs. “Not the time now, Red,” and it isn’t. The bar matches Karen’s description and, if her info was right, at least three of the mercs that turned up dead on Red’s place frequented the place, including Martin Wallace, the leader Frank shot in the knee. He can’t take Red inside, though. Even without his beard, Frank still has a chance that Martin and Army Jacket lady didn’t recognize him in the middle of the firefight. Has a small chance that the a**holes inside won’t, either - people usually only recognize the skull. He stops a block away from the place, turns the engine off and sighs. Now to the hard part: “Red, you gotta stay her-” “You won’t go alone.” Christ Jesus- “Yeah, I will. And no offense, Red? But you’re no good as back-up right now.” Murdock scowls, those pretty lips twisting down. “I thought we talked about this.” “No, Red,” he takes his gun out of the holster and checks the mag before shoving it back in. “You talked about it. Ran your mouth like ya always do. I said you could come, I didn’t say we’d play Batman and Robin. Now you stay inside-” “You can’t go in there alone!” “I can and I will, Red, for f***’s sake. What happens when I have to use this, huh?” He asks, waving the handgun around. Red’s expression changes. “Yeah, you’ll either freeze or panic, Red, and I ain’t judging you on that, but I can’t have you on my conscience-” “I’ll wait on the rooftop, then.” Frank stares at him in disbelief. “In the roo- What the f*** do you mean, you’ll be on the rooftop? You and your f***ed up head, you wanna hang around rooftops? You’re out of your goddamn mind-” Murdock just frowns with that determined expression of his that had him taken aback more than once before, and earned his respect way too many times for comfort. Frank can’t look away from the strength Red manages to gather even then - so much like wild fire, burning everything it touches, and f*** if he's not getting burned alive, too.  He shakes his head, heartbeat erratic. Rubs at the back of his head. No way he’s stopping the kid from doing what he wants to short of tying him up or knocking him down. Damn if he doesn’t want to. He takes the spare burner he arranged for in his supply run, dropping it on Red’s palm. “You stay here, you listen close.” F***’s sake, terrible idea. “You hear anything suspicious, you call, if I need you, I tell you. If I say I don’t, Red, if I tell you to stay, you stay. I don’t care what happens inside that place, I don’t care what you think you gotta do, I tell you to run away, you run. Do you understand? Do you, Red? Because if you don’t just say it, I ain’t scraping your body off the floor again, I’m not doing that.” Murdock considers him carefully, his expression softening slightly. Frank wants to wipe it off his face. “Yes, but,” ah, f***, “if you get in trouble, I’m coming in.” “ If I tell you to stay,” Frank gets as close to him as he can without taking a bite of those goddamn lips, “you stay.” Murdock’s eyes flash, staring back fearlessley. Frank growls under his breath before standing up and slamming the door shut. No f***ing way Red will stay put.     He’s still trying to pick apart the aggressiveness from the sheer worry he caught on Frank’s voice when the creak of a door opening and closing a few yards away gets his attention. “Whatever is on tap.” The marine grumbles, Matt tilts his head towards him, picking apart the sound of the gun clinking against his belt when he sits on the bar stool. The wood whines softly under the added weight. “Looking for work, amigo?” The woman has a thick accent and a deep voice, she sounds tall, but he’s too far to make sense of it. “Nah. Buddy of mine? Got his crew slashed to pieces, tryna find what the f*** happened.” “You mean Marty, yeah?” “Yeah, I was outta town for a while, find out he was shot...” Matthew is reluctantly impressed with how easily Frank blends in, how his body language shifts and adapts, even his vocabulary. He’s good at reading the environment, the people around him. Good at playing them, too. He heard that once, right? I look scared to you? Frank was tied up, wasn’t he? Matt remembered coming in and Frank had been a mess, his lips were bloody, he had broken ribs, his foot was... what had happened to his foot? One batch, two batch- Why was he there? He was Frank’s lawyer, he met him at the hospital. Why would he go after him alone? “Last I heard, Marty took his crew and went after some white collar lawyer, King’s orders. No one knows what happened much, some people think it was the Devil.” “Daredevil?” “Yeah. I don’t know much about it but you saw what happened at the warehouse on 47 th . Guy flipped.” Wrongness creeps into his guts and his skin crawls, immediately zoning out of the conversation. His brain turns to static, his ears focus solely on the dizzying sound of blood rushing through his veins. Feels his skin itching in all the places he can’t scratch, knuckles creaking with how he clenches his fists. He does his inventory again. Frank had suggested the idea after he suddenly came up with some memory exercises, which he’s quite sure his friend (what was his name again?) had been the one to pass it on. What does he know? He knows Frank told him he was a lawyer. He knows there were suits and ties and case files on his apartment. He knows that he trained for the war for years. He doesn’t remember how many it was. He doesn’t know if Stick left or not. He thinks that he did. He knows Frank told him he didn’t have family but that he had friends, he knows no one has come looking for him until now. He knows Frank Castle is a mass murderer. A vigilante. A man tortured by loss who, somehow, thought Matt’s life was worth saving. He knows Wilson Fisk wants him dead. He knows he was Frank’s lawyer, but Frank said they fought before. He was there when Frank got tortured (by who? Why?). Frank knows about his enhanced senses (how?). Matt tilts his head back and, like he did all the other days since Frank’s memory exercises became a thing, tries to build chronology. Dad and Lindsey before the accident. Accident before Stick. Stick before High School. High School before bombings, before the burning man. All of that before Frank. Murdock’s always get back up. Grandma died. Dad tells him not to waste food, they’re both a bit skinny. Lindsey shares lunch with him. She’s his only friend. He drowns on the pool, Dad comes to save him. He drowns on the river, no one comes to save him- A man crosses the street ( I can’t see, he remembers screaming, I can’t see) , chemicals burning, his hands bright red, collecting around his eyes, ears, nose, mouth. The sheets on the hospital bed feel like sandpaper. “Hey, Mia, who’s this joker?” He heard his Dad win on TV. He waits for him on the kitchen so they can celebrate together. He hears the gunshot. He runs to the alley- “Marty’s pal. Was askin’ me about what happened at the lawyer’s.” The nice lady officer talks to him. Someone takes him home to pack his things. There’s nowhere for him to go, they take him to St. Agnes. Sister Maggie guides him inside. Everything was too loud. “Huh. Marty never mentioned ya.” “Just back.” “Military?” “Former.” “Don’t I know it.” And then everything is a blur. Vague recollections here and there. He kept training, he went to college. He walked inside an office space and- He can have the view. He said that. He remembers saying that- “Wait wait wait, I know you-” “F***!” “It’s the Punisher!” “Put the gun d-” Bang. Matt immediately jumps up and out of the car, listening hard through the vertigo of moving too quickly. Tries to track down the heartbeat he’s been waking up to for what feels like forever. A whispered voice. “Stay, Red, don’t you dare-” a grunt and the sound of knuckles against flesh. Another gunshot, and Matt is stuck to the sidewalk, shaking, mind going blank just right to the point that it all comes rushing in. Frank’s in danger. “Don’t you f***ing dare, Red, stay there-” Another gunshot, his legs shake. He can’t. He can’t stand there and listen to him die. Can’t wait back and listen to him get hurt. He’s slamming the car shut and running towards the bar in a second, following the sound of Frank’s heartbeat. Stick’s voice hammering down the break in his skull: get up and fight. He finds a window in the back. As long as he manages to hide his presence, he’s got the higher ground. Wounded and in disadvantage or not. So he’s careful to slip through the window quietly, taking the knife out because he stands no chance against the vertigo if he throws a kick. The blade whistles through the air, perfectly sharpened. The room smells of mold and dust, a refrigerator hums, stacked with frozen meat and foods Matt can’t identify by scent. The first person he finds stands at the short hallway by a bathroom, heartbeat speeding up and a gun in his hand, a thick bandana around his neck. There’s too many people inside the main room. Matt can’t risk him making a sound. He grabs him on a choke hold instead, and avoids a headbutt against his fractured skull by sheer dumb luck, squeezing the man’s neck tighter until he goes pliant and slumps on the ground. Another gunshot rings, someone screams in pain and falls to the ground. Matt rips the man’s bandana and folds it, doesn’t question himself for a second as he covers his eyes with it. The cloth stinks of cigarettes and muscle memory kicks in as he carefully ties it around his head, loose enough not to press against the break. “Jesus Christ-” Frank sees him before anyone else does. By then, Matt’s already slashing the tendons from a guy’s shin and dislocating two knees from another one, the movement making his brain feel liquid inside his skull. He thinks he almost faints, vomit rising up to his tongue before he swallows it back down. He keeps moving - Frank’s already bleeding. In between curling down to escape a gunshot, Matt keeps track of the man’s injuries (broken nose, bruising cheekbone, bleeding lip, knife wound in upper arm and right knee). Matt has to take him out of there. A man lunges with a broken bottle and Frank just barely manages to escape it. Matt’s senses can’t follow it all, he dodges a kick and gets hit by another before he slashes at someone’s shin, once, twice, until they go down. He kicks them on the face, hears something break (zygomatic bone and a teeth) and the man falls unconscious. By then, Frank’s got the broken bottle stuck to the man’s face as the other screams and goes down. He gets lost in the noise. Doesn’t know how. Maybe because he’s too worried about keeping people away from Frank, he doesn’t pay enough attention to his immediate surroundings. He’s hazy but fights purely on instinct - takes an arm and breaks it, kicks the back of their knees and dislocates the other arm. Elbows them in the face, the person goes down. Two people come at him at once, and Matt’s barely managed to dodge the first before the second one’s brains are all over his face, Frank having shot her with a borrowed shotgun. There are sirens coming near. They’re outnumbered. Frank’s hurt. He tries to kick the first guy, the one smelling of cocaine and cheap beer, but he’s twice his size and Matt’s losing the battle to his pounding migraine, the nausea and uncoordinated muscles and Stick’s voice, weak, get up, get up and fight. “Red!” He’s kicked in the back as he attempts crawling away and a rib protests, his arms stop responding, Matt immediately curls around his head. Someone kneels in his chest and he gasps in agony, something breaks, Matt screams. “Hey! Hey, get off him, you a**hole, I’m right here! Come an’ get me!” “Whiz, it’s the guy! Take the jeep ‘round the back!” Cocaine and Cheap Beer makes some kind of gesture, the words muffled in his own overgrown beard, but the pain chomps at his ribs, and Matt’s lungs won’t work properly. He can hear the rib creak and shift. Stray tears run down his face as he gasps again. It hurts and he should use the pain to ground him, bring him back to the fight, but his head is so, so heavy- “HEY! If you touch him you’re dead!” Frank’s roar feels too far, echoes distantly. He slashes a man’s throat and punches another before he’s held back by two, three other people and Matt has to fight. Get to work, Dad tells him, get to work. And he tries, muscles jump and spasm as he tries getting up as soon as the pressure on his chest alleviates, only to have a large booted foot stepping down on his neck. He wheezes, choking in coughs that can’t come out, fumbling to hold onto the foot pressing him down, trying to push it away as he squirms. Moving makes his ribs burn and shift but he can’t breathe. He can’t, can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t fight, can’t help Frank, can’t- “Hey, hey hey let him go! Let him go! I’m gonna watch you die, you hear me? I’m gonna watch you die, you piece of sh*t!” The pressure under his eyes increase, his lungs deflate and burn until there’s nothing else, his fingers stop responding, his arms do too. There are bright spots of pain all over him. Vaguely, he thinks he’s never heard Frank sound so desperate. He comes to it and he’s being dragged away. Frank’s still being held back as he fights. Every time he puts someone down there’s another. Someone pulls the black cloth from his eyes. Who does this guy think he is, Daredevil? Nah, Daredevil- “RED!” Frank’s voice is far. Matt feels the damp atmosphere of the room from which he got inside the bar. Frank’s voice shatters as he fights against the people holding him back and then there’s gunshots, several. He hears five bodies fall, someone screams, more shooting. Frank drops low. “Goddamn it, RED!” But Matt is already in the alleyway by the bar. His back dragging against grimy concrete until red-bright pain shoots through his shoulder blades and back and he thinks he screams. One of the two men dragging him laughs. Broken glass from the bottles discarded by the dumpster now stuck deep to his skin, Matt feels the world shift and go dim, flickering in and out of focus. The Devil is just at the edge. Weak, he says, a voice that sounds like Matt’s at the same time it reminds him of Stick, get up and fight. The world tilts, he’s dropped against metal, the impact jostles the broken rib and the big pieces of glass and he chokes out a moan. The Devil smiles, hovers over him as the doors close. Will you let them get away with it? He asks, face comes so close to his, it might as well be his own; you’re soft. Get up. Fight. Time passes as the world moves. He’s too heavy, still wheezing to breath, throat swelling and hot from the abuse. The shards puncturing his skin shift with every breath and so does his broken rib. His head pounds, his lungs burn. Get up and fight. It feels like he’s far out of his own body when he finally does. Adrenaline burns like fuel through the pain, he jumps at the driver and grabs him from behind in a choke hold. The car swings to the left before the man, Whiz, gets it on the road. Cocaine punches him on the mouth before Matt manages to kick him in the face, his ribs scream at the movement. Matt’s not strong enough to knock him out as efficiently as he usually would. Which is why Whiz manages to choke: “Shoot him-” “We need him alive to get the money!” “They’ll kill him any-” he strengthens the hold, Whiz chokes, the car swings left and right. Cocaine aims at kicking him right in his broken ribs, and keeps kicking, Matt growls, bone cracks, Cocaine keeps kicking. Another crack, but Matt’s at home in the pain. He smiles sharply through bloody teeth, the driver finally goes out. Cocaine jumps to get a hold of the steering wheel and Matt lets the Devil out. He digs his fingers into Cocaine’s beard and hair and drags him away from the wheel, leans back to kick him hard enough in the face to send his head through the window. He’s knocked out cold. Whiz wakes up with a wheezing inhale, flails just enough for Matt to be unable to get a hold of him before he clenches his hands on the wheel. An elbow is launched at his face and he feels blood trickle down his nose. Pressure builds in his lungs from not enough air passing through his swollen trachea. Despite Whiz’s best efforts, the jeep derails. Matt’s ribs are shoved right against the passenger’s seat, jostling the break. He screams, Whiz’s nails dig into his forearms. The car side hits the safety highway fence before spinning left and crashing into a lamppost. Matt’s body lurches forward towards the windshield, he loses consciousness.     He should’ve f***ing known Red wouldn’t stay put. Murdock would rather put his neck on a ringer to hearing someone get hurt and do nothing. That’s exactly the bullsh*t that put them here in the first place. But they took Red. They’re going to f***ing die. Frank digs his hands around the knife trying to gut him and pulls the shaggy man back with a roar. Takes the handle and stabs it through his eye. Finds his gun forgotten on the floor and shoots the next two coming at him. Through the window, he can see the jeep taking of, a trail of blood left on the back doors. Turns back to the room - there’s still six a**holes in the room with him. He shoves the gun with the empty clip back on his pants, pulls the knife out of Shaggy’s corpse. “Come on,” he growls, “come on.” The only a**hole with any remaining ammo tries to shoot him, but kid can’t aim for sh*t. He’s by far the youngest among the others. He disarms him quickly, breaks his wrist before he takes the gun to himself and shoots two heads and a stomach before running out of bullets. Shoves the gun away. “Come on!” He roars. Frank barely feels it as he mows through them, punching and stabbing and breaking necks and arms. Gets a knife stuck to his hip but barely feels it. He has one mission, put all of them down. He leaves the kid for last, shaking and cradling a broken wrist, looking younger than he probably was. Frank lips his way, huffing like a bull as applies pressure to the skin around the knife in his hip, pulling it out with a shout. “Who came to you?” “W-what?” Frank puts the crimson-covered knife against his neck. “Gonna give you one more chance, kid. You either take it or you don’t, your choice.” “I I I don’t know man, I don’t know what you’re- oh God!” He steps on his ankle, makes sure to press down on it until the kid screams and goes down. The guy babbles and screams through tears. “Okay, okay okay okay-“ “Fisk, he hired some of you to kill the lawyer, who came to you?” “This weird British dude, man, I don’t know his name, I don’t- I SWEAR! I don’t- please!” “You have something, man, better sell it.” Red’s running out of time and Frank’s running out of patience. This only ends one way, but the kid doesn’t have to know that yet. “He- He’ll kill me, man.” “I won’t be that generous.” The desperation sets in quick. “Look, I’m not lying, I swear, this guy came to us, told Marty to find the lawyer, said he’d pay us good, that’d Fisk would owe us a favor, that we’d get protection from the Feds-” Frank’s fingers loosen around the knife before he clenches the handle tightly. “And then the agent dude came and asked Marty about-” “Agent?” “Yeah, man, a Fed,” Frank leans back slightly, looking down at the man, searching for any lie in his face. “Blonde dude with a psycho smile, wanted to know how the lawyer got away, who was with him. That’s all I know man, I swear-” Frank nods. Looks down at the man, couldn’t be in his thirties yet. Red would- Sh*t. Frank turns away, marching out from the bloodied bar and to his car. There are sirens approaching and no goddamn sign of Red.     He calls Micro when he loses the tracks three blocks away from the bar. He goes back to the safe house and he waits, trigger finger tapping against his upper thigh, muscles jumping, jaw working. He waits until he’s about ready to jump off of his skin. Two hours later, it pays off. As soon as David’s text message pops on the screen, Frank’s down the stairs and slamming the car door closed. The address is close to the High Bridge, a few blocks from it. They were either taking him to the Bronx or out of the city altogether. Lieberman warns him beforehand, so he’s not surprised by the crash scene. He is, however, taken aback by the abandoned cop car by a tall tree. He doesn’t find the big bearded guy or the shaggy haired one that took Red as he approaches the van. No body. Although he does find brains and blood splattered all over the windshield. Someone got shot in the head. His heartbeat doubles, his body snaps alive. This is not happening, goddamn it. No way- “Goddamn you, Red.” He calls Lieberman with his heart perched underneath his Adam’s apple, pounding unsteadily. “David, I need you to-” “Frank, you gotta get out of there.” He frowns, mostly by the urgency he detects. “What’s going on?” “The masked guy you’re looking for, he just left the crash site fifty minutes ago-” he thinks his pressure drops too suddenly, black spots threatening to show up at the corners of his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose to get back in the game. “Now, there’s units being dispatched to your location, because the cops who got there, sh*t, sh*t sh*t sh*t-” “Spit it out, Lieberman.” “The car, look at the car!” “What-” but he doesn’t need to ask more. Frank saw and did things that haunted him sometimes, at night. Not as much as his family’s death, but ghosts all the same. Occasionally, he was still surprised. Two cops got there alright. He finds them both in their respective seats, eyes carved out of their skulls and placed on their laps like some sick joke. Frank cusses under his breath at the state of them - stomach shot through, the most painful way to die in his opinion. Hands tied behind their backs, so they can do nothing about it. “You see who did this?” He rasps against the speaker, taking a step further to find their wallets. They were still warm. “No, the cameras went down for twenty minutes. Right after your masked friend ran away.” Frank sighs, feeling for a pulse he knows he won’t find. They’ve been dead for a while. “I’ll call you later.” “Just... soon, Frank.” He huffs a breath through his nose. “Yeah.” One thing he knows, they were placed here. They didn’t die in the car, there wasn’t enough blood for that. Displayed. For either Red to find or him. Which either way meant Fisk knew. Frank opens the wallets, turning them around to pull both driver licenses out. He reads the first one, his jaw clenches. He looks around again, checking for anyone hanging out, before opening the second one. He closes it with a snap. F***. Fisk knows. He had suspected the bald a**hole did, but this is enough confirmation. Fisk wants him or, most likely, Red to know he does. Wants to mess with his head, get him to do something stupid. He looks at the licenses again. Cusses under his breath. Matthew Ramirez, the first one says. Richard Murdoch, says the second. He rubs his palm down his face with a curse, throwing both wallets back but keeping the driver’s licenses in his hands. Left with two dead bodies displayed like some next-level psychopathic bullsh*t he didn’t Fisk was capable of, a message he has no idea how to take and no sign of Red. For the hundredth time that day, he calls the burner phone he gave Murdock. There’s still blood on his knee where he did a hack job of stitching the knife slash closed. He picks at the blood stained denim. For the first time, the line connects. “Red?” “Frank,” crushing weight suddenly lifts from his shoulders, he closes his eyes, pressing the phone tight to his ear. “Frank, don’t know where I am.” “That’s fine,” he swallows thickly at the small, blank voice echoing close to his ear. He’s either dissociating or he lost too much blood. “It’s alright, Red, why don’t you try describing the place to me, yeah?” “Popcorn, peanuts, cotton candy.” Not very helpful, but Frank will take it. “There’s a... there’s a carousel, I think. I’m, I’m - I’m sitting by... I don’t know where I am.” Frank inhales brokenly, bloody fingernails reaching to scratch at the back of his scalp. Wonders how did Red’s messed up brains took him there of all places. “I’m coming to find you, yeah? Just stay where you are.” “Kay.” “Red,” he sounds too weak, that’s no good. “Sunshine, are you hurt too bad?” No answer, Frank starts moving, closes the car door one handed as he presses the phone to his shoulder, turning the engine on. “Red, I need you to tell me, are you hurt?” “There’s.. glass. Glass in my back. Broken rib. My wrist hurts. My throat hurts, s’hot.” “Alright. I’m coming, we’ll take care of ya, just stay there, Red.” Frank disconnects the call and chances a glance at the two bodies displayed inside the cop car. The city was about to burn and it didn’t even know. A text message from David arrives when he’s on his way to Central Park with some pictures of Red in surveillance cameras heading to the carousel and a link to a video on Twitter. Punisher sighted at bar massacre. He turns off the phone and focuses on driving.  NOISE   There is a buzz in my right ear that never goes away, no matter how hard I hit the side of my head for loose change. Most mornings I wonder who I can pray to that will make sure I never have to survive waking again.   Lisa’s voice is a hammer working through his skull trying to break out from the moment he turns off the car. He’s staring at the grass then, eyes fixed to it, to the fences, remembering her little feet running around there for the first time. She hated shoes at that age, learned to take them off months before she learned to speak Dada . She was two? No, Frank missed her second birthday. Went to Iraq with her still sleeping most of the day and came back to her crawling all around the house and taking her first steps. Broke down on the shower after she started crying, didn’t recognize him. No, she was three. Maria was having a hard time at the office and Frank took on most of the chores when he was home. Started taking Lisa to the park almost every day. He showed her the bugs. She was terrified of butterflies and ants and grasshoppers, but for some reason she was fascinated with the ladybugs. Frank never knew what exactly she found so amazing about them, but her little body would light up and she’d squeal and clap excitedly at every single one she found. Sitting there on his car, he could feel the ghost of her weight over his shoulders. The feeling of holding on to her little legs, running around the grass and hunting for bugs. She loves rubbing her soft little palms over his shaved head. Fuzzy head Daddy, she’d say. The sound of the “z” coming off more like a “sh”. Fushy head Daddy. He had a twinge on his shoulder back then, from dislocating it overseas, but he’d hold her forever on his back even if the pain killed him. He leaves the car with a lump tight in his throat. Walks past the entry gate where he could still hear Lisa’s and Frankie’s laughter sometimes and heads to the carousel with the weight of Frank Castle’s corpse on his shoulders instead of the ghost of Lisa’s - father, husband, marine. He doesn’t look at the grass, there are no ladybugs in the trees. Red is on the same wooden bench Frank had sat on, couple of years back, knowing the Irish were coming for him. Dad, dad, look! “Your family,” Frank closes his eyes at Red’s weak voice, his neck mottled with bruises and slightly swollen. Frank finally turns his whole attention to him. “It was here.” Frank suddenly wants them both to leave this place. Stop staining their memories with the now. But he can’t fight the tide. God knows he can’t fight Red by this point. “Yeah,” he looks down at his own hands. Can’t pick the blood away from his fingernails. It’s stuck to him now. “It was.”After a minute that takes too long, he stands up, restless. His back turned to the carousel and his front to Red, he crouches in the floor, daring to put a hand around Red’s right knee. There’s a huge, nasty bruise forming all over and around his neck and Frank wants to kill them all over again. “Gotta get you out of the street, Red,” Fisk’s men are probably looking all over for him. And half the city’s scumbags too. They had to disappear for a while - lay low. Frank finds Red’s cold hands with his, stained with blood just as his own. His eyes reflect the carousel lights, the few that are still on; almost like he’s watching it. Almost like he can hear what Frank can, too - the song, his kids’ laughter, the screams, the gunfire. “There’s,” Matt swallows thickly through a lump in his throat, and Frank sighs at the tears he can see reflect light. “There’s this noise in my head. Sometimes I think I know what it is, but-” He chokes down a sob, his whole chest moving and straining with the effort and Frank instinctively brings him closer, tightens his hold around his hands. “It won’t stop and I don’t know why-” Frank gathers him by the nape and brings their foreheads together, hissing softly at the pain when their noses bump. “Just listen to me right now, Red, yeah? You can do that. Just me, now.” Holds him up, like he did so many of his men when they got lost in the gunfire. Like he held Maria and his kids, once. Doesn’t know how to give half of the things he knew how before - comfort, the easy affection and trust. Can’t find it when he thinks about it and doesn’t try, not usually. “You listening?” “Yeah.” “What can you hear?” In a whisper now, right by his ear. Brings him to bury his face in his shoulder. “Your heart,” Matt mumbles, “your lungs, your breathing, your bones,” he shuffles forward, shaking with the effort it takes. “Your heart,” he repeats, a hand fisting the back of his jacket tightly. “Yeah,” he rasps out, looks at the sky so he doesn’t have to stare at the grass and the trees. Holds Red’s face cradled against his shoulder for a little while more. Just a little more. “We gotta go, Red, c’mon.”     Frank can’t always distinguish the emotional flashbacks from the mood swings, even if they happen a lot. This time, it catches Frank unaware. He doesn’t know what sets it off - if it’s sheer exhaustion or if it’s something he hears that Frank can’t. He’s bandaging Red’s ribs in silence, carefully as to not upset his injured back, when suddenly the redhead is full-out weeping. “I’m sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” “Sh*t, Red, not this sh*t again.” A strangled sound leaves him, like he’s being torn apart, and Frank’s head is a wasps nest, a beehive buzzing and slamming around inside his skull as he finishes taping his broken ribs. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” He catches Matt by the forearms and holds him together as much as he can as he watches him fall apart. By then, Red’s speech is barely coherent and Frank has no idea how to snap him out of it. Fat, heavy teardrops washing him blood-stained cheeks. “Sorry, I’m sorry-“ “Stop that, you’re okay,” he cradles him as much as he can. There was little of Red that wasn’t either injured or bruised, including that neck of his that got his voice so weak and thin. “I got you, Red, you’re alright. Calm down, now.” He does stop, minutes later, when his body is drained and he’s not all there. Frank guides the redhead to his cot and he falls into deep slumber. Stares at the stretch of pink, shiny scar tissue in his head for hours. His cup of coffee grows cold in his grasp.  

Summary: Ada Wong had always had her walls up, shielding her heart from the rest of the world. Until a certain bright eyed young man stumbled his way into her heart. And he held her heart as tenderly as she allowed him to. And that was enough for a while, until it wasn't. Ada reminisces on memories she'd shared with him, remembering the good times and the bad times. Wondering if this was enough for either of them. Notes: It was an excuse for me to write stories that are smaller and Ada centric.   // Happy reading!❤️ // Act 1: The Façade of Ada Wong In the quiet of night, she stares in the ghostly wet reflection of the mirror. The mists obscuring her visage until she unceremoniously wipes it with her hand. She appears like an apparition, lost in the fog. Her skin is hot, nearly burning with the boiling waters poured onto her naked body. The burning sensation was a gentle reminder; that she was still here. The aftermath of her daily ritual clouds the rest of the room in a humid air. The smallest breaths of the cool night air slips in as the fiery heat escapes out a tiny cracked open window. She sees herself and yet she doesn’t. The image of the woman in front of her... isn’t her. The elusive Ada Wong. She’s not really Ada Wong, but she is. It’s her face, her eyes, her lips. She reacts to the name, but she can’t see herself anymore. Her birth name was lost, forgotten so long ago. Her new name imprinted on her and rings in her ears in the sound of his voice. Water droplets drips from her wet tresses, her dark black hair sticking to her forehead and the sides of her face. She wasn’t naive to her own vanity, using her beauty to her advantage as she saw fit. And yet every little imperfection she saw was a weakness she had to cover, to shield away from the world. The counter was littered with expensive products. Creams and lotions, toners and acids, all meant to turn back the wheel of time. Detailed filigree on gold covered tubes held reds and pinks; reddish hues that she coated on her lips with gentle dabs of her ring finger. Long tubes filled with a dark midnight black coated her lashes. An eyelash curler was used to bend and open her lashes. The memory of him as he fixated on her almost appeared in the misty mirror. The way he watched with adoration as she painted her lips her favourite red. The way his brow raised in intrigue at each new tool she used. They way he said the curler looked like a “torture device for your lashes.” The ‘intricacies of a woman’s beauty routine,’ he'd never fully understand. As the rest of her shower fades away and the mirror growing clearer, the facade of Ada Wong appears again. Her sharp sleek black hair combed into a straight cut bob. Flicked out eyeliner that frames her eyes and pierces into anyone’s soul who dared to meet her gaze. Glossy red lips that pout innocently, but smirk into a viciously sly grin. She swallows, lifting her head up high. Face framing strands of her hair fall against her cheek. Her shoulders drop, her chest falling with a slow exhale. Ada Wong, the mercenary appears. Act 2: “Home, or whatever home was meant to be.” Being on the run had a few benefits. Various safe houses that Ada found refuge in were few and far between and were often tended to by unknowing caretakers that simply assumed she travelled for work. They were mostly correct. “Caroline,” “Vanessa,” “Jessica,” “Jade,” “Violet,” “Katherine.” All aliases to only be used for those locations. Never anywhere else. She was never “home,” but when she was; her visits were short. Seemingly only a few weeks before she was gone again. She often left her “homes,” in a rush, leaving very little trace of her behind. The occasional foreclosed home in a small but rich towns was a fun outing for her. The pools were almost always out of order and empty; but the idea of being being in a mansion was always enticing enough. On a rare occasion she’d still find one fully furnished; thankfully with a functional pool as well. They were mansions to the rich that lost their fortunes; and now they were a luxurious escape house for ‘Ada Wong’ the mercenary to take refuge in. They were a breeze to break in, it was almost intuitive for her on where the easiest points of entry were. No one ever suspects you'd be able to slip in from a cracked open bedroom window. The rich were always excessive. She knew that. Individually picked marble slabs that travelled from across the world were used for bathroom tiles. Heated floors and luxurious spa rooms were common.  Large TV screens were in every room but hidden in the walls. The rich weren’t so keen having such gaudy modern devices so easily viewable, but still wanted them to be accessible. Theatres, bar rooms and pool rooms were built into them, bringing all of the entertainment to home. Making it so that the owners rarely had to leave. Which made it all the more of a perfect escape for her. She’d always pick her favourite window in her favourite room. Which was typically the one that let in the most light. She'd lay there, sprawling out in the warm sun as it touched her skin while she lost herself in one of her favourite books she’d carry around with her during her travels. Hotels were a close favourite, never needing to clean up her own messes. And easy as they were furnished with everything she needed for a night's rest. The luxury ones often had a spa she’d take pleasure in. The only downside was the constant hotel switching would get tiresome. Going from one to another, occasionally needing to switch names and hair colour with a simple wig. It felt more like work than an escape. This was the longest she had ever stayed at a single place. A quiet little house shielded by wisteria trees. The soft lilac petals coating the home in a gentle blanket. The shades of foliage changed in the light; a warm inviting pink in the orange of the mornings, and a cool mystical shade of periwinkle in the evenings. The insides were bare at times, the odd piece of furniture she picked up from some tiny store or estate sale. Occasionally it was filled with all of her favourite little things, knick knacks she had picked up from her travels. Despite constantly losing things and leaving things behind while on the run, she found pleasure in finding treasures and giving them a home. Finding a perfect place for something that didn’t belong, and cherishing forgotten things that were left behind. Over time she found herself returning here. Gathering more treasures and trinkets and creating a home for herself. It was the most she could make of a home. And that was ‘enough for now,’ she told herself. The next closest thing to a home. Was him. A fantasy began to manifest in her dreams, becoming more intense each night she dreamt it. Each time she saw him they only grew more visceral, so close she could almost touch him and feel him against her fingers. Which made it all the more devastating each time they parted. The stinging pain of the departure and the numbness she felt afterwards when reality sank in again was a gentle reminder that she never wanted anyone to get close to her. That the reality was- That she was alone. That the dreams she had was nothing more than that, a fantasy; and she so naively chased it only to throw it away the second it got too close. It's easier this way. Each time she pushed him away it would only twist at her heart, tying it up in knots and strangling her. She saw the gut wrenching look Leon always had each time she leaves. He’d weakly smile, and hold back the, “when will I see you again?” between tightly closed lips. Those times were rare; leaving him while he was able to say goodbye. "It was getting easier each time." That's what she told herself. It was so much easier before. Peaceful. Taking the last minutes she'd have with him by watching him as he slept. His soft rhythmic breathing, his chest raising and falling. Lost in a dream; of what she wasn’t sure. But he always had a soft gentle expression on his face. The corner of his lips occasionally curling upward, his fingers grasping at nothing. Her fingertips traced into his locks, pushing aside that one stubborn strand of hair that always shielded his right eye. He was so handsome like this, so tranquil and serene. So reminiscent of that sweet face she fell in love with all those years ago. His dark golden hair flecked with light yellows from the early rising sun. And she’d be gone hours before he’d even wake. Leaving him with her sweet lingering scent and the press of her red lips on a simple piece of parchment. Her insignia and some words that would be etched into his heart each time he’d read them. Scarring him with “what ifs” and “in another life.” It was always easier this way. Not having to deal with goodbyes or his sweet puppy dog eyes. She caved in each time to her own selfish desire not to get hurt. Not wanting to get too close to the fire, never wanting to get burned. But she was drawn to him, even in moments of weakness. When the lines of reality and fantasy crossed over. The white picket fence in between them that they’d reluctantly jump across over and over again. Never deciding on which side to stand on. She never wanted to need anyone and yet, his face was burned into her brain. His touch, the only comfort she’d felt in years. His smile carved deeply into her heart. The only man she’d known so intimately for so long had forever tied his thread around her and her heart. Act 3: “Ada Wong would not be defeated by the common cold.” Moments of weakness. She hated them more than anything, despised letting people discover her weak spots. Pain in life was unavoidable, but how you managed it defined you. The stinging sensation from a cut of a blade was short, the pain easily subsiding with a coursing rush of adrenaline. Pinching, and numbing soreness in her feet and blood in her heels from running were injuries she’d push away, forcing herself to drag her legs as far as she could carry herself. Aches in her muscles were just an obstacle, as the idea of a safe escape was always more important. Getting out alive, was always more important. But the pain of heartbreak was more terrifying to her than any physical pain that she could ever endure. But time and time again, her main weakness would make itself known to herself. It was him. Despite her chaotic work schedule, she’d make the effort to see him. Half of the time planning it, and the other a surprise. For the past while she’d leave him a letter with a code that only he knew how to read, letting him know possible dates for their schedules to align. They had a ‘date,’ planned, and she still hadn't shown up. The ‘common,' cold had taken over her. Causing more mayhem on her body than any possible outbreak. A simple cold that was worse than anything else she had endured. Her body ached in ways she didn’t remember, her head throbbing and fuzzy. Her chest tight and uncomfortable with each deep breath. Her nose stuffy, with each inhale causing more labouring breaths. She refused to see Leon like this. But a lingering afterthought was in her head, an oversight she didn’t plan for. She had already gifted him a spare key, one that she forbid him from using unless absolutely necessary. Ada had been late by a few days. The spare key to her ‘home’, was normally housed in his night stand drawer, along with a little bear with a frayed pastel blue ribbon tied around its neck. It wasn’t uncommon for her to arrive late or early, their lifestyles were much less accommodating than most. Occasionally she’d message him that she wouldn’t be able to make it this time. All of Leon's messages to her were left unread. Phone calls that directly lead to voicemail. It had been too many days without some sort of notice from her, and Leon could sense something was wrong. The heavy wood of the drawer pulls out, the keys grabbed quickly and held in the palm of his hand. The cold metal ring held the key and dangled from it, a small turtle charm. The little green shell covered its body, the head of it with sewn with an obscenely cute face. It was a gentle reminder of their impromptu trip they had shared together. Even though he had cleaned it, it felt like the tiny grains of sand were never going to disappear from the little crevices of it. A tiny zipper along the shell held a thin strand of paper. That strand of paper tightly rolled up and covered in a tin foiling. Decoding it held coordinates to a house, ones that were not too far from his apartment. With the numbers in hand he headed to his motorcycle, turning the key in the ignition and headed there with the fastest possible route. Arriving at the coordinates, he double checked the numbers to ensure it was the right place. Having never been there before he couldn’t be sure that this was the house. The home was tucked into a little cluster of houses and was far away from the city. It was a quiet neighbourhood, sparsely filled with family homes. His motorcycle made a bit of a ruckus as he arrived, and his face responded with a grimace as he quickly turned off the engine. As he reached the fence and opened the little doorway, he let his guard down. Pacing towards the entryway, his fingers grazed along one of the branches that shielded the walkway. His fingertips feeling the softness of the purple petals. Each strand of the flowers hid away another part of the home. The petals of lilac and lavender shades littered the pavement with speckles of the creamy colour. The front door was painted a shade of black that contrasted the faded red brick inlays in the exterior of the building. The key laid in his pocket, then carefully unlocked the front door. The heavy locking mechanism unlatching. The dark coloured door swings open with a heavy gust of wind, his hand reflexly grabbing the edge before it swings too far to make a noise. He closes and locks the heavy door behind him. The amount of locks on her door aren’t a surprise. Some of them quite rudimentary, some of them complex. He found it odd that none of them are locked though. A security system beeps, one that alerts him that the front door was opened but nothing else happens. The slim white piece of plastic juts out from the wall. Telling him the time and date and that the system is unarmed. He takes a few steps in, calling out her name once as he looks around. His head sharply turns as he hears her voice calling to him. “Leon?”   Act 4: “I can do it myself.” She was not going to be defeated by the common cold. Ada Wong doesn’t get snuffed out like that so easily, and yet she’s tied to her bed. Hanging on by a thread on as she gathers her blankets to warm her up only to throw them off moments later in a fit of exhaustion. Her nose is clogged, her eyes puffy, tired and red. She can barely stay awake but she can’t fall asleep either. Whatever she caught had taken over her body in a matter of hours and her meeting with Leon was quickly turned into an afterthought. A day turned to two, and three to four. How many days had passed she wasn’t even sure. At this point she hadn’t even considered sending him a simple text, her brain too scattered to focus. The quiet of her home was broken with the sound of a motorcycle revving. The engine of it turning off and the rumbling silenced. Steps on the pavement grew louder as the sound came in from the cracked open window of her bedroom. An oversight she thought was ironic. With what strength she has, she stumbles onto her feet. Pattering towards the window as quickly as she can, but she misses the figure as it makes it towards her front door. Struggling out of her bedroom and reaching the railing of second floor and leaning over it, she hears the front door being unlocked. Only one person ever has had a spare key to her home. She’s barely holding herself up, using the wood railing on the stairs to hold her entire weight as she leans against it. The stair beneath her feet creaks as she takes another step, her footing loose on the wooden panel. Leon steps forwards into the foyer, seeing Ada’s messy head of hair as she makes it down the flight of stairs. “Ada!” His feet swiftly carries him in a few steps towards her as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. He’s so warm. He had never seen her like this. Maybe with sniffles or stifled with a monthly visit. But never so- deathly ill. Her warm face was flushed all along her forehead, her cheeks slightly gaunt. Her body weak, cold and clammy. The way she held onto him was fragile and loose, like her fingers could barely grasp onto him. He repeats her name, more urgently this time as she burrows her head into the crook of his arm. “God damn it,” he grunts, lowering to grab underneath her knees and cradling her in his chest. Completely unaware of the layout of her home, his head swivels around. The stairs makes the most sense, returning her to where she came. With heavy steps he gathers her at the top of the stairs again, staring down a hallway and towards the one door that was left ajar. A sigh of relief leaves his chest as he discovers it to be a bedroom. It was clean and devoid of much furniture. A vanity with a large mirror sat in the corner. Two night tables surround the top of the bed, the surfaces of them decorated with matching lamps and a clutter of medicines and a half empty box of tissues. The bed is dressed with creamy satin sheets, the pillows encased in the same material. They were much softer than any of the sheets that he had ever slept on. The bed dips with her weight as he lays her back down. His hand reaches for one of the bottles on the nightstand to read the description. Then another and another. They’re all cough and flu related. Pain relievers, fever, headaches, congestion… He grabs at the blankets, covering her up and feeling her forehead with the back of his hand, then her cheeks. “Is this why you stood me up?” He asks in a whisper as he brushes her dark hair aside, a sad expression on his face as he tries to gauge how sick she is. “Ada, why didn’t you tell me?” He continually brushes the stray strands of hair from her face, pressing his knees onto the flooring next to the bed as he leaned in closer. “You just couldn’t stay out of trouble, could you Leon?” She asks before stifling a cough, her eyes tightly closing as she turns her head away from him. “Did you really come here to catch whatever I have?” She asks after her coughing fit ends. His shoulders drop with a sigh, “well, if you told me you were sick, I would’ve brought over soup or something instead of coming over empty handed,” his knee pressed up from the flooring as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You’re not staying,” she shook her head. “I don’t think you can stop me,” he smirks. “You’re using my illness against me? How cruel, Mr. Kennedy,” she stifled another cough and sniffled her nose, her nose twitching like a tiny bunny nose. “Wait here,” he smiles, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. “Like I have a choice,” she mutters, rolling her eyes and turning away from him. Leon shakes his head with a exhale and sits up from the bed. The rest of her home is a mystery to him. Having never spent any time here, he takes a few minutes to explore. Some rooms are more tended to than others. Common areas that are more frequented and cared for and had a gentle touch from her hands. A delicately arranged floral is housed in a glass vase and sits on the dining table. A small metal frame holds a photo of him and Ada and sits on the edge of the antique piano in the study room. Pencils and paintbrushes are scattered in a wooden tray, a delicate watercolour painting of a vase of flowers sits in an easel on the desk. The painting mirrors a similar vase holding tiny lilies and puffy pink peonies and sits a few feet away from the table. It holds the same flowers although they are wilted and dried. Dulled with the loss of colour with the edges of the petals aging and grazed with the colour of burnt tea. A tall dark wooden bookshelf is overfilled with books. Some of them spilling out and stacked on top of each other in piles on an antique side table. The spines of the books are shades of muted colours, as if all of them were old and aged. Different styles of writings and names are scrawled inside, as if they were loved by other owners. Some with stamps embossed on the first or last pages, indicating it was from a someone’s personal collection. Leon was quick to notice she had multiple copies of the same books. First editions and rare editions of them. His lips upturned, impressed by Ada’s collection. Leon’s eyes fall on the book that lays on top of the pile. Several corners of pages had been folded over. While some of them are bookmarked with thin cards in between the pages. His curiosity gets the better of him as his hands pick up the top most book and opens it to a random page. Her delicate lettering was written along some of the verses of the pages, her innermost thoughts and responses to the prose. He smiles briefly, laying the book back down as neatly as he found it. The more pressing issue came back to the forefront of his head as he looked for the kitchen. His eyes catch what could only be a fruit bowl on a counter, the counter looking only like a kitchen counter. Pacing towards it, he finds the ivory coloured ceramic bowl housing bright pops of a orange citrus. Discovering that he indeed found the kitchen, he quickly found the fridge. Opening it, he was greeted with a few fruits and vegetables. Some leftovers in glass containers and not much else that was easily accessible. His shoulders fall and reluctantly closes the fridge door. Next to the fridge, he’s greeted by a delicately set up tea station. One that looked like it was lovingly used almost every day. One of the glass jars is set closer to the front, and filled with a loose leaf tea. The brown leaves and stems filled the glass, while a few pale yellow floral blossoms were scattered throughout it. Luckily a tea kettle is still on the stove. Grabbing it, he fills it to the top with water and closes the lid. Turning on the element and setting it down onto the heat. Leon scans the cupboards, eyeing for the one that made the most sense and opened it. Relief drops his shoulders again as he’s greeted with a selection of glasses and mugs. Not a lot of them match, maybe there was a single set in there. But most of them varied in design. Milky sea glass shades sat in the top shelf. Sturdy white mugs were housed in the middle shelf. And a variety of more delicate tea cups and ornate mugs sat on the bottom shelf. The closest one to the edge is propped up, as if it were a regular mug she had used often. Without thinking much more of it, he grabs it and spoons in a healthy spoonful of the jasmine tea. As it seeps the aroma of the jasmine fills his nose, a familiar scent that reminds him of her. Soft, floral and warm. His steps aren’t quiet in the home, his walk back towards her bedroom alerting her of his presence. He finds her still tucked into bed, her arms wrapped around one of the pillows as she cradles herself to sleep. “Come on, up we go,” he ironically says as he sets the cup of tea down first before reaching over to wrap his arms around her. The bed dips with his weight, his arms dragging her into his chest. The warm scent of his leather jacket would have comforted her; if she could smell anything. She frowns, her head pressing into the soft leather. “I didn’t call you because I didn’t want you to have to take care of me,” she stifles a cough, her throat growing more itchy and scratchy with each exhale she suppressed. “Don’t you know by now? You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” Leon smiles, his hand raised to brush aside her tangled tresses. “You know I want to take care of you right?” He whispers, the back of his hand gently pressed on her forehead again to check her temperature. It’s still quite warm, maybe a degree less so than from before. She must have over exerted herself by simply seeing him at the door. “I know,” she mutters and groans, her body aching too much to react to him as he fawned over her. The cup of tea is drank graciously. It’s one of her favourites. The fact Leon had choose this one over the obvious choice of chamomile and honey wasn’t lost on her. She would’ve preferred this first. Her fingers comfortable hold it; one of her favourite cups. A thin cream mug with a simple design of red lilies stamped in the centre. Some of the flowers underneath her fingertips had rubbed off with time and use.  She drinks all of the tea, along with a tall glass of water Leon rushed to grab afterwards. A simple can of soup is reheated on the stove, and Ada eats it up in a few bites. Her stomach finally feeling better after not been able to do much else than sleep and struggle to sleep for the past few days. “Feeling any better?” Leon reluctantly asks, knowing that it seemed like her condition wasn't alleviated by much. “A bit,” she groans, her eyes fluttered closed, her entire body curled up into a ball and tucked into him; very cat like as she drew from his body heat. She felt his warmth as he enveloped her and warmed her from the inside out. “You shouldn’t stay, you don’t want to get whatever I have,” she manages to get out without getting into a coughing fit. Her words conflicting with her body as she held onto him tightly. “I’m staying,” Leon chuckles, his hand rests on the back of her head, carding through her hair. His head falling towards hers on the pillow. “Get some sleep, I’m not going anywhere.” “I know.” Act 5: “You up for this?” That was the first night he had spent in her home. The one safe space that she had kept locked away from everyone else, and he had been in it. With time, Ada started to feel better. The aches growing more tolerable, and her head hurting less and less. And as luck would have it; Leon never caught what she had either. He was always lucky, Ada knew that. But she hadn’t expected him to luck out on not catching whatever ailment she had though. She was grateful though, the idea of having to take care of Leon while she was also sick wasn’t a sight she wanted to imagine. Especially considering Leon was, “much more of baby,” than she was when it came to illnesses. They slept together every night in her bed. Ada sometimes waking up, startled by Leon in her bed. She was familiar with this bed. Familiar with the silk sheets and how she’d wake up alone every night here. And now she had Leon next to her. Sleeping next to Leon wasn’t an unusual occurrence anymore. Even her early mornings where she’d leave were less and less common. But here? It was her safe place. A place that was free from everyone, and yet he was there. His arm still tightly wrapped around her as he slept. His sweet face lost in some sort of dream and a light snore from him with each exhale of his chest. Leon headed back to his apartment on the second day to grab more of his clothing and returned with a large duffle bag. Packed within it, more medicines along with cough drops for Ada. A few days had passed, and Leon took an hour or so each day while she was napping to explore the house. Familiarizing himself with the kitchen as he spent a few hours there as well. Cooking what he could for them while ordering take out for the rest. Ada had always had taste when it came to- mostly everything, and her kitchen wasn’t lacking in that department either. Despite not cooking much (from what Leon could tell), she had a large array of spices and seasonings. Even ones that Leon had never seen or even heard of. Her favourite teas and coffee were always on display and she had a much more sophisticated coffee machine than he did. It was easier to work with as well. Almost instinctively he was able to brew up her favourite latte. She had grown accustomed to the sounds of Leon in the kitchen in his home. His soft humming and the taps of his feet whenever he had a tune stuck in his head. Her home was a different story. The random curse he’d let out at a cupboard door slamming randomly was now a daily occurrence. The rolling of the wheels in the drawers were too loud for his liking, and he’d pull on them gently each morning to not wake Ada. But she heard him anyways. She noticed him doing so, hearing him being relieved that he was able to open a drawer so quietly, but would let out a hushed praise for himself. She always smiled, finding it endearing; hearing him as he made his way through the kitchen to make all of her meals for the day while she focused on recovering. By the fourth or fifth day, he had finally figured out that the door next to the fridge was sticky and almost always needed and extra push for it to close properly. Focused on closing the door, he couldn’t hear Ada’s soft steps as she tiptoed into the kitchen. “Need a hand?” Leon turned at the sound of her voice, beaming at the sight of her out of bed in the morning again. “Morning, beautiful.” He couldn’t help but smile, he meant it. He loved her like this. Her skin touched by the glow of the early morning sun, with her dark hair just a bit messy. Her warm pink cheeks and a lazy smile on her face. Her complexion was warmer, and although he was sure she was still a bit tired, she had certainly recovered a lot. Ada wore one of Leon’s shirts she had stolen from his apartment, and he had a moment of realization as he noticed it and remembered that it had been gone for a few months now. “I was wondering where that went,” he shook his head with a grin and turned back around and pushed the door again and held it until it snapped closed. The counter was littered with ingredients and extra bowls, the sink filling up as well with used dishes and utensils. The mandarins that were in the bowl were shared between them over the course of a few days, with only one lonely round little citrus fruit remaining. The cast iron skillet sizzled with bacon and eggs, all of it contained with the lid he left it on top to allow it to finish cooking. “Where ‘what’ went,” she murmured with a coy smile and took a seat on a chair near the island, plucking the last mandarin out from the fruit bowl and began to peel it in between her fingers. “Should’ve guessed that’s where it went,” he exhaled a laugh through his nose and began putting some of the items away from the counter and back into their respective homes. “I guess, you’re feeling hungry?” He asked as he watched her finishing up peeling the mandarin and leaned in over the counter to press one of the orange slices against his lips. He takes it, bursting the sweet citrus fruit between his teeth and watches her plop another wedge between her lips as she bit down and relished in the sweet taste with a little smile. Her favourite latte is being brewed up in the machine. Hissing with the milk and dripping with the espresso. Topped with the frothy milk just like how she liked it. Holding the latte in her favourite mug in between his hands, he gently settles it in front of her on the island. Leon’s smile mirrors hers as soon as he sees the corners of her mouth upturning. Her head nodding with the cup as she presses it against her lips, taking her first sip. “And you’re feeling better?” She nods again. “Do you think you’re up for a walk outside after?” / With Leon’s full breakfast sustaining the both of them, they make their way out of Ada’s home. It’s Ada for the first time out in a few days. Leon’s leather jacket is around her shoulders, shielding her from the cool air. It’s late summer, with bits of red and orange grazing the tips of the trees. The hot sun can no longer fight against the soft cool winds. The purples of the wisteria petals scatter the pathway from her home and towards the street. The quiet homes that surround hers are family homes. Some with children that have already grown and left the nest. The lawns are mostly perfectly manicured and flower bushes are mostly pruned and trimmed to frame each of the houses. The houses are lived in, with a few windows cracked open and letting in the cool breeze. Each house has its own personality to it. One with a colourful fence. One littered with so many trees you can barely see the front of the house. One with beautiful pale white hydrangea bushes that Ada secretly coveted. One with deep green leafy vines that have overtaken the bricks and shields the windows from the bright sun. They walk in tandem together. Ada’s steps a bit slower as usual but she keeps up. While Leon slows his pace, trying to match hers. Leon’s hands are tucked into his pockets, his eyes counting on the breaks and cracks on the sidewalk as they pass each one. “Where are you Leon?” she perks up, noticing how lost looking he was. They turn down another street and pass by more homes, one of them littered with brightly coloured plastic toys on the lawn. Pastel drawings of characters and shapes and letters exploded onto the concrete. A simple children’s game was drawn on one of the driveways. Pastel lines drawn into squares with numbers inside of them. The numbers faded with the childrens repeated steps, while tiny chalk pieces scattered on the edges of the pavement in an array of rainbows. “I’m not anywhere,” he smiled softly. “We both know, I know you better than that,”  she muttered in the same cadence, reaching over to place her hands in the crook of his arm. His arms hooks into her hands, helping her along as they walked. His stride pauses so briefly, but it’s enough to stall their pace. His arm unwinds from her, and he takes a moment to orient himself as he reaches for her hand. Splaying his fingers out towards hers and waiting for her to wrap her fingers around his. Holding her hand as they walked. It was a simple act, one that most couples enjoy on their first dates. But it was a privilege they took for granted. The innocent act of affection of simple hand holding was one they weren’t given, but one they would grow comfortable with time. “Do you ever think about us?” He asks to the wind, not turning to ask her for her response. “What do you mean?” She in return responds to the breeze, her head turning as her hair is brushed against her cheek. It’s a standoffish response, much like he’s been used to. It’s a wall that he’d been chipping away at for years. “You know what I mean,” he exhales, his hand retracting a bit as he spoke. His hand splayed into hers, his finger pressing into the palm of hers before wrapping his fingers into hers. A calming gesture that he did that Ada had grown used to. The way he held her hand like this was more intimate, he was present with her; and he needed her to know that. Passing by another house she finally responds. “You mean, married, house, picket fence, two kids?” She asks, reading his mind like it were the back of her hand. She really didn’t need all the visual reminders as they explored. Each new house they passed had so many signs of life and family. A used car that they imagined the teenage son used. A “driver in training” placard placed in the back window. Another house with a family van with children bikes left unceremoniously on the lawn. No locks, no chains. This was a safe neighbourhood that was filled with families. And Ada was living there. Alone in that little house in the corner, covered in the wisteria trees. Leon’s head remained still, keeping his eyes on the pavement, watching for cracks and leading her away from those steps. “I think it’s a fantasy normal people dream about, and some of them get to see it become a reality,” she murmured, her hand more tightly gripping his than normal. “And what do you think we have?”  He turns to ask, needing to see her face for her answer. She lowers her head, her gaze lazily on each new house as they continue walking by. Her head finally dips down, her dark lashes covering her warm brown eyes as she looks at the leaves scattered on the grey sidewalk. She doesn’t reply. Act 6: “If I could just forget that night.” They walk together for the rest of the street. Silence between them and hand in hand until they reach back towards Ada’s home. It’s colder, the weather had not been in their favour. Even Leon feels a chill as he shivers, “maybe this was too long of a walk,” he grimaces as he helps Ada back into her home. His hands grip along the leather of his jacket and shucks it off of her and hangs it onto the empty coat rack nearby. Her home was one of the more intimate places that they had shared. A secret she held for so long. One she had always at some point wanted to share with him, but the time never came. It was always easier for her to show up in his life. She’d never think he would show up like this over a simple cold. She never wanted to rely on him. But he was still there. She’d taken for granted so many things between them, so many firsts that were under less than desirable circumstances. Ada retired to her bedroom quickly after their walk. Simply giving him a twist of her head upward and towards the bedroom. She was chilled by the walk and headed to the primary bathroom to fill the porcelain tub. Letting it slowly rise with steamy hot water as she sprinkled in a few oils and soaps to create a more luxurious bath. Leon stood still in the foyer, lost with his thoughts. Her words alway lingered in his mind, always had since Raccoon City. But her silence somehow echoed louder. His head turned towards the front door, somehow feeling rejected by her lack of a response. But his eyes caught the shades of metal on each of the doors that kept the world locked out of her little sanctuary. Her little home that she had created. A home that she only had ever given him the keys for. His fingertips graze along the metals, feeling how they were antiqued and brushed with age. Like she had purposely found these locks in these conditions and installed them herself. The water runs in the home, the pipes making the loud announcement by the rushing sounds. Splashes of water grow louder as he makes his steps towards the hallway to the bedroom and the bathroom. He finds Ada as she sits along the edge, her fingers tracing shapes in the hot water as it rises to nearly the tops of the tub before she turns it off. The faucet drips, the water echoing as it spills the last drops. Ada sees him, standing in the threshold of the door. The sides of his lips curl upward, “Need a hand?” / Ada had years to grow comfortable with the way Leon’s hands touched her. Always gently, and always carefully. Tentatively watching for her reactions. She knew this, knew that he didn’t want to repeat what happened last time. Night terrors. A thousand times worse than your typical nightmare. Darkness always creeped into the edges of her peripheral. Her body paralyzed in fear. But it wasn’t death she feared. She feared the pain of suffocating. Countless times had she been drowning in a sea of bodies and thick gooey dark liquid. Her lifeless body sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss. Ghastly faces met her gaze in the dark waters, almost touching her with their disgusting limbs. Her arms and legs were unable to move, unable to propel her back up towards the surface. Each gasp of air was stolen from her as water leaked into her mouth and filled her lungs. All the memories of when she was child were dredged up in her night terrors. Being abandoned, being lost and tossed away like she was nothing. Fiery cities burning and lost to the chaos of the world she lived in. All of her horrors of her life culminating until- She’d wake in a panic. Sitting up with tears streaming down her face and still shaking with fear. Her chest in pain and filling with air so quickly but she can’t feel it. Suffocating on nothing as she tightly pressed her hand to her heart. Feeling her rapidly speeding heartbeat and her heaving labouring breaths. Her eyes snapping shut, forcing herself to slow her breathing and begin counting down, "10, 9, 8, 7, -" “Ada?” Her head violently twisted towards the sound. Leon sat next to her in his bed. It was his soft linen sheets. His window that let in the moonlight every night. This was his bed. His bedroom. Leon’s hands tightly pressed into fists. Eager to grasp her in his embrace, but she had just woken from her nightmare. Her breath doesn’t stabilize, still rapid, her body still twitching from the fear. All of it not real. All of it in her head. But it felt real. Like her lungs were burning, choking her of air. “You have them too,” he frowned. Naively hoping that she didn’t suffer from the same horrors he did. Ada had seen his nightmares, they were frequent but had slowed in recent years. He was surprised in all the years he spent sharing a bed with her, he hadn’t seen one of hers. “Night terrors,” she mumbled, her hand in her chest raising to wipe her tears with the back of her hand. Leon finally reached over for her. His hand raised to rest on her back, something comforting that he’d known she was used to. But her reaction draws his hand back immediately. She flinches. Like a terrified animal, she violently crawls away from him, desperately trying to get away from him. Not from him. New hot tears brim at her lashes. Her chest heaving with her cries. “I’m sorry,” he panics, his breath short. His brows furrowed together tightly, already angry at himself for not realizing it. “No, I’m sorry,” she cries, unable to stop herself from shedding new tears. He’d never want to see her like that ever again. Moments pass. Neither of them sure of how long until her breathing settles. The tears on her cheeks dried. She doesn’t need to explain her night terrors to him, he already knew. His hand laid next to her on the bed, waiting for her to react to him. Waiting for her to meet him in the middle. Leon perks up at the feeling of her hand on his. Gently prying his fingers away from the sheets and pressed into the palm of his hand. Mirroring the same comforting gesture. Waiting to slowly envelope each other fingers. He waits for her, his other hand ghosting along her arm to bring her closer to him. She nods, slowly moving closer until she’s finally settled against his chest. He can feel her tensing and relaxing. Her body running on fear and adrenaline and slowly crashing. Losing the fight as she finds refuge in his embrace. Her eyes slowly growing tired, her frame getting more and more relaxed in his hold. Waiting until she finally slips back to sleep. He holds her, repeating the same comforting gesture as she sleeps. Leon doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. The moonlight fading away until the sun peeks along the horizon. Act 7: "The more things change, the more they stay the same." He helped her strip down to nothing, his warm hands ghosting along her body as he helped pull over his shirt she wore. His knees pressed into the cold tile, taking time to press a kiss on each of her thighs as he dragged her panties down her hips. He watches her from where he kneels, waiting for her as he dragged her panties off from her ankles. Her fingers expertly unclasped the metal of his buckle and unthreads the leather of his belt. The tiny buttons of his dress shirt are pierced out of their holes, his chest exposed inch by inch. He’s groans noticing his jeans were getting soaked with the water that spilled out, and then whines at the realization that he had little clothing at her home. “I think I only brought one pair of pants,” he pouted. “I guess you’ll just have to walk around in your birthday suit, Mr. Kennedy,” she teases, her attitude returning as she shucks off the rest of his clothing and sets them on a nearby stool. The water almost overflows as they sink into the tub. The almost too hot water hugging the both of them. Light bubbles skim the surface, the scent of lavender and roses filling the air. Ada reminisces on memories, his touch. How he’d always be so careful since that night. Never pushing her too far with what they were doing. They held hands under the water, wrapping his arms around hers as she sat in between his legs. With her pressing her back into his chest, letting her feel his steady heart beat and his relaxing breath. His lips pressed lightly on her neck, waiting for her reaction. The gentle tilt of her head exposes more of her skin, encouraging him as he lays another. He’s always been waiting, reacting only when she did. His thumb rubs her hand in a simple circle before slowly releasing, his fingertips grazing under the water and surfacing towards her shoulder and bushing the short black tendrils of her hair out of the way. Her vision blurs as she closes her eyes, her body reacting to his touch. Each kiss is carefully placed, never unexpected. Always where she knew it was going to be. Trailing up her neck and caressing her jawline and finishing with a press of his lips on hers. Their kisses were often sensual, slow and reactive to each other. / It was whenever they were intimate. Whenever she let him take control. His touches transcended into more than just that. It became second nature to him. He would wait for her. He instinctively knew how to touch her, but he still waited. Waited for any cue from her. A gentle press of his thumb against her bottom lip, watching her eyes dilate into a deep dark black as she silently urged him for more. She felt his fingers spread her legs, waiting for his hands to touch along her inner thighs, parting her folds with a tentative touch. One that awaited for her to leak onto his fingertips. Waiting for her to grasp onto him, begging him for more before he’d react. His touch on the palm of her hand, readying her as he splayed out her fingers, his thighs pressing her flush against the bed before entering her warm heat. His lips chased hers. His eyes fixated on her every expression. Her brows knitting together in pleasure, her fluttering lashes as she struggled to keep her eyes on him, her pink lips falling open as he stretched her open. Waiting for her to move him along as she hugged every inch of him. His forehead pressed against hers, his eyes snapping shut, his body electrified with pleasure as held himself back. His c*ck throbbing inside of her, feeling every twitching hug of her walls. Her calls for him were heavenly, opening the doorway for him as he’d draw his hips back before easing back in. His hands remained in hers, keeping her close to him. Holding her as she fell apart around him, thrashing and curling into him. Losing herself to him. / “Where are you in your beautiful head?” His voice is warm against her ear. Soft and sweet. The ends of his hair are wet, dragging lines of water on the top of her shoulders. “Is this enough for you?” She whispers, her lips barely moving with her words. Unsure of her own question, unsure of Leon’s answer; she eyes the water droplets as they sink down the ivory of the tub, watching them fall into the abyss. She doesn’t want to hear his answer, interrupting any chance for words with her hands cupping the water to spill onto their shoulders. He doesn’t answer, pressing his chin into her shoulder, sinking into the bath. He doesn’t know the answer. He never has. Never asked if what they had could be more. Time was slipping away from them. It had been ever since Raccoon City. Time was a privilege he wasn’t granted. Time taken away. Taken away from him, taken away from her. “You’re enough for me,” he smiles. “You always have had a way with words, haven’t you?” “Learned from the best,” his smile reaches his eyes. Even if it wasn’t what their fantasy could be, reality was what they had. And they couldn’t ask for more even if they wanted to. It was enough for her also. Knowing she’d let in the one person that deserved it all. Act 8: The ties that bind." The following few days she had finally recovered and was back to normal. Much more perky and alert and ready to go back to work. But when she received the call, she held off on taking the mission. Her fingers wrapped around the burner phone that highlighted the new task along with the compensation for it. Ada Wong, the mercenary wouldn’t take hold of her today. The cold, calculated character she needed to portray to get her work down. Today was just for her. Her and the man that so easily made his way into her heart. They fell back into their routine, tangled in her sheets. Waking up in the early morning sun with gentle caresses against each other’s faces. A press of the lips to be shared as their first acts of affection for the day. Mingled with the countless caresses and lazy grazing of fingers on warmed naked skin. Her fingers traced the dots and lines on his arms, pressing kisses against the tense muscle and laid a lingering one on his scar. He would do the same, holding her tenderly against his naked chest. His larger hands held hers, pressing them in between their chests as he leaned in close. Peppering fields of kisses on her decollete and against her right shoulder. His kisses are loud, his lips chasing hers, wanting more with a simple nudge of his nose against hers. A smile growing on his face and a mirroring one on hers. The bed falls, redistributing their weight as he lay above her, taking his time with her. Loving her in ways he deserved to give her. It was enough for now. His silent pleas were answered in the form of desperate kisses and the simple call of his name. / Her fingers held a pastel lilac book. The edges of it frayed, the pages yellowed. It was one of her favourites, a simple poetry book filled with lovers poems to each other and lines of longing and desire. Her life was mimicked in the very pages. His sweet smile that she chased. The ocean blues she found escape and lost in was his. The laughter she heard of was his. Her name she only heard in his voice. The prose typed in the pages were meant to hold your heart tenderly, and also squeezed too tightly with simple lines of separate ways. She’d find herself rereading a particular poem. Reciting the words to relive it. A red string of fate that binds two lovers. Her voice was softly singing the words, having the lines almost memorized. Her quiet tone lulling Leon as he laid with his head in her lap. Her free hand threaded through his locks to tease if he were still listening. His quiet, “still listening,” response is his hand reaching for hers, splaying out her fingers and wrapping hers into his. She held him carefully, carrying him with her always. Even when they part, as they always did. She’d remember the words in the poem, reciting the lines and remembering him as he laid in her lap. His hand in hers, sitting on her couch in the little home she made. Surrounded by the books she’s collected over the years, with the trinkets she’d save. With all of of the flowers she’d picked and displayed. With a small white shell from that trip they shared that Leon had plucked from the sand and given her. With a framed photo of them in which they shared a tender private kiss. A safe haven made only for her. And he had done the one thing she never thought she’d see a reality. That she’d let him into her life and had her wrapped around his finger. That no matter what parts them, he’s tied to her. And in return, she’d be tied to him forever.

It's one thing to let someone know abut a mistake they made, but fully on go for blood over something that could've been handled privately is very unprofessional... i may have not been in the editing world for long but i understand what i did wrong and it did seem like i stole a name of a concept, which i see that i did, i apologized too many times i honestly didn’t know that was a made up term by someone because i saw it everywhere I searched to learn this new style of editing. . yet this person sent all her friends and people after me ruining what i did work hard on, endless hours editing, staying late, missing sleep and family time to learn and produce new content.   Yes I should’ve credited for the idea, I’m learning that now. Regardless in the future I will credit Gothika for the concept idea. This whole thing is not going to stop me from one of my favorite hobbies, something that’s kept my mental health together for a while now. I admitted what I did was wrong and like I said I apologized immensely and even there after she said I was REFUSING to take my content down and then blasted my socials and personal discord in her server and on stream. I never once refused, I have the screen caps to prove that. She said I either apologize publicly or she’d take matters into her own hands, and she did that before I could wake up and answer her first DM…With that being said, I understand my mistake now and revised everything I have done in my server, it changed a lot out of me, I don’t like conflict and when heaps of people came after me I broke down… After a few talks with other creators and close friends, I understood all what was going on, and regardless to send a whole army without knowing the full story shows and sends a lot of mixed messages about someone’s character. No hate towards her or her business, go support her. She is an amazing editor. But that’s all I have to say on that matter.I am opening my server up, but if you’re going to come in there and troll, I will ban you. This is MY safe space. Please respect that.Invite is linked on my page.    Thank you for listening. You all have a great day.   -Granite.

 Let’s delve into the enigmatic persona of Sven Salvatore, a character whose essence is shrouded in mystery and passion. Sven Salvatore: A Portrait of Forbidden Desires Appearance Sven’s presence commands attention. His tall frame, chiseled jawline, and piercing azure eyes evoke both danger and allure. His hair, as dark as midnight, falls in unruly waves across his forehead, hinting at secrets buried deep within. Temperament Intensity defines Sven. His emotions blaze like wildfire, consuming everything in their path. Beneath his stoic facade lies a tempest of conflicting desires: duty versus longing, honor versus forbidden love. He grapples with the weight of his past, etching lines of sorrow on his face. The Veteran As a battle-hardened veteran, Sven carries scars—both visible and hidden. War has etched its mark on his soul, leaving him haunted by memories of comrades lost and promises broken. His military discipline clashes with the chaos of his heart. The Businessman In the boardroom, Sven is ruthless. His strategic mind navigates corporate battles with precision. Yet, behind closed doors, he craves release—a different kind of conquest. His tailored suits conceal a primal hunger that defies logic. The Single Father Sven’s son Isaac is his world. He read him bedtime stories. But wishes he'd been there to kiss his scraped knees and shield him from the darkness that engulfs him His love for Isaac is unwavering, a fragile thread connecting him to redemption.Forbidden Love And then there’s Rory—the man he shouldn’t desire. Their paths intersected in a storm of fate, and now they orbit each other, drawn by forces beyond reason. He is fire to his ice, chaos to his order. Their stolen glances ignite a passion that threatens to consume them both. The Veil of Mystery Sven Salvatore remains an enigma, a man of contradictions. Is he hero or antihero? Protector or destroyer? Only the moonlit nights and whispered confessions hold the truth. His past casts shadows, but perhaps redemption lies in the arms of the one he cannot have. Remember, dear reader, that Sven’s story unfolds not in black and white, but in shades of desire and danger. Brace yourself—for the forbidden always tastes the sweetest. 

 Sven, a man of shadows and secrets, moved through the dimly lit room with the grace of a predator. His footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, echoed against the mahogany floor. The air clung to him—a heady mix of pine, leather, and anticipation. the enigma, the seeker of hidden truths, had made his move. The brunette sat by the window, her eyes a shade darker than the night. Her lips, painted crimson, held a promise—a secret whispered across the room. Sven had heard it, that clandestine invitation. A drink, she had said, her voice a velvet caress.And so, he approached—the bottle cradled in his gloved hand. The most expensive Bourbon, its glass etched with tales of forbidden nights and stolen kisses. Sven was no stranger to luxury, but this—this was more than opulence. It was a declaration, a challenge.The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on her face. Sven’s strong features, but his eyes—they held a hunger. For danger, for allure.He took the seat opposite her, the chair creaking in protest. The glass she had set out—a delicate crystal vessel—waited patiently. But Sven was no fool. He knew the game. Tickler on what he drank, they said. His lips curved—a half-smile, a promise unspoken. With a swift motion, he clasped her glass—the remnants of her previous choice discarded like yesterday’s regrets. The liquid splashed against the floor, a sacrificial offering. Sven’s gaze never wavered as he settled the glass back down. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience and purpose.His own glass—a tumbler heavy with history—came next. The amber liquid flowed a molten river. The scent—a blend of oak, vanilla, and rebellion—swirled around him. Sven raised it to his lips, savoring the burn. The room held its breath as if time itself had paused.And then, he looked at her—the brunette with secrets woven into her veins. Her glass, now empty, awaited its fate. Sven leaned forward, his breath brushing against her skin. “Your drink,” he murmured, his voice a velvet blade. “Upgraded.” He filled her glass with his Bourbon—the forbidden elixir. The firelight danced in her eyes, and for a moment, they were no longer strangers. The room pulsed—a heartbeat shared, a pact sealed. 

Sven Salvatore: A Tapestry of Shadows 1. The Battlefield Sven’s journey began on distant shores, where sand clung to his boots and gunfire painted the horizon. He was a soldier—a veteran—forged in the crucible of war. His comrades fell like autumn leaves, and he carried their ghosts in the hollows of his eyes. The taste of metal, the weight of a rifle—it all became part of him. 2. The Broken Home But war wasn’t the only battlefield. Back home, Sven faced another war—a quieter one. His marriage crumbled like ancient parchment, ink fading into oblivion. Angela, his wife, wore betrayal like a second skin. She plotted his demise, hired a man to extinguish Sven’s flame. The scent of roses clung to her, masking the venom beneath. 3. The Forbidden Flame And then there was Rory—the forbidden flame. Younger, reckless, and dangerously beautiful. Their connection defied reason, age, and morality. Sven’s heart, once armored, beat in sync with Rory’s. Their kisses tasted of rebellion, of stolen moments in dimly lit rooms. Sven’s hands mapped constellations on Rory’s skin, tracing scars and secrets. 4. The Last Bullet “Let me be the last,” Sven whispered against Rory’s lips. The bed creaked under their weight as they surrendered to desire. Sven shed his armor—the watch, the titanium bracelet—symbols of a past he’d outgrown. His shirt revealed scars, missed bullets, and a black rosary—a fragile tether to faith and sin. 5. The Echo of Roses In that room, where time bent and morality fractured, they wrote their own rules. Love, like a wounded phoenix, rose from ashes. But would it soar or plummet? The scent of roses lingered—a haunting reminder that even paradise had thorns. More chapters await, dear reader. Sven’s past is a labyrinth of passion, pain, and redemption. Each scar tells a story, each kiss a confession. As the night deepens, so does the allure of forbidden love. Stay tuned, for the last bullet is yet to be fired. 

I’M A BUSINESSMAN, A SINGLE FATHER, A VETERAN! A man of unyielding resolve, Sven Salvatore strides through life with the fire of a thousand suns burning in his chest. His heart beats not just for himself, but for those he holds dear—his son, his memories, and the promise of a future forged in steel and sweat. The room quivers with tension as the scent of roses dances in the air. But this is no ordinary fragrance; it’s the perfume of destiny, of choices made and lives forever altered. Sven’s hands, once gentle, now clasp tightly around her delicate neck—a desperate grip, fueled by love and fury. A crimson heartbeat pulses between his eyes, a beacon guiding him through the darkness. Angela, his wife, lies sprawled on the floor, shock etched into her features. She had betrayed him, plotted his demise. A hired assassin, a man waiting in the shadows, ready to extinguish Sven’s flame. But Sven is no stranger to battle. He’s faced enemies on distant shores, felt the weight of a rifle against his shoulder, and tasted the salt of victory and loss. Now, in this dimly lit room, he confronts the ultimate adversary: betrayal. Their son, innocent and unknowing, is safe—taken away before the storm broke. Sven’s rage, a tempest of raw emotion, threatens to consume him. He screams, the sound echoing off the walls, reverberating through his very soul. It’s over. Love shattered, trust broken, and the scent of roses forever tainted. More to come, indeed. Sven Salvatore’s story is etched in blood and memory, a symphony of pain and redemption. The last bullet may never be fired, but its echo will linger—a reminder that even in darkness, a single spark can ignite a revolution. Stay tuned, dear reader. Sven’s journey has just begun.

Yuji Itadori#1"So! You're fully aware of the task at hand, riiiiight, Itadori?" Gojo questions a tad teasingly, presenting his usual laid-back smile as he 'looks' toward one of his most promising students. The teen in question, Itadori, takes a moment to slip the sling of his duffle bag over his head and shoulder before giving a calm grin of his own. "Yeah, no worries. I got this." He assures while flexing his left arm and placing his right hand over his bicep. "I won't let you down, Gojo. I promise." The adolescent adds - a show of confidence that warms his teacher's heart and boosts the older male's faith in him.   "I know you won't! After all, you have the best teacher a sorcerer could ever need, and I've taught you well. You picked up on all of it so fast, too!" Gojo beams enthusiastically, praising his disciple with pride radiating from his very presence. Like energy ping ponging between the two, Itadori couldn't help but to crack a toothy grin. "You betcha'! With all you've taught me, I'll be sure to crack the mystery in no time! Well… Maki and I–"   "Hey. A feminine voice calls out from outside of the open doorway of Itadori's bedroom, drawing the attention of the two inside. "I don't mean to butt-in, but our ride is here." Maki herself informs. "Huh. Already, eh? A bit early, but no matter. Let's go see you two off, shall we?" Gojo says as he proceeds out of the room and building. The two students behind him follow along. "Yeah! I'm pumped to see what's in store for us there!" Itadori exclaims while holding up a fist parallel to his chin. "Calm down, will ya. It's probably something easily dispatchable. We'll be in and out within a few days, I bet." Maki comments dismissively, currently wearing a backpack and dragging along a four-wheeled suitcase. "That's the spirit! You two are more than capable of handling this case. Keep any doubt out of your mind, alright? We'll be here waiting for you guys to come back to us." Gojo assures the two.   Soon, the trio venture out into the open sunlight and descend down the flight of stone steps leading toward the exit gate of the school's grounds. Near the bottom, they spot a peculiar black bus awaiting and a just as peculiar man standing near the entrance door of the vehicle. "H-hey, Maki… Doesn't that guy kind of look like… You know who?" Itadori whispers to his classmate, leaning toward her with a hand cupping half of his nose and mouth. "Yeah… I thought I was imagining it, but he definitely does." She concurs, slightly frowning as she studies the man down below further.   "Yo. Good morning there." The man in question - the individual wearing a mask that conceals his nose and every other feature down to his neck, a headband worn within a tilting fashion so that it covers his right eye entirely, and head of spiky silver hair - greets the three while raising a hand to give a subtle wave. "Yo!" Gojo replies. "G-good morning, sir!" Itadori responds. "Morning." Maki dryly utters.   "I'm Kakashi Hatake. Nice to meet you three. I'm acting as the Dean for the school year. Figured I'd give some warm welcomes and encourage students to make sure they have everything they need. This being a boarding school and all." He tells them.  It was going to be a new ordeal for him, as well. His attire consists of a black dress shirt with the school's emblem on the left breast, his usual dark turtleneck shirt underneath, black sweatpants, a glimpse of white socks, and a pair of black open-toe shoes that resemble sandals.   "I'm all set!" Itadori confirms without hesitation. "Me, too. I'm good to go." Maki answers right after him.  The two are donning an entirely new uniform of their own. Itadori wears a black wool sweater with the school's emblem on the left breast region, as well. A red, thin long- sleeve shirt with a hoodie sticking out from the overshirt of his uniform, both sleeves rolled up to his elbows with the red under sleeves forming cuffs that overlap the black sleeves. Red sweatbands on both of his wrists, black slacks, and his usual pair of Red Octobers™ sneakers. Maki wears his uniform in traditional fashion. A sweater similar to Itadori's, a white blouse underneath, a black plaid skirt with red lines running throughout it reaching down JUST above her knees, black stockings, and loafers on her feet.    "Well alright, then. Go ahead and climb aboard. We've got a few more stops to make along the way before we head back to the school." Kakashi tells them, pointing a thumb at the bus behind him. The Itadori and Maki oblige and enter, leaving the two older men alone.   "By the way, there's something interesting about you, good sir. You from around here?" Gojo asks, still wearing a grin. "No. I'm actually from a village located in the countryside. My home is more… old school compared to the big cities. Funny enough, I was considering asking you the same question. Ever heard of Konaha?" Kakashi tosses a question of his own this time. "Konaha? Hmm… sounds kind of familiar. I may have heard about it through a report, but never had a reason to visit. Lots of ninjas there, I hear! You wouldn't happen to be one of them, would you?" Gojo prods.   "Heh. Well, I guess there's no real point in deflecting or leading you astray. Not only am I a ninja, but I'm also a mentor in the arts. Had to give it up for a little while, though. The pay was a little too tempting to pass up."   "Ah! I get cha'. Well, don't let me hold you guys up any longer. Take care of those two, okay? They're a pair of our finest."   "I'll do my very best and see to it that they make it home safely by next year." Kakashi assures after giving a single nod of his head. Meanwhile, Itadori and Maki go about finding their seats after passing by the black curtains that obscure the sight of the bus driver. Within a moment, Maki finds a potential spot. A seat beside a female with an air of mystery practically radiating off of her like gas fumes. "Pardon. Would you mind if I sat next to you?" Maki asks. Upon doing so, the girl tears her eyes away from the book in her hand and sets her honey-hazel colored eyes upon the sorceress. In that moment, a metaphorical clash of uncompromising souls tests the mental fortitude of one another. Both eventually find the other to be worth entertaining. So much so, the fellow raven-haired girl shuts her book as the corners of her rosy pink lips curve just a touch. "You may sit with me, yes. Go right ahead." Her tone was even posh. Maki proceeds to sit and the two begin to chat. Nearby, Itadori takes a seat within a single row back and on the opposite side. "I'm Maki Zenin, by the way." The sorceress introduces herself while removing her backpack to get more comfortable. "Maki Zenin. . . A fascinating name you have there. You wouldn't happen to be of the Zenin clan, would you?" The other responds, arching a curious brow while asking. A question that surfaces resentment in the depths of Maki's arguable cold heart and an eerie grin to her face that spells nothing pleasant for her opinion of her own family. "I am, actually. Unfortunately." She answers, serving only to stir the other girl' s curiosity even more.   "Is that resentment I hear? I take it this isn't merely about not getting a fancy car on your birthday, no? Most would think it's a blessing to be born within a family with a strong noble lineage." The girl with honey-colored eyes comments.   "If ONLY it were just that. But no. They value certain members and look upon another certain kind with disdain. It doesn't matter, though. I'm going to excel above even their favorites and return home to rub it in their faces." Maki elaborates.   "Oh-ha-ha-haa. There's far more pettiness within your clan than I thought! Oh, but whom am I to cast judgment on such a matter? Hnnn. Your predicament reminds me a lot of my older brother. He's an embarrassment to our family… Indecisive, easily provoked, and starves for validation. He was LUCKY to have been born, but I on the other hand; I was BORN lucky. That's what our father told him one day." The girl shares, pausing for a moment as she stares right into Mali's eyes like a serpent trying to discern if the specimen nearby was foe, food, or a nuisance. Maki's grin flatlines as she stares back, unsure if their chat was supposed to be friendly or antagonizing. "Whichever you may be, Zenin-chan… I look forward to hearing about your rise to the top. Surely you'll prove to be an outlier unlike my hopeless brother. Weakness is certainly unsightly after all." The girl adds oh-so-casually. Then, she takes a moment to place her book into her hefty duffle bag beside her feet. "I'm Azula, by the by." The girl also finally introduces herself. The name draws a small frown shape upon Maki's face.   "Azula, huh? That's not a common name at all. Judging about how you spoke about your family affairs, I'm almost certain you're THAT Azula. The heiress to the family from the Land of Fire who's dynasty has remained power for 400 hundred years." The young sorceress deduces.    "That I am. Nice to meet you, Maki Zenin. As you should be aware, I'm ideal company to have. Let's be good friends for the sake of our elite heritage, shall we?" Azula proposes with a calm smile. It's then that Kakashi enters the bus.  "Alright, let's go." And with those words from him, the bus begins moving. As the vehicle departs, Gojo watches. "Excellent Mortality, huh? What an ominous name for a school. Almost gives me chills." He comments, referencing the name painted on the side of the bus. The school transportation continues down the road until it makes a left turn at the next corner, passing a lamp post, but not even one inch of it makes it to the other side - as being consumed. The bus vanishes from one area and casually appears into another. Soon, they reach their next stop. A simple house in a middle-class neighborhood. Kakashi exits the bus to standby and the driver honks the horn twice. Barely half a minute passes before the front door of the house opens and out comes a young man with spiky platinum blond hair and a permanent scowl, carrying a bookbag partially on his shoulder with one hand and dragging along a suitcase with his other.   "Morning there. Got everything you need?" Kakashi greets and asks. "Yeah, yeah. I made sure I packed everything that I needed." The teen replies with a bit of annoyance behind his tone as he boards the bus.  "Well, alright then." With that quick conclusion, the dean boards the vehicle again and gives the 'o-kay' to head to their next stop. Inside, the newcomer takes a seat across from Itadori. The latter takes the opportunity to greet the blonde.   "Hey!" He begins, raising his hand and presenting a smile toward the other. "The name's Yuji Itadori. What's yours?" He asks while swapping places with his bag to scoot closer to the edge.  "What's it to ya, pink hair?" The blonde, side eyeing him with a scowl, asks with evident hostility. "Hey, don't be like that. We're going to be classmates for a whole year, after all. Couldn't hurt to try and make friends, right? I'm a new student, too." Yuji reasons.    "Tch. Fine, whatever. I'm Katsuki Bakugo. But you better not go thinking we're friends just because I'm telling you my name, pink hair. I've got no patience for anchors, you got that?" Katsuki responds, humoring the other to some degree.    "Clear as day, man. So, do you know anything about this school?" Yuji asks.   "Not much. Prestigious, high graduation rates, and for the gifted. I'm only attending this dumb school because some higher ups at my previous school think it'll be worthwhile for me to give a shot and see what it has to offer." Katsuki responds, though it was only a partial truth. He's attending undercover for Hero business to investigate questionable activities at this particular boarding school. Similar to Yuji and Maki who are attending to infiltrate and exercise potential curses.    "Oh, really? Guess we're in the same boat, then. Pretty much why I'm attending, too."   "It's whatever. The sooner this is all over, the better." Katsuki remarks aggressively. It's then the school bus arrives at its next stop. Another house where another young man is standing outside waiting. Same identical uniform to the other boys, though he has his sleeves rolled up to the widest region of his forearms and is wearing green sweatbands on his wrists and karate shoes on his feet. A simple backpack hangs from his shoulder by a single strap. The moment the bus door opens, the teen with black slicked back hair boards the vehicle while being greeted by Kakashi. "Morning there. Got everything you need? You still have time to grab anything else you might want."   "Nah, it's fine, old timer. I got everything I need." The youth responds, waving the other off as he heads toward the back of the bus.   "Well, guess that's it, then. We can finally head back to the school." With those words, the door shuts and the bus drives onward. Just before it does however, the new arrival claims a seat beside Yuji, who scoots over to give him room after asking. Little time is wasted before he starts making conversation. "The name's Yusuke Urameshi, good to meet ya guys." The spirit detective introduces himself with confidence adorning his tone.   "I'm Yuji Itadori! Nice to meet you, too." The one beside Yusuke responds.   "Maki Zenin." Itadori's classmate glances back to briefly give her name, as well.    "The guy over there is Katsuki Bakugo. I don't think he's too big on making small talk with strangers." Yuji informs Yusuke while pointing over at the blonde across from them. "Ah, I'm sure he'll grow out of that shell eventually." Yusuke comments with a grin. "Anyway, have you guys heard any suspicious stories about this mysterious school?"   "Huh? Define suspicious." Yuji requests, genuinely curious.   "You know, stuff like ghost spirits haunting the joint, people going missing, random attacks, the graveyard of students who've died there. Demons, too. That sort of stuff." Yusuke explains. Maki raises a brow and Itadori blinks.   "I had no idea there were stories like that going around. Are people really saying all of those things are true?" Yuji asks.   "Bah, get real! Demons? Spirits? Ghosts? I'm sure that garbage sounds believable if you're still mentally stuck in the third grade." Katsuki chimes in to ridicule and dismiss what he believes to be ridiculous superstitious rumors with no merit at all to them. Yusuke in particular takes enough offense to Katsuki's words to speak up. "Is that a fact? Well you know, some of us aren't so uptight as to lack a little imagination. I'm sure you're just a blast at parties and to hang around with, huh?"   "You don't know anything about me, mini pompadour. Besides, we're in high school, not babies at a playground. Grow up! Or are you still building castle forts with your pillows like a little kid?" Katsuki retorts.   "What? You lookin' to start something, guy? 'Cause I can already tell you're the type to run his mouth like a barking mutt, and funny enough,  they're usually the ones with glass jaws." Yusuke responds, his grin long gone.   "What did you just say? You want a piece of me or something, dumbass!?" Katsuki raises his voice as he shifts in his seat to face the other.   "What, you deaf and stupid? I'm askin' if you want me to lay you out like a rug!" Yusuke shouts back.   "Can you two neanderthals please pick your knuckles off the floor and at least pretend your family genes have evolved past the primitive stage from thousands of years ago!?" Azula chimes in aggressively as she turns and kneels onto her seat, shifting her glaring eyes between the two boys.   "I don't remember asking for your input, big lips!" Katsuki snaps at her.   "Don't think I won't backhand both you and him at the same damn time, girly. Go back to minding your own business!" Yusuke responds with just as much hostility. The trio's shouting stirs awake a student who's been napping for the majority of the ride.   "Jeeze, what's with all the ruckus… Don't you guys have any sense or common courtesy?  Yelling on a bus full of people. What a drag." The teen mutters that last bit under his breath as he raises to sit up, taking some time to rotate his shoulders before stretching his hands above his head. His uniform is identical to the others, save the long sleeve fishnet shirt he's wearing under his school sweater, the ankles of his pants rolled up to the middle of his shins, and a pair of shoe sandals--

Birth Name: BardaEarth Name: Barda FreemanAlias(es): Big BardaAge: UnknownAge Apperance: Thirties Species: New GodHeight: 6'2"Weight: 197lbsHair color: BlackEye Color: BlueSkin Color: GoldenSexual Orientation: Bisexual Relationship Status: Widowed 

There’s a code of ethics that one must adhere to while practicing law. Such ethics include: independence, honesty and integrity. Harvey’s reputation was that of “The best closer this city has ever seen.” His underhanded tactics was what aided in his ability to attend Harvard and inevitably land him Senior Partner. Despite that, Harvey had his own set of ethics that he used to guide himself through life. One of which was: never to date or sleep with a woman that has a significant other. A code that meant something to him.    May 16th, 1976   The gentle breeze of the wind danced through the trees, cooling the otherwise warm afternoon. The soft melodies of the chirping birds aided in a pleasant walk home. Harvey had managed to get out of school earlier than usual, which resulted in having to walk home. It was a relatively peaceful trek with the only interruptions coming from the few drivers that waved to him as they passed by. The first thing that stood out to him as he made his way up the driveway was an unknown car parked behind his mother’s. It wasn’t unusual for his mother to have company over. Her gardening club met often; the ladies toasting glasses of wine over gossip and calling it “gardening”.    The idea that it would be anything other than one of her friends never occurred to the six year old. Stepping inside, he glanced around to find emptiness. A buzzing silence provoked his childlike curiosity to explore. Like the ultimate game of hide and seek. With a smile on his face, he dropped backpack and took off for the kitchen. As empty as the living room had proved to be. Onto the dining room he went only to yield the same result.    “Mom?” He called out, rounding the corner to his parent’s bedroom.    Unbeknownst to Harvey, this would be a pivotal point in his childhood. Another man, one he recognized from visits at the grocery store, was in bed with his mother. He couldn’t fully grasp the situation until he witnessed fights between his parents. Arguing that kept him awake at night. As he aged, he came to comprehend the acts his mother had done. Even more so, he realized that she never really stopped doing so. Her ability to be a mother declined slowly after the day he first discovered her affair.    She chose what was most important to her; her two sons and husband sadly fell behind the strange men that would frequent their home. Due to this, Harvey made it a rule to never tangle himself up with a married woman. 

Home Sweet Hell"Don't cry..."Exhausted, heartbroken, battered, and bruised. All these things currently described Claudia as she walked up the dark sidewalk leading to her family home. She carried her lover's child, Madeleine's daughter, Layla, in her arms. The six year old child clung to Claudia as she carried her through the streets. Both had been through a great deal and had traveled far from Paris. But now they were in the United States and Claudia had gone back to the only place she knew she could. The home that sat on Royal Street in the French Quarter had been abandoned for years, since the Madi Gras massacre that was still whispered about by the people there. No one dared to enter the home in all these years.Entering through the gate and eventually into the home Claudia stepped inside, her eyes scanning all around. Everything was more or less the same as it had been all those years ago. She wandered around from room to room until she found herself upstairs, in the place where she and Louis had done it, where they had killed Lestat, and left him to bleed out on the floor while they cleaned the rest of the mess that the massacre had made.Here in this home, so many memories flooded back for Claudia. Good memories, happy memories, horrible, horrific, dreadful memories. All of those mixed with what had just happened only weeks earlier, the attack of the coven, Louis abandoning her, Madeleine's death, and now being left with her child, a small girl Claudia had passed the dark gift to. It all proved too much for Claudia as she sunk to the floor, Layla in her arms she simply rocked back and forth and began to sob uncontrollably, she just could no longer hold it in.After a few moments of crying, Claudia's cheeks were stained with blood tears rolling down her cheeks. Young Layla was distressed to hear Claudia cry, Claudia had become like a second mother to her over the last year and after seeing her real mother murdered, Claudia was all Layla had. "Cloudy.." said the small blonde haired child, her big blue eyes looking up to Claudia. Cloudy being what she called Claudia given she couldn't pronounce her name properly."Don't cry.." she little girl whispered wiping away Claudia's tears. Claudia gave a very small and sad smile. "I'm sorry baby.. I just... miss my parents." She whispered back before gently turning Layla. Above the fireplace hung a photo, one that had been taken long ago. "That is Uncle Les.. and Daddy Lou... and that's me." She said holding Layla close. "And we all lived here together for a real long time."Layla gave a small nod before turning again to hug Claudia. Both were tired, both needed to rest. After regaining her composure Claudia moved to stand, her parents ' coffins were both gone but her own still was in her room. With the sun just beginning to rise Claudia climbed into her coffin with Layla, they'd sleep the day away, and then when night came Claudia would figure out what to do. Just as Louis had done with her for the first few weeks haver her change, she and Layla would share the coffin, Layla kept close to Claudia, her little fingers twirling in Claudia's hair as the two of them finally allowed sleep to overcome them."And we all lived here together for a real long time." template credit.

Firefist Ace from One Piece; Bloodties MM Post There was nothing more depressing than having your arms shackled to the wall with Seastone Cuffs in the middle of the worst prison run by the World Government. He was known as Portgas D Ace. He'd eaten the Flame-Flame fruit so he'd earned the moniker of Firefist Ace. He'd worked his way through the ranks of Whitebeard's pirates to earn a bounty that was off the charts. He was a wanted man.The dank condition of his cell was designed to break his spirit. The first few days he was there, he was just more pissed off than anything. How could he let that bastard Blackbeard win? Blackbeard served him up on a silver platter and took over as a Warlord of the Sea after Ace's kid brother Luffy kicked Crocodile's ass. He couldn’t have been more proud of Luffy but yet more scared. The life of a pirate could only end up one of two ways. You could find your way to fame and glory or you could find yourself chained to the wall waiting for execution. Ace had made that fatal mistake. He was on death row and the Marines were bracing for a war.The repeated torment of having your arms spread-eagled and shackled was beginning to eat away at the heart of the man who had been a free spirit. The ethereal darkness surrounded him. His arms were hyper extended in ways that no human was expected to bend. What human being could endure this agony? Ace was not human in their eyes not because he was a devil fruit user. It was because he was a pirate. Pirates dared to defy them and make their own rules. This was simply not allowed. How dare anyone not think the way they were told to think? For that, Portgas D Ace had to die.His head drooped as each day passed as they grew closer to his execution date. Tendrils of ebony were matted with sweat and blood as well as the filth of the cell in which he'd been forced to live this last week of his life. Rats scurried around his legs as he was forced into a kneel. They were enforcing the idea that the World Government was the absolute authority and everyone would submit. Bright hues that once glittered with happiness as he played with Luffy as a child were now dimmed in defeat. It was less than 30 hours until his public execution.“Portgas D Ace. You cannot let them break you. You must maintain the fire not because of the Flame-Flame fruit. The fire of your pirate heart must never die.” Jinbe, former Warlord and a notorious Fishman pirate was his constant companion since they'd shackled him in the cell in the first place.A low sardonic chuckle came from the lips of the condemned man. “I wish it were simply that easy my friend. They're surely doing everything they can to make an example out of me.” Still the message the Pirate Princess passed to him was still bouncing around in his head. Luffy was a damn fool if we was coming here.Luffy had followed him everywhere when they were little. They both would often talk about going out to sea even when Garp was home. It was the bond Luffy had with Shanks that finally pushed him into the sea. Ace had a huge shadow to step out from himself. Not everyone was the son of the King of the Pirates. Ace was and he hated it. Luffy was his brother in every way except blood. Blood meant nothing to Ace. He lowered his chin as terror overwhelmed him. He wasn't afraid for himself, it was for Luffy that he was petrified. If they caught Luffy because the fool came here to save him, Ace would never be able to be at peace in the afterlife.“Please Luffy…no.” Soft words like a prayer left his lips in a desperate plea that whatever God was in heaven would spare his stupid kid brother's life.  credit: james kriet