Sinners International

He wished it was more easy to relax.

Sure, there was something to be said for the state of hyper-alertness that he couldn't seem to shake; the way he tensed up with every car that passed, fixed each that showed the slightest signs of slowing with a gaze made intense by desperation... it could easily aid his chances of survival, but it wasn't helping his nerves.

He probably shouldn't have laughed at the man when he prattled away in his typical eager-to-please Japanese, asking if sir would like anything to eat, to drink, if sir would like a place to store his jacket (even though the chill wind of evening was already starting to blow); that, if anything could be done, to let him know. The boy sat through that, somehow. Preoccupied, probably. Half-listening, focused on some other place, some other time, wondering when he made that wrong move.

How he had become so utterly, inescapably, trapped.

When the man returned again, hovering with servile anxiety, it went less well. He asked Colin the same thing he'd asked, in turn, of every other errant diner; who went without enjoying themselves, chatting amicably with those seated across from them, devouring their delicacies and entrées, for longer than the carefully judged minute or two the staff were permitted to allow. A simple question. He probably shouldn't have laughed. It went against all that he'd learned. He was supposed to be quiet, invisible, forgettable, but those words...

It gathered in the sky, the grey drifting, thickening, closer. It pooled on the table that the man kept trying to fill, drops of water on glass reflecting setting sunlight. It clung to the uneven surfaces of the black wrought-iron chair he uncomfortably reclined against, back to a brick wall, suffused by the smell of wet building-side. He could open his mouth and taste it, the chill of the rain. Why would he want water when it felt like, with a deep enough breath, he was going to drown?

His fingers trailed through puddles as he waited, the coldness clinging to his skin. He--by definition--didn't know who he was looking for, so he looked for everyone. They should have given some kind of code--I'll be the one in the red cardigan, in the brunette, in the old lady that's just a little too typical to be real--but there wasn't time. The man who could have been his friend had wanted answers that he wasn't allowed to give--not then, at least; not there--so they'd agreed to meet here. He'd demanded it. He'd been ordered to demand it. He'd been told Victor worked better with faces.

So of course his couldn't falter.

There was a part of him that thought that this should frighten him; that was continually surprised that he'd been able to get this far, to bluff as much as he had, with as much success. It was a small part, though; more an observation than a fear. In truth he was just numb. He'd given up hope of getting out of this, of anything, his hopes and fears and dreams submerged while he danced to the marionetting tug of thing that knew his life, his soul, better than he knew himself. All he had left to do was play his part.

As if he could escape it.

For not the second time, not the first, he thought he saw Victor approach--but at the last second he, the latest in a long line of nondescript men, swerved away and joined some fellow waiting compatriot for the joys of some overpriced and overprepared vaguely european dish or other. Colin's eyes slid off each when they didn't quite reach him, they inevitably veered. He wondered if Victor was coming at all. He wondered what he'd do if he didn't show.

He wondered what he'd do if he did.

They'd parted as... something, hadn't they? They were supposed to mean something to eachother, even if it wasn't much. They'd faced something. Been through something, together. The sort of thing that was supposed to, to forge bonds, wasn't it? But he left. He severed those bonds before they'd really started to form, because that's what he did, that's who he was. When he thought of Victor, when he looked at all these people that Victor might be, they were nothing to him. He only saw strangers.

And, because of that, he began to realize just how easy this would be.

But then another man approached, one that zoned right in on him, one that met his eyes and looked so happy, with his hair rustling and his scarf waving. The breeze was picking up and it chilled him more as he sat there, his back to the wall, a street over each shoulder, seeing everything, in control of nothing. He saw that face filled with nothing but honesty and concern and genine warmth, so eager to please; a face that he'd soon have to betray.

He gave a smile that, because it had to, managed to stretch to his eyes.

"Hello."

You don't know.

The meaning of the word.

Pain.
 
Words: 850
GP: 17

He wondered if someone had died. The sky was overcast, and it always seemed like overcast skies meant funerals. The street lamps were coming on early, flickering off just as quickly as their sodium orange-cast lamps started shining. It wasn’t dark out, but it wanted to be. If Victor were superstitious, he would have called it an omen. But he wasn’t, so he called it what it was: sweater weather.

The concrete glistened in the sporadic glow of the early afternoon street lamps. Neon signs in windows flickered invitingly. The sky itself was lighter in some patches, and that too was reflected in the street. It was as if someone had poured a bucket of chalk on the asphalt and sidewalks, letting it run amok.

Few people inhabited the sidewalks, afraid, it seemed, of the impending shower. But that’s all it really was going to be, a shower. Sure, some spots of the sky were darker than others, but the storm was directly ahead, black clouds bombarding some other part of the town. Victor watched the storm intently for a few minutes, nearly stumbling over a mailbox that had been nailed down to the sidewalk. Embarrassed, he glanced around, but nobody seemed to see him. The only other person nearby seemed just as fixed on the storm as he was.

She wasn’t tall. Average height, nice build, judging by the fit of her clothes. She had a wild wave of rich, brunette hair that reached down past her shoulders; it reminded him of an angry sea. She didn’t seem to notice him as he approached, then slowed. Suddenly realizing he had nothing particularly clever to say, Victor glanced at the store window next to her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face—there was always the chance that first impressions were wrong, and that wouldn’t do. Unfortunately, her hair was just as rich at the angle he saw in the window. Victor caught only a glimpse of a chin, part of her lips, and the tip of her nose. He liked what he saw.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and he almost melted right then and there. “The storm, I mean.”

“I suppose it is,” murmured Victor, sidling closer to her.

“It’s coming closer.”

Surprised, Victor cast a sidelong glance at her, trying to appear nonchalant. “Really? I’d heard the weather saying it would pass us by. Scattered showers, that’s all. Nothing major.”

“Things change.”

Victor looked back at the storm. It didn’t appear to be changing course. “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” he said, a hearty chuckle in his voice. The woman—she was next to him now—said nothing. For the briefest of moments, Victor had the sense that he needed to be somewhere, but couldn’t remember where or why. He shrugged it off. “Or, I guess, maybe they don’t. I dunno. I never was one for philosophy.”

“No,” she laughed—and he felt like he’d been waiting his entire life to hear her laugh—“I bet you were, once upon a time, but you’ve hidden that part away.” She turned to face him, and, to his surprise, she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was still… “Someone I cared for once told me that you are what you hide. Maybe you should bring the philosopher back.” She turned, starting to walk away. Something inside Victor said he should reach out, grab her by the hand, ask her name, her number, anything. Something else said the conversation was over. And then she looked back at him and smiled.

“Maybe things will change, after the storm.”

Then she was gone.

Colin. Shit. I forgot all about our meeting!

Victor jogged down the street, his patchwork scarf trailing behind him. When he rounded the corner, he spied the café Colin had mentioned, some snooty-looking European affair, where waiters went by monsieur. Colin was sitting there too, his back to the wall, looking away from Victor, and, it seemed, for him. The man grinned mischievously, briefly musing that it might be fun to sidle up to the boy while he was looking the other direction, clasp his hands in front of his eyes, and say “guess who?” Then, frowning, he thought better of it. He wasn’t a sixteen year-old girl after all. That said… Victor rolled his eyes skyward for a moment, imagining turning into a sixteen year-old girl just to mess with Colin, but decided against it almost as quickly.

Refocusing, Victor strode confidently over to the boy’s table, passed it, spun around as if he’d almost missed, pulled out the chair in one smooth motion, and sat down. Before addressing Colin, Victor glanced up. The sky seemed to be clearing up! She’d been wrong after all. Victor grinned at Colin, who… what, was that surprise on his face or something? Had he been expecting someone else? Victor shoved this momentary paranoia aside.

“Yo. So just what is it you decided you wouldn’t be telling me over the phone?”

You don’t know

what you hide

what you are

there is no beauty in your scars

854/17/32

He was perfectly personable.

"I don't know who's listening, I can't take chances."

His lies made perfect sense.

"Look, you were serious before, weren't you? About all the... I don't know why you came here, but this isn't about me. I'm not asking you as a friend, understand?"

There, just that much condescension, that touch of wounded pride.

"And I don't," his brow furrowed with anger, with disgust at his own weakness, "I don't want to waste your time if I have this wrong but I believe we have a common interest."

"You did mean it, didn't you?" he asked again as he looked into Victor's eyes, looking for something solid, something he could hold on to without admitting he needed it, without admitting he was anything but fine.

"What you said to me before?" A lost little quaver shaved years off his voice, betrayed a touch of vulnerability, a need for validation behind his tough-guy act.

Of course, it was all an act.

"That people who do those things to other people deserve to die. That you'd help kill them." His hand shook, and he only half knew why. He looked away, his voice quieter. "I hope you weren't lying, because I found more."

He could hear thunder in the distance, closing in, and it wasn't a surprise. This was a storm that had been coming for a while, and today was the day it struck. He could almost see what it would be like, on the other side, once his obligations were fulfilled.

Of course, maybe the man was lying. Maybe he'd just kill Colin, when all was said and done.

Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

"Not just one person this time, not with powers, but a whole... I don't know, conspiracy? A gang? It's... bigger than that, it's hundreds of people, it's... I don't know how far it goes. They control everyone. With drugs, with money... not just the normal ones, but people like us. They use us and they tear us apart."

Like she must have been torn apart.

There were two kinds of daydreams; one with her, and one without. One happy, and one realistic. There was days where he couldn't believe she died. Where he wanted to look for her, where he pulsed his power across the whole of the city and found nothing and gave up and had her ripped from him all over again. There were days when he dreamed she was alive, and because of them he hated waking up more than anything else in the world.

If other people knew him--and none did--they might ask why he did this, why he didn't decide to be a better person and take that stand again, keep on doing what was right.

He would answer that he had to respect her memory.

He had to use the only gift she gave him.

He had to stay alive.

"I've seen it."

That meant so many lies.

The rain broke while he talked, and he reached up without missing a breath and shaped his power so the rain slipped around and beside them but never quite landed, mouthed off about statistics and freak wind patterns, air pressure differentials from overhanging eavestroughs when the theatrically concerned serving-man brought him something that might have been food, changed subjects effortlessly and enthusiastically whenever another patron ran by, huddled under coat or jacket or frantically-unfurled umbrella.

In this way, through a patchwork pattern of obvious deception, Colin unfurled the story he'd been fed with a confidence and professionality he'd never had while being honest. He talked about monsters kept in chains, about children abducted off the streets, powered people--more powerful than him--held in thrall through substances he hadn't been able to get close enough to learn more about without trying himself. Even the energy that poured from him was surer, springing whiplash-quick to his command.

"Well?"

He waited. He hung his head.

"I don't know what to do, alright? I can get close, I can gather information, but... who the fuck am I? What the fuck can I do? They'll kill me if they even know I exist. And I think they're watching. That's why we're here. It's harder to eavesdrop in the rain."

"I don't... know people. Like us. I just keep to myself and hope everyone else will leave me alone too. It works better than you'd think." A lie. "But I can't anymore." The truth. "I can't just sit by and watch this happen. You taught me that. And I don't know anyone else. I don't have anyone else to call."

"Please tell me you weren't lying."

We deny

A new beginning

Words: 777

GP: 15 (32)

It was a rainy night in California, an odd sort of Weather for LA, but it fit the mood in the bar quite well. Feric was spending his layover brooding over a beer in a classy little watering hole called 'Lux'. And as he finished off his second beer, the already too familiar face of the barman came back polishing a glass. “Another pale, sir? Or would you prefer something else?”

“Beer's fine.” He answered with a small wave, thinking over the last week. News was still streaming in from overseas about the 'disaster' that struck Karakura and whatever the long term implications might be. The city had apparently begun the rebuilding process, but a decent chunk of it was still.....

Feric sighed, looking over the room. Alcohol was supposed to make you forget this shit. He wasn't even there for the main event, having learned his lesson about going back to Japan shortly after his first visit to Japan. Never going back. The fact that it's prone to explosions is reason enough. Which is a pretty little lie he's been telling himself since the Invasion happened.

Invasion. He reflected, savoring the word. I wonder how many people know, or even suspect? More than a few, but not many are going to raise a fuss probably. That's how these things normally go. Then again, it could be that this will snap a few people out of their comfortable ignorance and take a look at the world hidden from them. He wasn't sure which one he would prefer, since he would much rather be happy and ignorant then a part of the world he was dragged into.

“You seem lost in thought.” The Bartender remarked as he slid the freshly filled mug in front of him. “Mind sharing your burden? Or is the cross you bear a private one?”

“It's not the sort of thing I'd feel comfortable sharing, Sam.” Feric answered easily, looking at the bartender. “I honestly don't know where I'd start if I did.”

“Well, maybe a friend then? I do hate seeing people unhappy.”

“Don't really have any of those.” He answered uncomfortably, flinching as Sam gave him an all too encouraging clap on the shoulder.

“Well that's the solution then! Make a friend! Have an Adventure!”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not?” He questioned with a shrug. “I mean, I'm just a bartender. I get people drunk and make them happy. We're currently only partway on one of those right now.”

“What if I don't want to have an adventure? What if I want to have a boring weekend on the beach?”

“Life's for the living. If you don't want to get out there and experience it, then what's the point?”

Feric took a long slow pull of beer while pondering that rhetorical and watching the news. Scenes from Karakura playing again, before after and during. “Hell of a thing that happened over in Japan, eh?”

“I heard tell that some consider it one of the worst things that's happened since the second World War. Planning a trip?”

“Maybe when Hell freezes over.” He answered with a weary sigh. Suddenly his phone started beeping. “A missed call?” He held the phone up to his ear, listening to the recorded message. Which didn't do much to improve his mood. “What the hell? Was.... Victor? Why the hell did Victor call me? And why the hell did.....”

“Friend of yours?”
 

“Something like- No actually, nothing at all quite like that. Victor's someone I met recently.”

“And he's someone you like?”

“He's a thing that happened to me.” Feric responded diplomatically. “And now it looks like he's gearing up for a sequel of sorts.” I owe him.... He owes me for not shooting his smug ass and leaving him in the desert. He shotgunned the rest of the beer down and went to look out the window at the rainy streets outside, only to realize-

“There are no windows.” Sam spoke suddenly answering the question he hadn't asked yet. “People come to bars to get away from the troubles of the world. So I made mine a little more removed than normal.” He began wiping the bar again as he continued. “So I'm guessing your relationship with this Victor is... complicated?”

“Complicated like a brick to the head.”

“Complicated like- what?”

“He's headache inducing. My real question is how he got-” His blood freezes mid realization. “..... How he got my number. I never gave him this number.” He thinks harder, looking back. “I haven't given anyone this number. I've been avoiding people since-”

“The incidents connected to Karakura town.” Sam finished for him, and the tension in the bar suddenly jumped by a lot.

“What.... what do you know?”

“More than most, less than some. Whatever answers you're looking for aren't going to be found here, looking into a mug. They're going to be found out there, beyond that door.” He finishes with something less than a dramatic flourish towards the door.

There's a long moment of silence as he thinks it over. “What do you reckon the weather's like in Hell?”

“In my experience, Hell's exactly the sort of place you don't want it to be.”

After a long moment, Feric dropped some money to cover his tab, and the walked out the door with a nod of thanks. Maybe Sam was right, he needed a friend. Someone he could talk to. Talking to the Bartender certainly didn't hurt anything. As he stepped out the door, he pulled out his phone to call his travel agent, and was halfway to booking a new flight when he saw that California looked a lot different than when he went into the bar. The sky looked a bit lighter, and the air was a bit cooler.

The fact that everything seemed to be written in Japanese was also a hint.

Spinning around back towards the bar and seeing his luggage laying on the side of the road where the door should be, he spun around in a circle, trying to find an answer to questions he was still forming in his head.

Hell's the sort of place you don't want it to be. I wonder what my Hell would look like.....

And seeing a nearby Cafe, he knew part of the answer.

A man he unfortunately knew sitting at a table with four chairs, with another man sitting opposite. One of the empty seats just so happened to be pushed slightly away from the table, and nobody watching him or it. A simple step and he was already sitting comfortably, watching him finish another phone-call.

“So.” He began slowly, looking from behind his sunglasses. “Is anyone going to tell me why I'm here, or is Victor just prank calling people today?”

Hell is other people, I believe the saying goes. Victor seems an appropriate place to start.

"If that's what it takes."

Not even the best liar in the world could have called him dishonest. Those words were everything. If it meant taking this man and his honesty, his earnest friendship, and trading it for a life, well.

What other choice was there?

He'd said he'd survive.

He didn't break promises to the dead.

Now how did he... right, just this much desperate gratefulness in his eyes, in his smile, before the wall of pride that was barely make-believe slammed back down. Let Victor think he was getting somewhere. Let him think I have a soul.

That was step one.

"I'm glad to hear you've still got your wheelman. Will he be long?" Shit, was he shaking? "I hope he's not holding a grudge about that phone." He leaned over casually, with a confidence and surety of motion he sure as shit did not feel, a maneuver he'd practiced endlessly for days because the voice that spoke through machines told him it would be necessary, and plucked the phone from the passing waiter's pocket, stilling the breeze from his grasping fingers, flipping it flashily through the air, and catching it in his other hand. "I can always get him a replacement."

"But seriously, we can't go through the front doors. I've got an idea, and I think we can pull it off, but I--Who the hell are you?"

Choose your kin, rendezvous

Don't feel anything

Words: 238

GP: 4 (36)

Owed? Feric thought as Victor tried his hand at introductions. Yeah, that's something we're talking about later.

"You wanted muscle, and you randomly dialed me." He began with a sigh. "I would be surprised, but I've seen what you consider gambling." With that, he turned to the other man at the table. "So yeah, I'm apparently his intended muscle. My name's-" SHIT. What did I say my name was to Vic? I can't remember much past the helicopter.... fuck it. "-Feric." It's not like he can't find me anyway, apparently. "Vic and I met a couple of weeks ago down in Mexico. I was paid to deliver some justice on bad guys in exchange for wealth and fabulous prizes when Vic-" Arrived? Helped? Befriended me? Almost ruined my life? "..... happened."

He looked at the one he didn't know - Colin, apparently - And saw something there. Something that wasn't quite confusion or distrust. Is it because I just showed up or- shit. He probably smells the alcohol. He almost got as far as flagging down a waiter when a nicely presented cup of coffee and a scone were placed at the table in front of him, waiter vanishing as soon as he arrived. A quick scan confirmed it wasn't poisoned, so he took a hesitant sip, trying to look a lot more calm than he felt.

"Honestly though, I get a call from Vic asking me to be here, and I'm kinda wondering what this proposition is. Or why he thinks I owe him. Or how he expected me to find the meeting without telling me where you WERE." Or you know, how he called me when my old phone got destroyed in Germany.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, his lack of experience with the topic makes him wonder if this is how 'friends' are supposed to work. This didn't seem normal, but then things had a tendency to veer away from that when Victor was involved. Let's hope the new kid is saner. Or at least upfront about it.

Nathanael closed the small metal Zippo lighter with a flick of his wrist, creating the characteristic “shink” sound that was associated not only with the iconic and remarkably simple trinket, but a sound that was associated, amongst the Guybertaut, with a long night for their tinker. The pipe, freshly lit with a blend of tobacco and other herbs designed to calm the mind, glowed warmly in the darkness of the tent. A single candle, lit recently by the same metal lighter, cast a dim orange light across the work table. It was quiet. The remainder of the camp had long been asleep. Only the distant sound of the city’s revelers could be heard, and its chaos was melding together into a sort of soft, ignorable white noise.

The mortal sighed, smoke streaming gently from his nostrils, the vapors sliding through the invisible currents and colliding with barriers that very well might not have been there. Creases and crevices between this world and the next. Those other worlds… They concerned Nathanael. Things had gotten hairy in South America. They had won, they had completed their goals, certainly. But there had been costs. Things that he had seen… realizations and how fickle his own life was when stacked up against the others that existed beyond the veil. The clan, the others whom he called family, they were in danger. All day, every day, danger was looming. Likely only the noise and prominence of the city kept them at bay. How long would that last when so many of them were so… enticing.

Ariadne’s face flashed before Nathanael’s mind, always at the forefront. He had promised once, long ago, to protect her. In a heat of secrets and the warmth of whiskey, he had made a promise to someone whose opinion that he valued greatly, and he did not take that lightly.

Unfortunately, it seemed the silence would be short lived, it seemed. No work would be done tonight. A cacophony of a million shrill electronic songs erupted at once, and their tone and their number immediately let Nathan know that no work would be done tonight. He wheeled his chair across the tent, rolling over “salvaged” plywood flooring to a crate that had become a nest of noise and offensive artificial light.

Only one person would have the numbers still associated with the mass of electronics in that crate, and not only did Nathanael dread hearing the voice, even though there was no telling what voice that would be, but he also dreaded its implications. Clenching the pipe between his teeth, he picked up one of the many phones and answered the call. Silence fell, except for the voice.

And there it was. Friendly, almost. But also arrogant. Nathanael was not fond of that trait. “What’s up? How are you, WHEELS? Let’s have an adventure!” He could hear the words before they were ever spoken.

“Well, ah was tryin t invent a way a trap you in da body of a fish.” He muttered in response, knowing that whatever answer he gave would be irrelevant. “Nah nah nah, hold on. I don owe you shit. Ah came and helped you make your getaway-… Whah da fuck does dat matter? I don like bein shot at, Vic. I don take dat as well as you do. Uh huh… Sure. The pay las time was a crate of fucking Nokia.”

Click.

Goddamnit.

Why did he let himself be talked into these sorts of things? It was not that he really cared about owing Vic- and the nature of that time were sketchy anyways- so why did he go? To make connections? Because the gravity of the situation and obligation that he found himself in meant that allies were an important thing to have? Perhaps. Still, Nathanael did not intend to go so far as “alignment.” He would help them, and they would help him. That was all.

-----

“Ariadne. You awake, dear?”

The girl gave a start. “Well, I am now. What are you doing in here?” Her voice feigned annoyance, but there was something of a draw in them, an anxiousness- the things that Nathanael could pick up on as an experienced liar.

“Arie, sweet. I need a favor.” His voice was already apologetic. He knew it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was the truth. Poor Ariadne, transportation for the transportation.

“Damnit, Nathan. What time is it? Why can’t this wait? I’m not your taxi, you know.”

Resistance, but she would do it nonetheless. Nathanael knew that. She wouldn’t deny him.

“Round two-forty.” He muttered. “An das okay. I’m sorry to disturb ya, Arie. I have been workin on an invention, somethin new to try out, it does need a field test…”

“No no no… She rubbed her temples. Don’t go deconstructing yourself or anything. I’ve got you.” She looked around the room. “But do you mind giving me a second to at least get dressed in real clothes before we begin whisking ourselves across the globe?”

“O course.” Nathanael turned his back as the girl began rummaging around for something to put on.

“So where are we going?” The aggravation and edge had completely left by this point, leaving only curiosity.

“Japan again, dear. Got a friend who needs a ride.”

“Is this the same one as last time?”

“Da same.” Nathanael held out a piece of paper, a folded street view, snagged straight from Google earth (and God bless the souls who made that possible). It revealed a café, quaint looking. Seemed like an ideal place to get some soup, something that Nathan was not opposed to.

Ariadne snatched the paper and scanned it. “Are you wanting me to put us in an interior room, or…”

“Naw, cher. Right dere on da patio will do.” He smiled.

“Seems a bit ostentatious, but alright.” She rolled her eyes and passed the paper back, which Nathanael folded and placed into his pocket. “So how do I look? I mean… If there are going to be people there I’d like to look at least fifty percent less homeless than I actually am.” She held her arms out to her side, attempting to show off the floral dress and the dark vest- not unlike Nathanael’s own- she had donned.

“You’re a vision, sweetheart.” He smiled at her, and she instantly broke his gaze.

“Alright then. Let’s go.” She stammered.

-----

A pool of white light, a flash, a suddenly, a breath of new air was filling Nathan’s lungs. “Never get used to dat sensation.” He muttered to himself as he opened his eyes, directly adjacent to the table where he was supposed to be meeting. “Excellent aim, Arie.” He smiled, his game face now firmly set.

“I disagree…” The girl muttered as she climbed down from a table.

Nathan ignored this and turned to the people before him, three people. Something that was, in and of itself, unsettling. How big was this “adventure” going to be?”

“Well, friends, I’m here.”

Nathanael tapped the eight-ball cane against the ground, and it slowly turned itself to dust, inside out like it was nothing, whisked away on an unseen breeze. Within the instant, a large, rumbling black monstrosity slid around the corner, pulling to a stop near the tables on the street, its doors creaking open to reveal empty white leather seats. Nathanael absentmindedly adjusted his vest as he waited for his passengers to board the vehicle he had manifested, a personal favorite as far as models went.

"Wipe ya feet please, too, friends." 

Words: 1,200 (Total: 1,200)

GP: 24 (Total: 24)

You ever have one of those moments where you convince yourself that everything's fine, and then it stops working? Like when you have a gaping wound or a broken bone in your leg and for a couple of steps it holds, for a couple of meters you think you can deal with the pain before something snaps and you come tumbling down. There was a rock, maybe; a pebble on the ground, something insultingly small that still fucked up your perfect distribution of weight, the delicate balance of forces that let you cope.

Every part of you is under maximum strain and still you blame the pebble.

The words flew by him. He could only hear white noise. It roared, and the roar ate his thoughts, and all the careful preparations he'd made left him alone, scared, looking out through what felt like someone else's eyes. He didn't know what he was doing here. He'd thought he had it under control but there were men walking out of air demanding answers, men he didn't know that he'd have to betray and suddenly he didn't want to.

Victor was one thing. He could live with that. That night had been so fucked up that it wasn't hard to squint and pretend that he deserved it, but who the hell was this? What had they done? How would this night end for them?

Whatever happened, it would be his fault. That much he knew. And enough--that face, walking into the dust, into death--was his fault already. He didn't want more.

"Get out."

He didn't want to look at Victor, didn't want to face that now. He could only wear one face at a time.

"I didn't ask you for anything. I don't know who you are, I don't know what you want."

Get out! he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. This had to make sense, it had to... He had to control himself. This couldn't be suspicious even if the thought of what would happen to these people made him want to cry in helpless rage.

"You assume too much." He turned to Victor, trying not to see, willing his peripheral vision to become all of his vision so he wouldn't have to focus on anyone. "You want me to trust you," he reached out and jabbed a finger towards Victor's chest, "and I will, but that doesn't mean I'll trust everyone you've ever met without so much as a hello."

He turned just as the car pulled up, and met the man--Wheels?--with the echo of a smile, a slight inclination of the head that might have been a nod. "Hey," he said, and part of him wanted to leave it at that but his hand reached in his pocket and flipped the phone across the distance between them. "To make up for last time."

He slid into the car, felt better in the enclosed space somehow, with walls around him. He was protected from nothing, of course; a car couldn't do much against the sort of person he was, let alone the ones he was scared of, but it helped. He listened to his breath echo, breathed that claustrophobic stale car smell deep, and felt himself begin to relax.

Until he felt the prick against his finger.

He looked down and it was too late, it was jabbing in, filaments sprawled against the armrest growing slick with his blood. He couldn't cry out. He didn't know if it was because of his restraint, or because it wouldn't let him make a noise. It pulsed and clambered up his arm. He heard words without hearing them.

What are you doing? it said as it carved through his flesh. Everything, vreything, vrythin, vrithy... is according to plan. Don't ruin it. It clenched tight. Blood oozed gently. Get him back. The long sleeves would cover the fresh holes. It knew not to do any lasting harm.

The car door slid open. There was a grimace on his face that might have been a smile.

"But I guess I need you anyway."

The door swung open the rest of the way and light reached him, even as he tried to sink into the other side, into the seat or the wall or the window. Sound reached him as well as light, the last trickle of rain and people talking, the smell of it, the change in the texture of the air that the outdoors made. The world reached him and he wanted it to stay away, stay behind glass, to stay safe beneath concrete in windowless rooms where nothing could reach him, where nothing could hurt him, where the only thing behind him if he turned around would be a wall, where there'd be no surprises and no world. Where nothing would hurt.

But that's not where he was.

"Take us to the nearest airport."
 

In a way I hear myself say

What is it worth?

I say we meet on the last place on Earth

He stepped out of the car underneath a grey and glaring sky, on the tarmac of the open runway. There were few people around, and using a piece of plastic thoughtfully provided by his benefactor had made it easy enough to get past the kid at the gate, as young as him or younger. There were closed hangars, abandoned little carts used to ferry around luggage or tools. This place was for expensive tiny things, for rich people to store their wastes of money, to take out on joyrides once every other century. There wasn't much demand on days like this, when the ground was still wet from the rain.

"Right," he said. His voice sounded flat in that wide-open space.

"Now we've gotta steal a plane."

Words: 959

GP: 19 (55)

Feric watched impassively as a fourth- and fifth judging by the appearance of a girl as well- arrived. And then Colin fired him. Apparently Victor was ruining whatever sort of plan he may have had, judging by the way he practically stormed off into the newly arrived car.

Welp. This was a weird little diversion. He thought to himself, looking back to where he left his luggage and wondering when the next flight stateside was. Of course by this point, the luggage had apparently been stolen, so he resigned himself to finishing his Coffee with a long angry pull before standing.... to find that Colin was apparently backpedaling. Something about his face.... there was a tension there, a high level of stress that he liked to pretend wasn't visible on one of his bad days. He was just about ready to tell him to fuck off when a sudden rush of perspective hit him, as Victor's attitude sank in. It wasn't how he treated a mark, or an accomplice. He had a decent taste of both in Mexico. This was more.... affectionate. Like a friend or a would-be mentor. And then he took another look at Colin.

Jesus. He began mentally, noticing details he hadn't spotted before. How young is he? 18? At least as young as I was when-

And with a quiet sigh, he clumb into the car and sat himself across from the young man, resigned to the job like it was a noose around his neck. "If it's any consolation, I know exactly what it's like to have some random asshole show up to be the wrench in your gears. Even if they have only the best intentions."

He wasn't sure his words had any effect on Colin, but he felt compelled to try. "I can't claim to be the most impressive source of muscle, but I'll trust you with the plan as long as you trust I'll get everyone out alive." As he said it, he gave the best 'winning smile' he could muster, but he could tell from his reflection in the glass it looked more tired than anything else. As he slowly let the smile slip away into his comfortable silence, he waited for the other companions to get into the car so they could head off to what would probably be the worst thing to happen to him since Cleveland.

And Colin did not disappoint, getting past security with minimal fuss, and then boldly declaring the next part of his plan.

"Steal a plane?" Is what he said out loud. This took a turn for the distressing is what he said inside. The point that remained unsaid on either side was a desperate gut wrenching need to know exactly what the plan was, so he would know how fast to run when it hit the fan.

The 'when' was after all inevitable if his past experiences were anything to judge by. But then, I've always been a pessimist.

Maybe things would be different this time: he was called to the only country he dislikes more than Mexico at the moment by Victor to do something stupid, and the worst thing that's happened so far is that his luggage was stolen.

How bad could things REALLY get?

The grin coiled its way onto his face. It had been too long. He suddenly realized how stiff he had been, up to this point. Not in body, but in mind. He let his mental processes stretch, working out all the little unnecessary anxieties and worries. The car’s other occupants didn’t look so self-assured. By the job’s end, Victor told himself, they would, or die trying. He stifled a laugh. They’d play it safe—no point in doing a job unless it was safe, after all.

The airport sat nearer the edge of town than not, just off a highway for easy access. The oncoming weather had assured few planes would be flying today; while it wouldn’t be deserted, they couldn’t have picked a better day to minimize

“No, Colin,” he had said, “we’re not going to steal a plane, we’re going to ask someone very nicely to give us one.”

And now they were here, and Victor was opening the door just as they pulled to a stop, fresh and eager to get moving. “Alright, Wheels, you check out the area. Keep an eye out for anyone in the kind of uniforms that might cause problems. You two, this is the FBO—no, I don’t know what it stands for—all you need to do is walk around, look vaguely interested, figure out who seems mildly suspicious, and be ready for me when I get back. Victor jerked a thumb across down the frontage road to a breakfast-themed restaurant nearby.

“I’ma go get some waffles.”
 

-----

When Victor returned, strawberry syrup in hand, his plan was as obvious as the grin on his face. One of his scouts had found the kind of person he needed. The man was older, gruff, and bored-looking. Just about everything Victor had said not to look out for, but as soon as he saw the man, Victor knew what he had to do.

He smeared strawberry syrup over his hands and side, daubing a bit on his pants. The shapeshifter’s hair came to life, mussing itself, to which Victor muttered, “look, ma, no hands!” Finally, Victor ripped open his shirt, then, with a theatrical groan, stumbled out into the hallway, wild-eyed and visibly upset.

The other man looked up at Victor, with the practiced disinterest of a professional, until he caught sight of the faked wounds, and started.

“It’s not mine, I’m just borrowing it for a while,” Victor gasped between ragged breaths. “And unless you don’t want me to get any of yours on my outfit, I suggest you do exactly what I say.” By now, he was well within the man’s personal bubble, slipping a wallet out of the man’s pocket, and lifting it up where it was visible. “This you?”

The man nodded.

“Great, Satoshi-san. What I need you to do is take me to an airplane that can fly. And then you never, ever speak of it to anyone again. Oh, and, just to be on the safe side, you’ll want to go to the… um, Japanese DMV guys. And get a new ID. Because I’m taking this one, okay?”

This time, the nod was a great deal more numb.

Five minutes later, the Bastards had an airplane.

539/10/68

He looked at the plane. He looked at the sky. He looked back at Victor.

"How did you...?"

No, he didn't want to know. He didn't want any of this and the details, somehow, would just make it worse. He wanted to be at home. He wanted to have a home, where 'home' went 'safe place', and to not be lying to these people, some of which he didn't even know at all.

And yet he'd condemn them, to save himself?

Yes.

He'd tried to flee, and he'd been... chided... gently... for his transgression. The scar barely hurt when moved, these days. Barely. He understood that they could do so much worse, that he'd only ever dealt with one of many, and that one had been in his head, had crawled in his thoughts, and--

Yes, he would do anything to stop that from happening again.

There was a reluctance to his motion as he took that final step, remembering the last time. If his face didn't actually turn green, it must have came close. His stomach heaved, and he almost took a step back but found someone, the one he didn't know, standing in his way.

"Sorry, I... kind of have a special relationship with planes. I'm not scared, exactly, it's just that last time..." Colin shook his head; the man didn't need to know. He threw himself down on a plush leather seat and tried not to look outside, to the engines that could so easily become fireballs, the metal cage that could easily become so many shards of death.

It was fine, he'd be fine.

"Hey!" he called up to the pilot seat, "Wheels!"

"You do know how to fly one of these things, right?"
 
Words: 288
GP: 5 (60)

Nathanael Pickman did not consider himself a man who fussed much over minor details, but this particular trip was beginning to wear thin on his nerves for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he was summonsed on the pretenses of an unpaid debt in the middle of the night by a man he could arguably stand. On top of that, he was having to use Ariadne again, something that, as of late, he attempted to avoid under the very best of circumstances. Now, he had drug her halfway around the world and placed her in the company of questionable sellswords, thieves, and conmen. Now, as far as people went, these types were as much Nathanael’s family as the clan Guybertaut was. But the same could not be said for Ariadne. She was a child. She was innocent. He had hoped to keep her safe from such details of his life. But then, they were siblings, of a sort. It wasn’t exactly easy to hide who you were from your own blood, no matter how accomplished of a liar.

But the fact that Ariadne was there with them was not responsible for the lion’s share of the frayed nerves Nathanael was experiencing. No, what seemed to be pricking him the most, be it from the lack of sleep or the tenseness of the situation, was the fact that he was constantly being ordered around like a glorified man-servant, instead of as a partner; and occasionally by people other than the man he owed his honor-debt to. That was the way groups such as these functioned, however, and Nathanael understood that. He just never quite appreciated it. He much preferred the perfumed words of debate and diplomacy, the sowing of lies for the con itself, than the heist.

Colin, in his mind, was teetering back and forth. It made Nathanael nervous. He seemed young. Did he know what he was really asking here? Ariadne herself couldn’t have been far from him in age- something that he noted the moment they arrived, and proceeded to keep an eye on after that. He (awkwardly) provided Nathanael with a replacement cellphone, and then he requested to be driven to the airport. Not an unreasonable request from a “driver,” but the change in tone registered. Then they were to steal a plane? Moments before, he had returned a simple cell-phone that he felt he owed to Nathanael. Now, he wanted to steal a plane. Nathanael was no less of a stranger than the plane’s owner.

Victor ordered him to scout the area for officials. Suits were typically crawling airports, but Nathanael had to admit, he saw few that seemed as though they would be an issue. Then he left as well. Where exactly was he going? He found himself less concerned about these questions than he did those of Colin’s heart. He simply knew the type of man that Victor was more intimately. But in this line of business, questions were an expensive thing, and one had to be careful not to ask too many, inwardly or outwardly.

But then, of course, there was the final thing, the “cherry on top” of this headache sundae.

He really, really, hated his nickname.

 "Hey! Wheels! You do know how to fly one of these things, right?"

Ariadne smirked as she took the co-pilot seat across from Nathanael and the tinker let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Oh, O’course, Colin. Would ah be up heeah if I din’t?” The words were sarcastic to an intentional degree.

“Do you?” Ariadne whispered, and doubt slowly crept into her face.

Nathanael simply smiled at her as he slid on the small headset. “How hard could it be, child?” 

Words: 620 (Total: 1,820)

GP: 12 (Total: 36)

At what point did I stop being an active participant in the proceedings? Feric wondered, standing around on the runway. Victor told him to stand around and not do anything while he went to get waffles. Which made only moderately more sense when he actually enacted his plan.

Something in his gut told him to cut and run as they were boarding the plane. Between Victor's plan somehow working, 'Wheels' apparently bringing a date along for the evening drawing less ire than his own specifically invited ass, and the total lack of any response as the props started spinning.... Nothing goes this smoothly.

And yet he stayed. He couldn't quite place a finger on 'why' as he sat next to the emergency exit, looking at the kid across from him in the backward facing seat. "It's alright. I've had a few less than pleasant flights myself." He said with a smile he hoped didn't come off as patronizing.

That's the real damn reason I'm here, isn't it? He asked himself with an inward sigh. Because the kid starting this whole shebang is the only one who wants out harder than I do.

His eyes flicked over to where Victor had seated himself and idly wondered whether he noticed it too. His eyes slowly shifted back to Colin and his mind quietly raced trying to figure it out. Trying to prove something? Owed money to the wrong sort of people? Victor pressuring him into something high stakes?

None of those..... felt right though. And given how twitchy he was, Feric doubted a straight answer would be forthcoming.

Let's try a different tack then. "So Colin." He began slowly, feeling the plane as began to gain height. "Since we lack an in flight movie, would you mind filling me in on what exactly the plan is?" He slowly leaned back and forced himself to relax more. "Since you know, nobody told me where we were going, what we were doing....." He left the thought hanging out there for him to pick up on. Maybe he'll be forthcoming, maybe he won't.

But by the time this plane landed, Feric was going to have some goddamn answers.

He tried to avoid looking at the stranger. Maybe, this way, that face wouldn't be burnt in his mind when everything went to hell, along with all the others. He looked at so many other things; the view, his fingernails, the way the threading was beginning to fray at the edge of the plush leather seat.

"You weren't supposed to be here," he made eye contact here, or tried; it was too habitual a motion to avoid but those dark glasses kept him from seeing anything, let him keep this man faceless for a while longer, "so why do you need to know anything? Just... I don't know. Be muscular."

Colin leaned forward suddenly, feeling the tickling brush of his power against the sense he'd never learned to describe. He did it almost without thinking, now. It was getting hard to stop perceiving the world this way, feeling the life and essence of things, forcing himself back in his little bone box with its echoes of this, its ears and eyes that couldn't see the life in anything.

What was light, what was sound, when you could see inside someone's soul?

Most people were so dull and cold, and this man was barely any brighter. Even the driver, who was weak enough that Colin had never been afraid of him, could push this man around. Something else was going on here.

"Y'know, why don't you tell me?" His eyes searched those impassive black lenses for anything, and failed. "I don't know why you're here, but I..." he closed his eyes and flared his power, let the light of him shine before damping it back out, "I don't think it's anything to do with strength. Is it to keep an eye on me? Is that it? Did they..." A glance at Victor shut his mouth.

"Well, if you want to play this game."

He got up, leaned nonchalantly against the wall next to the emergency door, trying to think what the topography would look like as he peered out the small circular window, to make sure he'd recognize it from above.

"There are people doing bad things and we're going to stop them."

This was that intersection, right? There was the factory... Good, not long now.

"Simple enough?"

Words: 376

GP: 7

“Does it seem a lil tense back theyah, Arie?” Nathanael leaned over and whispered to his copilot, accidently jerking the yolk a bit in the process and automatically overcompensating the action. He quickly reached for and smashed down the intercom button, something entirely unnecessary in a plane of the given size, and addressed the passengers in his most official manner. “Pardon, mon amis. Experiencin’ jus a touch a turbulence due to… ah, some meteorological somethin or another…” His voice trailed off at the end, the quiet words followed by an awkward silence and finally a “click.”

He turned to face Ariadne again, concerned that she hadn’t responded. She was glaring back at him with wide and feral eyes, feet pulled up to her chair and hands clutching the arms of the chair, teeth clenched and almost, bared?

Nathan chuckled nervously to himself. “Ah, cher, don’ worry so much. Ah got this.”

Sensing that this was doing little to ease her, or anyone else in the cabin’s concerns, and relatively sure that the little nervous mystery child had finished his thankfully short exposition, Nathanael decided that he knew exactly how to lighten the mood. “Take the wheel a secon’, Arie. I need ta take care a somethin’.”

“Wait. what?

“Don’ worry. Jus’ take the wheel.” He hopped up from his seat and began to walk towards the back of the plain.

Ariadne lept to the pilots seat and tentatively grabbed hold of the yolk, holding it steady and sweating profusely. “This… This isn’t even a wheel, Nate!”

Nathan gave a polite smile and waved to the others inside of the cabin, ignoring any confusion or anger on their faces, and stooped down to pull a small MP3 player out of his backpack. “I’m gon’ go lighten the mood.” He waggled the tiny storage device and sauntered back into the cockpit, where he relieved the nervous co-pilot of her duties.

“I swear to God, Nathanael. If you ever do anything like-” She paused, looking at him with something between horror and confusion. “Nathanael… What are you doing?”

“Oh, jus playin’ some music.” He muttered absentmindedly, using one-hand to hold the yolk and another to rip wires out from beneath the dash.

“Oh God. Oh God, please, don’t do that. We’re going to die.”

“Naw, chere.” He bit a piece of electrical tape off in his teeth and twisted a few things together, sliding a newly attached headphone jack into the player. “Tha should about do it then.” He smiled, leaned back into his seat, and selected something bluesy and soothing that began to pour from the planes swanky speaker suite like honey. “See? Jus’ a few secon’s and they’ll forget all their worries.” Arie looked nervous, but gradually relaxed into the seat and began to accept the idea. A few seconds passed and he leaned forward to press the intercom again. “These heyah tunes ah brought to you by-…........ Do you hear a wooshing sound, Arie?”

A roar filled the cabin, air whipped and swirled around them, taking their breath away.

“What is that!?” Ariadne screamed, clinging to her chair.

Nathanael released the intercom button and the roar slowly faded. He took a deep breath, a moment to collect himself, and then turned to look behind himself into the cabin at roughly the same time as his co-pilot.

“Huh… They’re gone.”

Completely empty.

Ariadne turned white as a ghost. “Wha… What do you mean?”

Nobody in there.

“Must’ve wired something back up wrong…”

Not a single soul.

“Where… Where did they go, Nate?! Are they dead?”

...

“Nate?”

Welp.

“Do ya think this thing’ll do a barrel roll?”

Words: 612 (Total: 2,432)

GP: 12 (Total: 48)