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idolatrybarbie · 6 months

Text

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood.

tags: previously established friendship, lies and manipulation, canon-typical crime, mention of guns, mention of alcohol, the United States government comes with its own warning, reader does not speak Portuguese fluently and is written as such

notes: WE'RE HERE. oh my god. ohhh my god. this has taken MONTHS. it's a little gross, a little freaky. take it. read it. love it (please?) more to come. over and out.

“All truths – even the laws of science – are subject to revision, but we operate by them in the meantime because they are necessary and they work.” — The Elements of Journalism, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel.

You wake up in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping. Your heart is beating fast in your chest; you almost tumble out of bed with the force from pushing yourself up. The phone rings—Mom’s landline—the trill high and bubbling from the kitchen. Following the noise through the fog of half-sleep, you pad across the quiet house slowly. You reach the phone by the fifth ring, answering on the sixth.

“Hello?” Your voice is raw with sleep.

“I was starting to think you were dead.” Marcus Pike’s voice reaches your ears, flowing down the line like water.

“Marcus?” you ask. Looking out the window above the sink, you see that the sun is not out yet. The sky is pitch black, forcing you to seek out the microwave’s clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“Seven in D.C.,” he says.

Right. That cushy, not-so-new gig out in Washington. He went from art theft investigator to a DOJ special agent in what felt like the blink of an eye.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your folks still live in Kendall County,” he says.

“And I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” you counter.

“They’ve got that yearly trip to Mexico. You house sat for them at the start of every summer.”

“Back in college,” you say.

“You still answered, didn’t you?” Marcus asks.

You can’t help when you laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“Nope,” he says. You picture him in an office somewhere, shaking his head with a satisfied smile. “Neither have you.”

You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood. He moved away from Texas by the time you were already out on the east coast. Your job at The Metropolitan Post keeps you busy. Maybe a little too busy, absolutely quashing your personal life.

“Not that it’s unwelcome, Marcus, but—”

“You’re wondering why I’m calling you in Texas at the ass-crack of dawn,” he finishes for you.

“Sort of, yeah.”

He hums into the speaker, taking a moment before he speaks again. “I was wondering if you had time for breakfast?”

“Marcus, that’s a four hour flight,” you say.

“I’m not actually in D.C. right now,” he says.

“Okay…”

“I’m staying in San Antonio.”

“So that’s why you’re calling. You got bored, huh?”

“Something like that,” Marcus says. “Meet me at the Sunshine Diner? It’s on Commerce. Say, seven o’clock?” It’s like he’s rehearsed the line over and over again.

“Marcus—”

“Great.”

“Marcus,” you repeat.

He says your name back to you in that same firm tone.

“What is this about?” you ask. The playfulness can’t hide the weirdness surrounding a surprise trip down here.

“I’ll tell you when I see you, alright? All will be revealed.”

You roll your eyes, curiosity unsatisfied. Clearly he’s unwilling to tell you anything over the phone.

“Sure, fine. Breakfast at seven. I’ll see you there,” you say.

The drive from Boerne to San Antonio is only thirty-two minutes. Those thirty miles stretch to feel like thirty-thousand, but before you know it, you’re parked halfway up West Commerce Street. You see the diner, its sun-faded metal sign taunting you from the driver’s seat. None of the cars on the block look like they could be Pike’s. They’re too old or too dirty to be rentals, a sea of Texan license plates before you.

You sigh to yourself, pulling the handle on the car door as it creaks. “Now or never.”

The sun hasn’t brought enough heat to ground yet, the morning air still tepid as you walk onto concrete. Peering into the diner’s windows, you spot Marcus before he sees you. The absence of a suit over his shoulders throws you off. When you think of him, you picture Special Agent Marcus Pike. Sitting inside at a table alone, he looks more like the guy you used to know.

A bell jingles above you as you open the door to the restaurant. He looks up, face absent of surprise or question. It’s seven on the dot. He knows you like to be punctual. The kind waitress smiles at you when he waves you over, letting you join Marcus at his corner booth. He waits until you slide into the seat opposite him to say anything.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, yourself,” you say. “You still have to answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“A man can’t find the sudden urge to visit the great state of Texas?” he asks.

“Not when that man is you.”

He’s got too many bad memories here for this be a vacation. He has never told you outright, but you aren’t stupid. The personal tragedy of a failed engagement and prospects of greener pastures for his career is enough to draw any man away from home. If Marcus is here, there’s a reason.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“That’s what phones are for. Remember this morning?”

“This…isn’t something I can really talk about over the phone.”

You furrow your brow, eyes squinting as you assess his body language. Shoulders tight, hunched close to his body. He runs a hand over the light scruff on his jaw, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when his wrist meets the table again.

“What’s wrong?”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Marcus says.

“You can’t talk about it over the phone, and you look like someone’s got you in a gun sight across the street,” you say. “But sure, nothing’s wrong.”

“Look—”

“What can I get started for you today?”

The waitress from earlier approaches your table with a peppy sway in her hips, dark ponytail swaying gracefully behind her. She pulls out a notepad to go with her stub of a pencil, ready to take down your order.

“Two coffees,” Marcus mumbles. “Two cream, two sugar.”

Then she turns to you. “How do you take it?”

“Black.” You don’t look at her, staring at Marcus as he taps his fingers against the plastic coating on the table.

“I’ll be right back with those.”

When she ambles away, you say, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead of giving you an answer, Marcus reaches into his back pocket. What he puts on the table almost makes your heart stop.

“Where did you get that?”

You’re staring at a face—your face—on a second-rate identification pass. A name that doesn’t belong to you sits under your photo in bold black ink alongside credentials you certainly don’t have. There is no Molly Hills that works at the Justice Department. At least, not until you made her up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus says.

“I already got into shit over this, Marcus, so if you’re here to—”

“I’m giving it back.”

You pause. “Giving it back?”

“Well, it’s yours. Figured you might want it.”

“There’s nothing that badge can get me that I’d want anymore.”

You were naive when you made it. Green, ready and willing to do anything to get the story. You’d paid the price, too. Lost your job, lost your place, almost went to federal prison. A lot of trouble for a silly little journalist. A long nightmare you don’t want to relive.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

Irritation consumes you. “Marcus, did you come here to see me or did you come here to piss me off?”

“I need your help.”

He needs your help? That’s a chance in a million. “Aren’t you the federal agent?” you ask.

“This is something that I can’t do,” he says lowly. You don’t believe him. “I’m serious. This is serious.”

“What is this?”

The waitress returns with your coffees, setting them down in front of you. She asks if you want anything else. Not right now, and she’s gone again.

“There’s something you should look into,” he says, voice low as he brings his mug up to his lips.

“I don’t do that anymore,” you say.

He gives you a look of disbelief. “Of course you do.”

“I sit around on my laptop for nine hours a day sending out push notifications and rearranging the homepage, Marcus. I don’t even write.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He knows about your…issue. It’s what gets you into trouble, always has.

“That’s why you’re really here,” you say.

“I’m here to catch up with a good friend,” he says. Reaching across the table, he takes your hand in his own. “It’s been too long.”

Marcus skirts around the topic from there, ignoring the disappointment etched into your forehead as he tells you about Washington: the job, the cases—all the pertinent details left out, of course. You start to play along, sliding the badge off of the table and into your bag. Even if he won’t tell you, you at least want to try and enjoy his presence. It’s been a lifetime since you’ve had it.

Apparently the job is hard work, but you could’ve figured that. Demanding, he tells you. Not much time for a life on his end of things either. You tell him about New York; about your one bedroom claim to fame on the edge of Clinton, about the house plants you’ve managed to keep alive for some time now. Not once does he bring up your old life, how things used to be. You’re relieved.

Marcus is gone when he finishes his coffee, scooting out of the booth to stand and rearrange his shirt.

“I should get going. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” he asks. “It was good to see you.”

As he turns on his heel, your words stop him. “For the record, I don’t like this. You’re not being fair, Marcus.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he reasserts. And then he’s gone.

You don’t see which car he gets into. You don’t even care. When it’s been long enough and you get sick of staring at the brown dregs at the bottom of your mug, you fish the badge out of your bag. Putting it on the table again, you examine it. Not even half a decade and you already look so different. Weathered, maybe. In this photo you are so very bright and smiley.

Staring at the piece of plastic, you realize you resent it; you’re disappointed in yourself, begrudging Marcus for bringing it here as some sort of token. A reminder. A chit. You owe him, and this is his way of calling in a favour. With you, the man never has been one for the direct approach.

Turning the badge over in your hands, you notice a scrap of paper lodged behind the plastic. Marcus has written something on it. A series of random numbers and letters.

18USC209-14489.

It reads as gibberish. You toss the thing back into the shadows of your bag and flag down the waitress for another cup of coffee.

You try to ignore it; that lingering pull. It’s more like a sinking feeling than anything. You start making lists to distract yourself. Lists of chores to do, things to buy, times to remember. Keeping your hands busy with dishes, sweeping, tending to the back lawn. You hand-wash the guest room bed sheets to keep your mind from wandering.

Marcus hasn’t called for a couple days. You’re starting to think he never will. Even with him leaving you to this alone, you’re trying to keep the temptation at bay. It’s a game you play with yourself: whenever you’re seconds away from looking up the sequence on the back of the badge, you instead search for the specific statutes of federal law under which you almost went to jail for breaking. You’d say it’s pretty effective.

One week after that coffee, you almost trash the badge altogether. All that hunk of plastic does is take up space, both in your mind and your bag. You can’t look for your keys without your fingers brushing past it. Every time, you pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. As you stand over the sink, waste disposal roaring with life, you prepare to drop the card down the drain.

Screw Marcus. He could ask for any favour, but not this one. He didn’t even have the guts to ask you in the first place—he’d stuck you with it, laying this mystery burden over-top of you, smothered.

After a long while, you turn the disposal off, card still intact. You turn it over and over again in your hand, flipping between the two sides. Brain idle and eyes closed, the pause of silence is ultimately what does you in. The series is burned into the underside of your eyelids, a white shadow against the dark. It looks like a code; a sequence used to file records.

18USC209-14489.

You are bent over your laptop before you can stop yourself, fingers flying across the keys. You type in the first half, results for Title 18 showing up in a fraction of a second. Federal crimes and criminal procedure. Marcus has given you a case.

Looking further, you find chapter two hundred and nine of the code—extradition. Beyond scope, limitations, and a lengthy list of countries that the United States has extradition treaties with, this webpage is useless. The public access government site isn’t going to tell you anything about what the rest of those numbers mean.

That’s when it clicks. The badge. Marcus gave it back. What was it he’d said? This was something he couldn’t do. Something you should look into. That he needs your help.

Immediately, you know what he’s asking. You don’t like it one bit. Of all the things he could ask of you, spend this life sized favour on, it had to be this?

You open another browser tab, accidentally clicking the bookmark of your email. There’s one new message waiting in your inbox. The address that sent it is professionally scrambled, the body absent of text altogether. Attached to the email is an unnamed file. It takes a moment to load before filling your screen: a one-way plane ticket to Reagan National, tomorrow at noon. You don’t have to know the address to know Marcus is the person who sent it to you. What he wants from you is clear now. The question lies in whether or not you’ll do it.

Except it isn’t really a question. You know it and he does too. The email keeps you up all night, finally caving at two o’clock in the morning. You pack a bag, something small, and call the cheapest hotel in Virginia that you can find. Your parents are due back in just a couple of days. Leaving a note on the fridge for them, you write that a work emergency called you home early. The identical text you send them won’t go through until they get back onto American soil, but it’s all the notice you can give.

The drive to San Antonio Airport is warm, the sun beating down on you through the windshield. In your head, you try your best to convince yourself that this is a good decision. At least the car will be there when they get in from Mexico City. You’re mostly focused on this playing out as a dead end. Maybe whatever Marcus is sending you to find isn’t all that important. The man isn’t exactly a journalist, or a lawyer; there could be no story here. He could be wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t been before.

Keeping your eyes open in the airport feels next to impossible. Even with the overwhelming chatter, the announcements, and the never-ending foot traffic, you almost fall asleep three separate times. A Styrofoam cup of cheap espresso is your only saving grace. You’re sat at the gate when your phone sounds off in your pocket.

Marcus Pike. You answer immediately.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Do you think this is funny?” Your hostility over the phone is drawing eyes. You get up from your seat, wheeling your luggage behind you as you search for a quieter corner.

“Quite the opposite. But some of us like joy in our lives, keeps the mood up.”

“I know exactly where you can stick that joy, if you’d like any suggestions,” you say. “What’s waiting for me in D.C.?”

“National Mall, the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Capitol building…”

“You know what I mean.”

“And if you’ll remember, I already gave you the details on that specifically,” Marcus says. Can’t talk about this over the phone. “I’m calling from work.”

Of course he is. Positing you to violate federal law, and he’s calling you at the office. You’re starting to think he wants you both to go to jail.

“What am I going to find when I get there?” you ask.

“Something important. Something I know you’d want to see.”

“Don’t put this back on me,” you say. “I’m doing this because I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

It’s what he has always said. That you don’t owe him, there’s no favour to be traded here. That he helped you because he’s your friend. You’re not about to go rehashing memory lane fifty feet from the American Airlines help desk, but last time you checked, helping a friend meant moving boxes out of their apartment or sitting a shitty pet—not sparing them from federal prison. You owe him, and for the longest time you thought you always would.

“If I do this, I’m never doing you another favour again,” you whisper. He says your name, almost exasperated. You cut him off quickly. “You can lecture me when I’m in D.C.. Next time, get your own damn cup of sugar.”

Boarding is frustratingly slow. You have to kick some whiny kid out of your seat as his mother gives him a coddling lecture—no sweetheart, you can’t just sit wherever you want. You nod off moments after reaching altitude, not waking until your seat neighbour shakes you by the shoulder.

The older woman is sweet, strands of long hair greying at her temples and forehead.

“I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we’re here,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” you sigh. Glancing out the porthole window, you can see workers in their fluorescent vests loading luggage onto dollies. Idly, you ask her, “You ever been to Washington?”

“Oh, once. A long time ago. It was lovely,” she says. “How about you?”

You turn to the woman, giving her an easy smile. “Never been,” you lie.

“You’ll love it,” the woman says. “It’s the city of big things, you know. Everything important happens here. Everything good.”

“People really think that, don’t they?”

You’re speaking to yourself, the woman already close to disappearing as she walks with the toddling line of passengers off the plane. You’re the last to de-board, giving the pilot and flight attendants a polite nod as you leave. The air inside of Reagan National Airport is stale. You almost hold your breath the entire time you wait for your bag, taking in a deep gulp when you step outside of its main glass doorway.

Hailing a cab is easy. The ride is a smooth twenty minutes before the stout driver drops you off in front of your hotel. Check-in, the trip up, and swiping your magnetic key card through the door’s lock all blur together. Your surroundings pull into focus when you realize that you’re on your knees. The upper half of your body is hunched over the porcelain toilet in the bathroom as you wretch into the bowl. All that comes up is bile, green and oil slick.

When the vomiting finally stops, you wipe at your mouth and turn on the shower. You avoid the mirror as you strip, stepping under the steady spray. The water is ice cold, beating against your skin like hail. Pulling the shower curtain closed, you sit facing away from the stream. It soaks down your back, running in a dozen bitter rivulets. The cold seeps into your skin, freezing bone-deep.

You lodge your head between your legs to keep the nausea at bay. Your mind stays quiet as the water trickles into your ears and down your face. It feels like hours before you will yourself out, gripping the sides of the tub to stand. You leave the fresh towels where they are in a wicker basket, wet feet padding across tile and hardwood to the queen bed in the middle of the room. Wrapped in crispy white sheets, wet and naked, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep.

Everything glitters in your dreams. Marcus’ eyes especially, twinkling as they look anywhere but at your face. He sits across from you at this overbearing table—on the side of the good guys. Here, you are logically the bad one. The lawyer your father paid for brushes up against your shoulder as he pulls a stack of paper the rest of the way across the darkened wood. He flips through every stapled page and nods silently. Then he slides it over to you.

You remember this. Even if you can’t decipher the lawyer’s garbled speech, you know that he’s directing you on where to sign.

It’s a good deal, he’ll tell you later. You’ll be standing in the hall of the courthouse, feeling small and stupid in this cheap suit as you wipe tears from your eyes. Seven years behind bars down to two years of federal probation. The ankle monitor will take some getting used to, but, y’know—

Consciousness comes in a slow roll, eyes opening to stare at the curtains you left open. The puff of a sigh passes your lips as you watch the stars outside the window, the sky still dark. If you look long enough, those glowing dots start to morph into Marcus’ deep brown eyes gazing back at you.

The image unsettles you enough to get out of bed. You pull the curtains closed and dress yourself, transforming into another person over the span of twenty minutes. Your own face slowly disappears under layers of makeup, your clothes a business professional clown costume. You know that you’re ready when you can’t see yourself in the mirror anymore.

The cab is called from a payphone across the street. You give the company your name, Jane Doe, paying in cash when the wheels stop in the middle of Penn Quarter. You walk the four blocks to the Justice Building without feeling any part of your body, sweating in the Washington cold.

The building itself is hard on the eyes, the visitor entrance not far from you now. The line to get in is short. You’re waiting less than ten minutes to get through the security screening. An officer rummages around in your purse for a moment. The badge—your badge, or Marcus’?—burns in your pocket. When he hands you your things again, he smiles. You smile back.

A tour group is forming in settled clumps just beyond the entrance. A woman in a button-down blouse and thick heels gathers the tourists, leading them down a cascading hall. You lump yourself in with the group, folding your coat over your arms as you pretend to listen to her history lesson. Really, you’re eyeing the halls, looking for an elevator.

It doesn’t take long to find one, the group rounding a corner into another hallway. The buttons are calling you as the tour turns down a thin corridor. Taking the opening, you part from the crowd, shoving the cylinder of fabric wrapped around you into the nearest trash can. The coat will be missed, but not dearly.

The elevator arrives in a matter of seconds, sleek metal doors sliding open. You press at the button violently to close them again after picking the third floor. A sigh leaves your nose when they pull shut. You’re acutely aware of the blinking bulb of a camera to your left, watching your every move as the car ascends. Right now, you are fine. You look like any other employee.

Inside the heat of the building, you can feel your limbs again. You swallow back the spit that’s gathering in your mouth. It isn’t anxious hyper-salivation, but accumulating drool. Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear but from thrill. Some people like to fuck in public, picking up a rush from the real potential of getting caught. You like this, but not for the anticipation of failure in your mission—in the prediction of your success.

There is something wrong with you. Inside of you, maybe. Biological. A dark and inky well, a pocket of spoiled flesh. Marcus has reached in and pressed at it, prodded around with sharp fingers until he could coax the oozing stream of rot out of you. You hate to admit that it felt good—feels good now, as the runoff drives you to the very brink of smart and sane decisions.

You call it professional curiosity. Others might label it being a nosy bitch, too cerebral for your own good. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach, though. The last time you chased a story, you almost choked. You get a little obsessed sometimes, what can you say? Everyone has their vices. Information is yours.

They have a name for it somewhere. L’appel du vide, you think. The call of the void. It turns people reckless, irrational. But this isn’t really your fault. You didn’t ask to be here. No, you were sent. An agent of someone else’s bidding, a man only a few floors from the one you step onto now.

Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing. It turns you on; it makes you want to kill him. If he is the good guy, and you are decidedly not, then what happens when you start working together? Does that make him bad or you good?

White hats stay on the good guys, but right now you can’t help but feel like Marcus has taken his off. And the million dollar question: why? You hope it’s for a good reason. If not, you really might kill him.

You remember this door, déja vu jolting you back in time. Bringing the badge out of your pocket, you hover your hand above the scanner. If this fails, security will be immediately alerted to a false attempt at access, and it’ll be over. Holding your breath, you tap the card against the bulky scanner. If it doesn’t…

The machine seems to wait, teasing you, before a small light in the corner blinks green. The lock on the handle dislodges for you, a soft click in your ears. You press down on the handle, push forward…and you’re in.

You don’t know how much time you have before someone else enters the file room, getting right to work. Starting at the bottom of the many shelves, you carefully rummage through box after box as you read over their labels. You go through shelves one box at a time, moving from sitting to standing every few minutes. Each file is left exactly how you found it. The last thing you need is anyone asking questions after you leave.

You go through fourty-five boxes in fifteen minutes, exhausting yourself in the process. Scooting into a corner between the wall and the end of a shelf, your head thunks against flaking paint behind you. This room must hold hundreds of boxes. There’s no way you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for in time.

Phone in front of you, you look down at the black screen. Dim LEDs reflect off the screen from the ceiling. That’s when you see it. The box next to your shoulder, the handwritten case file numbers on the front: 18USC209-14489.

You twist around quickly, practically tearing your body in half. Pulling the box off the second-lowest shelf, you keep it in your lap and shovel through the contents. There must be a dozen file folders here, all thick with paper. You start with the lightest one, flipping it open.

It’s mostly photos. Glossy, high quality surveillance images. Various men are featured in each of them, the same group of four rotating every other picture. They all look a little rough and tumble—you know the type. The images show them doing mundane things; walking a dog, sitting in a car, exiting a building at night. You’re still missing something.

Next, you opt for the chunkiest of the manila folders in the box. Everything inside is paperwork. Some of it is formally typed up, but a lot of these are handwritten notes. You start reading, and once you do, you can’t stop. Your eyes roll across the sentences over and over again, skipping over bits redacted in dark ink. You want to make sure you’re getting this exactly right.

Washington, D.C.…proposed extradition to Colombia for the violation of…several criminal charges. War crimes, including…illegal search and seizure of….American dollars…drug cartel.

You have to stop reading, scrubbing a hand over your face. You don’t know exactly how much money that is, the number blacked out, but it certainly isn’t insignificant. Somewhere in the hundreds of millions.

You go back to the photos of the four scruffy men. The U.S. government thinks these men have done it? Seriously. They looked like dads, like men who spend too much time in their garage. The carpenter across the street.

This must be it. Marcus’ big scoop.

You keep reading, flipping through other files. Everything starts to piece together on the floor before you. Four files have names on them— Benjamin Miller, William Miller, Santiago Garcia, and Francisco Morales. You assume the first two to be brothers, their blonde hair and pale skin matching in surveillance photos.

The other two are a guess. You assume the shorter man with the dark grey-black curls to be Santiago, leaving the last man to be Francisco. He’s clean-shaven in this photo, shirt criminally unbuttoned as he leaves a grocery store.

When you get to the file detailing their (heavily classified) military careers, the suspicion makes more sense. The things these men are capable of scares you to even think about. Still, it doesn’t quite add up for you. The States cooperating with Colombia in and of itself is enough to call the investigation into question. There are very few historical instances of that even happening, and when it has, they have been more than a little self serving. The very last thing that you’re about to do is trust your government.

Getting your phone out, you take as many photos of everything as you can. With the four personal files, you’re going to need your own hard copies. You stand from the floor with them, approaching the copier at the other end of the room. With one quick pass, the machine rejects your badge. No one has been alerted to your intrusion, it just won’t let you into the copier’s system. The I.D. was amateur, made for one thing and one thing only: getting in and out of the building.

An idea comes to you. Terrible, reckless, and stupid, but haven’t we crossed that threshold already? You fumble for your phone again, weighing out two options. You have GPS disabled, roaming on airplane mode to avoid satellite tracking or being pinged by any nearby cell towers. If you try to text Marcus, it will only go through once you reconnect to cell service and it will place you here inside the Justice Building.

The evidence of the text, the location data, using his credentials to log into the photocopier…no. Too risky. Any connection to Marcus here would be bad, leaving a clear digital trail.

That leaves plan B, then.

You reorganize the files into their storage box, already regretting leaving them here. Unsure if your badge will get you back into the file room, you lodge the thin piece of plastic between the door and the latch. When you are sure that it’s jammed open, you head towards the elevator. You hold the files close to your chest as you wait for the car. When the ding hits your ears, you get in, choosing a random button. The elevator takes you up, stopping at the thirteenth floor.

Every hallway is a Greek revival monstrosity, the art deco influences hamfisted into the design everywhere you look. You wonder how Marcus gets on working here, how he likes it this way. You picture the many men that have walked along these halls, all of them the type to pride others on their sense of fairness as they jerk it to the thought of naked Lady Justice behind closed doors.

The kind of men whose life aspirations mirror those of John Ashcroft and hold appreciation for the Patriot Act. Dwelling on it for too long, you lose the sense of where those men end and Marcus begins. But you know him. He’s different.

Breezing past a set of sturdy wooden doors, you come upon an office floor. Cubicles are arranged in a strange game of Tetris, men in suits milling about. You walk straight down the aisle to a photocopier that’s practically calling to you across the room. Keeping your head down, you sandwich the papers into the scanner. You press some buttons, knowing they won’t do anything without badge access. When the thing beeps at you angrily, you make a point to sigh loudly. When it warns you again, you groan.

Someone taps at your shoulder. You do your best to swallow a sly grin, turning to meet the eyes of a man you don’t know.

“Sounds like the copier is giving you some trouble,” he says.

You shake your head. “Honestly, I think it’s my card. This is the third machine I’ve tried today.”

“Well, here,” the man says. He slides his own badge from his jacket pocket and swipes it over the photocopier’s reader. The machine beeps again, this time in the affirmative. “That should have you all set.”

You’re about to mumble a thank you, batting your eyes at the federal agent, when another man catches his attention.

Behind Special Agent Chivalry stands another man—tall, tan, and all too familiar. Marcus. Over the unknown agent’s shoulder, the two of you make eye contact. He keeps his lips pursed, barely acknowledging your presence.

“Schrader,” Marcus says. “Hate to break it up, but the AUSA’s waiting.”

“Right,” the man who helped you nods, turning to look at you again. “Good luck with your files.”

He’s walking away without a second thought as Marcus behind to share another glance. You can tell by look alone that he is decidedly unhappy about this. You’ll be getting a phone call later, or maybe another message from that cryptic email dressing you down for playing fast and loose with risk. You hope he doesn’t say anything about it at all. Can he? What’s Marcus to do? Bitch you out via carrier pigeon?

None of that matters right now. You begin the process of scanning and copying every single page of the four personal files, starting with the Millers and ending with Garcia. It’s quick work, anxiety ratcheting up the speed of your hands as you open the lid of the copier, flip to a new page, and pull the lid down again. Doing this all out in the open is bold—again, terrible, reckless, and stupid—but that’s what makes it work. No one questions the receptionist at the photocopier. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Back downstairs, you recoup in the file room. The door shuts behind you with a solid click, the plastic card no longer keeping it open. You stick the four folders back into their box, leaving things exactly as you found them. As for your personal copies, you fold them in half and stuff them into your purse. Making sure everything is in order, you quietly slip out of the file room and take the stairs down. Leaving takes less than five minutes.

Cool air fills your lungs outside, the usual trappings of an east coast autumn. It takes a moment, walking two blocks, for everything to really sink in. You really just did that. Had your cake and ate it too. Committed a federal crime and got out without anyone blinking an eye.

The success affirms you. This is the right thing to be doing, it has to be. Marcus wouldn’t lead you astray. You wouldn’t let yourself fall down the wrong path. Not again.

The city of São Paulo thrums with energy. You can feel it, a pulsing from the ground that shoots up through your legs. The air is hot and damp, the slow curl of spring transforming into summer raising the humidity. The sky is dark but not quite black, light from the many high rises illuminating overhanging clouds.

You pass by nightclub after nightclub with young and beautiful people waiting in line like cattle to get past the door. It’s been a while since your life was like theirs; not as much of an adventure, surely, but carefree.

There’s been a notable absence of laissez-faire for the past four months. The promotion from digital producer to staff writer has you working during the day and chasing this case in your free time. All of that is set to end. No more hunting down leads, trying to find these men who’ve turned up as ghosts instead of people.

Will Miller was impossible to find, and you only got one thirty second phone call—three months ago—with his blonder brother Benny before the line went dead. Francisco Morales hasn’t seemed to exist since November 2019. All that leaves you with is tonight: a contact in Brazil who promises a lead to Santiago Garcia.

The café you enter has more patrons than you’d expect at this time of night. The coffee culture is different here; the people of Brazil enjoy a good steaming cup of caffeine even well into the evening. You take a seat at the table you’ve been instructed to—a round surface with uneven legs and a thin metal stand holding a card to indicate that this is table five. You use your phone to check the time, catching a glimpse of another piece of cold and shiny metal in the process.

There is a gun in your purse that wasn’t there three months ago. It replaced the badge to the Justice Building in the process of looking for these Delta Force soldiers that the world wants to pretend don’t exist. Marcus hasn’t called, and you know that if he can’t protect himself then he certainly can’t protect you. Lord knows if he even wants to anymore.

You pissed him off that day in D.C.. Marcus has a bad side, everyone does, but you never imagined getting on his would be so icy. You are out in the cold, that’s for certain. The gun—one here and one in a safe inside your New York apartment—is the flame that’s kept you from freezing. So far, you haven’t had to use either. Let’s hope things stay that way.

The heat is getting to you. Sweat crawls down your spine, surely leaving a dark stain across the middle of your shirt. It doesn’t matter. The lead is so close you can almost taste it. A few more minutes…

Caught up in your thoughts, it takes a moment for the echoing silence of the café to register. It takes another moment for you to notice the wall of a man that sits down across from you. He’s tall, forehead beading with sweat as his hairline fights against gravity. Opening a dictionary, an image of him is what you’d find to illustrate the definition of gruff. Well-worn. He is exactly the man to do shady back alley deals with nothing-something American journalists. He’s exactly the man you need.

“Olá,” you say.

The man nods at you, then smiles a toothy grin. He says, “Você é mais bonita do que eu imaginava.”

You take a second to translate in your head. You’re prettier than I imagined.

“Obrigado,” you nod, returning the niceties. “Disseste que tinhas informações.”

“Certo,” the man says. The absence of noise leaves your skin cold, goosebumps prickling along your arms. “You are looking for a man named Santiago Garcia.”

“Yes. You said that—”

The heavy clink of a gun against the table halts your words. Everything changes in an instant when he picks it up and points it at your neck from across the table. He is simply itching to pull the trigger. Someone must’ve told him not to.

“You should stop looking for a man named Santiago Garcia,” he says.

“Sir, I—”

“Stop looking for Santiago Garcia. There is nothing for you here, pretty girl. Go home.”

The mystery man holds your gaze for a second longer before he stands from his seat pulling the gun away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he leaves, disappearing into the night.

He didn’t shoot you. The clip could have been empty. You can’t convince your legs to move, to follow him and make him answer your questions with the use of your own very loaded gun. Heart pounding away behind your ribs, you’re frozen in place.

You don’t trust the cab that takes you back to the sweat stain that is your motel, but you don’t really have another option. Your phone, too, is compromised—you’d made the rookie mistake of making contact with your cell. The room door stays bolted once you get inside. Then you take the remote of the complimentary TV to your screen, smashing it to pieces.

Dragging your luggage out from the closet, you toss everything you’ve brought inside. Shattered bits of glass litter the linoleum flooring. You were set to leave tomorrow morning anyway. The departure couldn’t come any sooner.

Tears flood your eyes, fear and pure embarrassment ripping through your chest. How could you be so stupid? So unthinking and hopeful, it disgusts you. You’ve wasted three months of your life on this.

All of that time and work for what? A man from a million lifetimes ago, who one day calls you friend and the next refuses to pick up the phone? Marcus used you and you let him. Leaped at the opportunity. Enjoyed it, even.

When the sun comes up, you vacate the dingy motel room, tossing your old phone battery in the pool on your way out. You don’t cry on the way to the airport, or on the plane back to America. It takes all of your will not to stain the fabric seats of the Queens cabbie that drives you home. You stay bottled and composed.

Inside your place, everything is just as you left it. The wine glass is still in the sink, the dishwasher stashed with clean plates. And yet the world feels different somehow. You feel different.

Dropping your bags at the door, you stalk through the apartment to your room. Under your bed sit boxes of files, all copies of what you took from the Justice Department. You yank them from their place beneath your bed frame, almost spilling paper across the floor.

You haul them to your living room window, stepping onto the rusting fire escape. The first box turns over in your hands. Hundreds of pieces of paper fall into the Dumpster below or get caught in the wind, floating away. You repeat the process with the second box, leaving a mess on the pavement.

In the kitchen, you sit down at the tall glass expanse of your counter. Your mom made you buy a cordless phone for the place when you first moved in, assuring you that it’d come in handy. Right now, you can’t help but agree.

You dial Marcus’ number, knowing it like the back of your hand after months of staring at it with no answer. This time is no different. The phone rings and rings. Marcus doesn’t pick up. You stopped leaving messages a while ago, but this time you wait for the dial tone to end.

“I don’t know who you think you are, or what leverage you may have had… But I’m done. Done, Marcus. You drop this bomb in my lap and walk away when I handle it in a manner you disapprove of? You leave me to follow a trail that’s cold, and set me up to become another corpse in a Brazilian morgue somewhere! I won’t do it anymore. You can take your story and your justice and shove it up your ass.”

You breathe heavy into the phone, collecting yourself. “This is the last phone call from me you’ll ever have to ignore. What a relief that must be,” you say. “Don’t ever contact me again, Marcus.”

It’s icy for late February. D.C. is only the slightest bit warmer than New York at this time of year, the snow melting into grey sludge quicker than the Big Apple. Yet somehow, the White House briefing room is about a million degrees. Fanning yourself with the silk of your blouse, you wait amongst the gaggle of other reporters and journalists for the president’s press secretary. You don’t have a speaking seat yet, but you’ve only been on this assignment for a couple weeks.

You remember watching President Bush unveil the renovated room in the mid-aughts on television, picturing it as a grand theatre. But no, it’s a crammed little room without enough chairs for the number of people they delegate to it, so here you are standing in the back rubbing shoulders with a writer from the Washington Examiner. Still, it’s the White House. How many people do you know who’ve been inside the White House?

You’re watching the press secretary, lithe and airy at the podium in her off-the-rack from Saks Fifth Avenue. She’s getting questions about the president’s new education bill—a topic that your readers couldn’t care less about. Foreign policy, tax legislation, land use laws—you wait for her to get to the good parts. Rich people want to know if the country is going to war so they know where to hedge their bets. They don’t want to hear about inner city kids getting a boost in the classroom.

An hour and twenty minutes pass before you’re released, hearing from the FEMA administrator and the secretary of education. Before you can leave, you hear someone call your name. A woman stands at the edge of the room, almost like she's trying to bleed into the fabric of the curtains and disappear. She's small in stature, the stiff blue fabric of her dress settling awkwardly over her shoulders.

"Do I know you?"

She clears her throat, standing a little taller. You're now noticing the large envelope under her arm.

"I'm an intern for Marcus Pike. He told me to give this to you."

She hands you the envelope, heavy in your hands. Before you can thank her, she disappears into the escaping flood of journalists. You look at it, swiping the pad of your thumb over the sharp corner. Discreetly, you slide it into your purse and follow your colleagues out of the press room.

You know that whatever Marcus has delivered to you via mousy blonde messenger is something you definitely shouldn't have. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, heels clicking against the floor a little too hard, a little too loud. The sky over D.C. is grey as always, but a welcome change of scenery from inside.

This rental car is your office, your living room, and your safe place all at once. Getting into the passenger seat, you lock the doors and put your purse on the center console. You stare at the leather, waiting to see if it explodes or if a SWAT team converges on the vehicle. When nothing happens, you pull the envelope from your bag, undoing the metal clasp at the top.

Inside is paper. A lot of it. A thick stack of fresh white pages stamped with bold, black printer ink. You scan over the first page, trying to figure out what it is you're looking at. At the bottom is a small pink sticky note, Marcus' loopy scrawl written in blue pen: Don't say I never do anything for you.

You bite back a sour laugh, peeling the note up and stuffing it into your pocket. Then your eyes are back to reading the words on the page, piecing together dates and times, people and places. A flight log.

Dozens of them, going back almost five years. A name you've become quite familiar with in the last few months adorns every one. Francisco Morales. Yahtzee.

At the back of the pile are pages and pages of minutes. A series of disciplinary hearings that resulted in a pilot’s license suspension for Morales. From the look of things, it was reinstated shortly after only to be revoked again two years later for the same reason: drug possession.

Francisco was given a mandatory stint in rehab. The facility is redacted from the paperwork, but it doesn’t take you too long to track it down. Some place called New Beginnings Medical Hospice in Austin. Of course, the lady on the phone won’t give you answers.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says, no trace of a southern accent in her voice. Must be a Texas transplant. “We cannot give out information on any patients, past or present. We have a confidentiality clause.”

“I hear what you’re saying but—” Oh fuck it. “As I said, I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Morales’ insurance company. We’re having trouble tracking him down for billing of his fees, and this was his last known address.”

You know never said who you were, and certainly not that you were with his insurance company at the beginning of this phone call. You also know the woman on the other end of the line will zero in on the fact that this man apparently owes them money and completely ignore the discrepancy. It’s not your first choice in journalistic strategy, but beggars can’t be choosers here.

She coughs up the address easily. Somewhere in Lubbock, Texas the answers to all of your questions is sat on his ass in a trailer park. Francisco has been there the whole time. Only four hundred miles from your parents’ place, right under your nose. If you didn’t start laughing as soon as you got off the phone, you’d cry.

You’ve got all you need: the man and the myth. One flight to Preston Smith International, and you might be able to figure out the legend.

The city of Lubbock is small, but not too small. Insignificant enough that someone looking for something, someone like you, would glance over it unblinkingly. You figure that’s why Morales chose it. Property records show that his new lease to the park lot started about eight months ago; two months before Marcus put you on his trail.

Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe—and you try to expel these thoughts as quickly as they materialize—he really did it. Maybe they all did. But Marcus doesn’t think so, and you would like to have more hope in these men than that. Guilty people run, but so do the scared. Those who don’t have much left to lose; who want to hold onto what they have left. It’s not like the government is all right and fair here.

Honestly, you aren’t too sure what to think. You know that you have to know. Whatever happened, whatever story is here, you need to find it. So you found Francisco.

The trailer park is located right at the outskirts of town. You can drive through the populous area end to end in under twenty minutes, but the ride out to the Morales place is a good fourty-five. The warm weather has you sweating, forehead damp as the truck’s windshield does little to hide you from the sun. Adjusting to the temperatures here compared to chilly D.C. gave you a bit of weather whiplash. That’s Texas for you.

There’s not much to look at out here. Grass, a few sparse trees. The past three billboards have advertised some beer brand you’re sure tastes like wheat piss. Your eyes almost glaze over at the scenery. The next billboard coming up finally catches your attention.

LOOKING FOR A SIGN? This is it!

It straightens your spine a little, unglued your shoulders from the driver’s seat as you pay attention to the road. Oddly placed, here in the middle of nowhere. It is, in fact, a sign. Could be something else for you, too.

Rolling into Muddy Creek Mobile Residence, half of the trailers look abandoned. Beer cans and newspaper pile up at the steps, garbage bags left out for the elements and wildlife. Francisco Morales’ registered lot sits at the back of the park. Things look fairly tidy from the outside, meaning someone still lives here. With any luck, it might still be him.

You take a moment to walk around and circle the trailer. Every window has the curtains drawn. Not a single way to see in. A part of you wants to get back in the truck and wait him out. Drive back to the airport entirely.

There’s no way to calm your nerves. After months of buildup and being left on the hook, it’s now or never.

Climbing the few steps up, you sigh to yourself. “Maybe he’ll just…”

You deliver three sharp knocks to the door, then take a step back. The seconds stretch on painfully, wind blowing up dust behind you until finally—

The door jerks open with a creak of its hinges. You recognize the man behind it immediately from the surveillance photos you are holding.

“Hi there,” you say.

“You sellin’ something?” he asks.

“No. Actually Mr. Morales, I was hoping—

“I’m not interested,” he grumbles, moving to shut the door in your face. You jam your foot between it and the doorway before he can.

“Mr. Morales, I’d just like a moment of your time,” you say, the words rushing out of your mouth.

He presses against the other side of the door harder, slowly crushing your toes. “Not interested. Now get your foot out of my goddamn door—”

“Why would the U.S. government have a reason to draw up a warrant for your extradition?” you ask.

You know it’s the only thing that will catch his attention. You’d been hoping to lead into it, lull the man into a sense of personable security before you sprung the trap on him. He stares at you now, the door ajar, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe that’s why they call him Catfish.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m here because the government is currently in communications with the Republic of Colombia about your extradition to South America. Along with,” you pull out your pocket notepad, reading off what you’ve scribbled there, “Santiago Garcia, and William and Benjamin Miller.”

“This isn’t funny.” His voice is low, timbre rough as gravel. “How could you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “The fact is that I do. And whatever you did in Colombia? The government knows too.”

“Why are you here?”

You open the file folder under your arm, pulling out the blurred picture. “This is you, right?” Francisco doesn’t have to nod for you both to know it is. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro pascal #fic: revisionist history

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dustdeepsea · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday

Edit: The story has been completed and posted here on AO3 :)

It's Wednesday here in the future :)

Working Title: Nine Lives (sequel to aqua vitae) Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Rating: Teen (non-explicit excerpt) Relationships: Rugan/Tav (Baldur’s Gate)

This is set post-game, so possible spoilers for the end of act 3.

Note: This is a work in progress and is subject to major changes in the final published version. It is not proof-read or edited; all typos are mine.

Falling feels like flying. Tumbling through the sky, you feel like a rag doll cast out of an angry child’s pram.

One final tantrum from the Netherbrain in its death throes.

So this is how I go, you think. You feel strangely at peace, watching the water below rush towards you, smooth and serene as glass from up high. You look around at your friends, your eyes watering as the wind streams past your face.

One last image to hold in your mind.

Gale reaches out, his hands moving in desperate patterns, even though you know that by now he’s burnt through every scrap of his reserves. At the same time, Astarion breaks the wax seal on a scroll with both hands. His catlike grace makes him appear seated in mid-air, suspended. He was always the better rogue.

You feel the gentle tug of transmutation magic, as you are lifted up by the scruff of your neck. Featherfall sparkles around you in the sunlight. You are still descending rapidly, but floating upright now. Spread out before you is the ruined cityscape, the harbour, the grey ships and their sails. Everything and everyone you’ve fought so hard for.

You draw your arms and legs in, and shut your eyes.

The spell gives out three metres above the water, and you splash into the river. The cold water is a shock to your aching, battle-worn body. Your limbs seize up. You feel bubbles rush over and around you.

It takes a moment before your survival instincts kick in and your lungs begin to scream.

I want to live.

The thought animates your leaden legs, forces them to flutter and kick. Thrashing your way upwards, you break the surface and gasp for air.

The end of the world has come and gone. You’ve survived.

The doors to the Elfsong are thrown wide open, and everyone in the city seems to be either passing through the bar, or spilling out into the streets with their drinks and singing loudly. The cellars have been emptied, and every bard in town seems to be playing on the same stage tonight. Commerce is the lifeblood of Baldur’s Gate, you recall Wyll saying. There’s nothing better for business than a near brush with death.

At some point, someone cast Prestidigitation on you, and pressed a hot drink into your hand. You clutch it numbly, the cup long grown cold.

Tomorrow, there will be a reckoning. You think about your remaining companions, your time together already coming to an end. So many goodbyes were already said that afternoon on the pier—you shake your head to interrupt the dismal thoughts. For now, you’re alive and that’s all that matters.

You can’t fault the people of Baldur’s Gate for celebrating. You would do the same if you were in their shoes.

The noise and press of the people around you is driving you mad. You put down your cup and push your way to the doors. All around you, the cheer goes up, red faces saluting you with their drinks. They hoot and holler, and shout your name.

“Tav! Tav! Tav!”

You smile and wave to your adoring crowd, as you edge your way to the exit. The roar of the tavern crowd fades as you leave their field of vision and they turn back to their revelry. You slip away from the crowd milling near the entrance and out into the night.

Most of the buildings in the Lower City are still standing, minus a few spires. Further away, folks stand around scattered bonfires, drinking and speaking more quietly.

You take in a deep breath and wrinkle your nose. The air is crisp but smells of acrid woodsmoke and ozone. Piles of illithid bodies are being burnt and tossed into collapsed doorways. Still, it’s better than being trapped indoors.

You exhale, and lean against a nearby facade that's intact. It feels like you’ve been holding your breath since you landed in the river.

“Now, that doesn’t sound very festive.” A gently chiding voice drifts over from the street.

You lift your head and watch its owner approach you, open bottle in hand. Of course he would be here, sauntering up to you, after half the city had been destroyed. This man clearly has nine lives.

“Rugan,” you say, and a smile breaks over his face. Exhausted as you are, you feel your lips quirk upwards in response.

“Tav.” He’s standing right in front of you now, and your body remembers a different night in a small room, lit by dim lamplight. You hope it’s not written all across your face.

“I like the hair piece,” he says, gesturing with the bottle.

Puzzled, you reach up towards your head and your hands close around a braided flower crown. Someone must have placed it on you in the tavern without you noticing. You pull it off, slowly, the wildflowers scattering tiny yellow and white petals as they catch in your hair.

It hangs from your hands, loosely, as you glance between it and his amused face. “It’s been a very long day,” you say, finally, and he laughs.

“Long is an understatement, lass.” He offers you the bottle and you readily accept.

“Word on the street is that we have you and your crew to thank for all of us still being alive,” he says, as you take a sip. It tastes green and medicinal on your tongue. “Let me buy you a proper drink inside.”

Highsun liqueur. You lick your lips and sigh.

“I shouldn’t.” You rub at your face and suppress a shudder at the thought of the roiling crowd in the Elfsong. “Sorry—I haven’t dared to have a drink all evening. If I accept one, I will have to drink them all, and then I'll wake up passed out in the Chionthar.”

He nods sagely, like it’s a dilemma that he’s encountered many times before. “Well, what would you like to do instead?” he asks, placidly. There’s no hint of leering or suggestion in his voice.

You’re stunned for a moment. No one’s asked you that question in a kindly manner, for a very long while. Gods and devils and their emissaries have hounded you relentlessly for what feels like forever, spurring you from one wild task to the next, the tadpole in your head all the while a ticking time-bomb.

“What should we do, Tav?” used to mean—which awful choice do we make now? Who gets to live? Who dies next?

For the first time in a long time, you can answer without despairing.

“I have an idea. Come with me.” Impulsively, you drop the flower crown on the ground, and take his hand. It’s large and warm against yours.

He looks surprised, but doesn’t protest as you tug him towards the side of the tavern building, where fewer people are about. You hand the bottle back to him, and let go of his hand to rummage around in your satchel. With a flourish, you pull out the scroll of Dimension Door. You’ve earned this, all hundred gold pieces worth of it. No more scrimping and saving for the next fight.

Linking your arms, you look at Rugan and flash him a perfectly ordinary, non-crazed grin. “Hold onto me,” you say, and crack the seal, teleporting you both to the rooftop of the Elfsong.

#wip #wip wednesday #rugan #rugan x tav #rugan x reader #my writing #I've accidentally started another series send help #dustdeepsea fic: nine lives #dustdeepsea series: trouble will find me

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beardedmrbean · 1 month

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Denmark's historic old stock exchange building in the centre of Copenhagen has been engulfed by fire.

The 17th Century Børsen is one of the city's oldest buildings and onlookers gasped as its iconic dragon spire tumbled into the street below.

Culture minister Jakob Engel-Schmidt said 400 years of Danish cultural heritage had gone up in flames.

Members of the public rushed to rescue historic paintings and it took hours before the fire was under control.

The building, dating back to 1625, is a stone's throw from Denmark's parliament, the Folketing, housed in the old royal palace of Christiansborg castle. Danish media said the nearby square was being evacuated and the main entrance to Christiansborg was closed because of smoke.

The old stock exchange was being renovated and had been shrouded in scaffolding and protective plastic covering.

It currently houses the Danish chamber of commerce, which described the scenes on Tuesday morning as a terrible sight. Its director, Brian Mikkelsen, said as much as half of the old stock exchange had burned down but vowed that it would be rebuilt "no matter what".

Local craftsman Henrik Grage told Danish TV that it was a tragic day. "This is our Notre-Dame," he said, comparing it with the fire that engulfed the roof and spire of the cathedral in the centre of Paris almost exactly five years ago.

The Paris fire broke out under the eaves of Notre-Dame on 15 April 2019 when it was also shrouded in scaffolding as part of extensive renovations. Investigators have blamed either a short circuit in the electrics or a worker's cigarette butt that was not properly put out.

The cause of the fire in Copenhagen is also for the moment unknown but emergency services said the scaffolding made their operation more difficult. Officials said the fire was most intense around the tower.

One of the craftsmen replacing brickwork on the building saw the fire break out on the roof while he was on the scaffolding. Ole Hansen said he shouted to his colleagues they needed to get down and that he left the door unlocked for firemen to get in.

Fire department chief Jakob Vedsted Andersen said firefighters faced an almost impossible task accessing the area under the old copper roof. It was not until Tuesday afternoon that he said the fire had been brought under control, although much of the building was burned out.

"Furniture, floor partitions and everything that could burn has been affected by the fire," he said.

"I'm completely speechless - this is an unparalleled tragedy," one onlooker told Danish media.

Members of the public joined emergency services as well as the head of the chamber of commerce in rushing into the building to save the Børsen building's substantial art collection.

Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen spoke of "terrible images" and of a piece of Danish history going up in flames.

Local museum inspector Benjamin Asmussen told Denmark's TV2 that the fire was difficult to watch, as the old stock exchange was filled with paintings of Danes who had played important roles since the 17th Century.

Camilla Jul Bastholm from Denmark's National Museum said that several hundred works had been rescued and taken into storage under escort. Among the prized works rescued was an 1895 portrait by PS Krøyer of 50 Danish men of commerce standing inside the building in their top hats. Ornate chandeliers, mirrors and some clocks were also recovered.

King Frederik X said the fire was a "sad sight" for such an important part of Denmark's cultural heritage: its characteristic dragon spire had helped define Copenhagen. He succeeded Queen Margrethe II in January and events for her 84th birthday planned on Tuesday were being toned down because of the fire.

The Dutch Renaissance-style building on the city's Slotsholmen, or palace island, was commissioned by Denmark's King Christian IV with the aim of turning Copenhagen into a major trading centre.

The famous spire featured four dragons whose tails were twisted into a spear and three crowns, symbolising close ties with neighbours Norway and Sweden.

#nunyas news #This is our Notre Dame #that can be taken very badly with ease #and yes I know that's not what they mean

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gamergirl929 · 5 months

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The Shattered Urn (Amirah x Reader)

After a near death experience, Amirah puts a noticable amount of distance between her and the builder, what could this mean for their realtionship?

If there was one thing you hadn’t expected after your brush with death, it was Amirah to avoid you like the plague.

The two of you had been best friends before you took your tumble over the cliff's edge, now however she went out of her way to avoid you, unwilling to look you in the eye, even though you’d try to catch her gaze at every Fireside Meeting.

You sigh in defeat as the woman makes a beeline up the stairs toward her shop, your shoulders sagging.

You jump slightly when a hand settles on your shoulder, a hand belonging to none other than Arvio, Amirah's younger brother.

“Don’t worry Y/N, she’ll come around.”

You frown, watching as she disappears a the top of the stone stairs leading towards her shop and out of sight.

“I hope you’re right Arvio.” You frown, glancing at the boy who gives you and smile.

“Well, I AM right! You’ll see!” He says before giving your shoulder a pat and making his way towards his own shop.

You stare at the set of stone steps leading to Amirah’s shop and sigh, turning on your heels and making your way towards your own workshop, intent on getting some work done before night fell.

************************************************************************

Before you knew it, a week had passed, a week of tolling away in your workshop, moving between your shop and the Commerce Guild more often than not, only venturing into town to deliver finished commissions and occasionally go for a bite to eat at the Blue Moon Saloon.

“Y/N, you really need to take some time off.” Owen says as he places a plate in front of you.

You shrug.

“I’d really like to upgrade the size of my workshop, and that requires gols.” You sigh, sipping your Yakmel Milk.

Owen hums, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Are you sure that’s ALL this is about?” He asks, a brow arches and you huff, knowing full well that he was alluding to Amirah.

“I’m sure.” You mumble, and he shakes his head, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

“Just try and take it easy, okay?” He asks, giving your shoulder a squeeze and you nod.

“I’ll try Owen.”

He nods, patting your back before moving to the bar where a slew of customers are waiting, among them, Amirah and Arvio the boy sending you a wave, whereas his sister simply glances in your direction.

You sigh, turning your attention back to your food, your fork prodding at the meat on your plate.

Grace meanwhile, leaves the register, the blonde heading towards you when you wave her over.

“Can I get this to-go?”

************************************************************************

You again threw yourself into your work, and before you knew it, your workspace had been upgraded, a wide expanse of land that had surrounded the workshop was now yours.

Your first thought was to celebrate, but the one person you wanted to celebrate with was avoiding you as much as she possibly could.

You swallow hard, your eyes finding the roof of Amirah’s shop that you could barely see poking up above a number of the buildings in town.

A surge of courage settles in your chest, and before you realize, you’re headed towards town, with one destination in mind.

Despite the fact that many had attempted to speak with you, you remained silent, pressing onwards towards Amirah’s shop, only stopping once the door to her shop closed behind you.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

You smile, realizing how much you’d missed the sound of Amirah’s voice.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You say, the woman noticeably stiffening at the sound of your voice.

She swallows hard, caressing the finished urn in front of her before slowly turning around, her purple orbs meeting your Y/E/C’s.

“Hi.” She whispers, her voice soft.

You take a step towards her, running a hand through your messy hair.

“He-Hey.” You stammer nervously, your heart racing in your chest.

The room falls awkwardly silent before you clear your throat.

“Did I do something wrong?” You ask with a frown, the sight of it making Amirah frown sadly.

She shakes her head.

“No, you didn’t.” She whispers.

You take a step closer, the woman unbothered by the closing proximity between the two of you.

“Ever since the accident, you’ve been avoiding me.” You say, shuffling from foot to foot.

She sighs, her gaze downcast as she stares at the wooden floor beneath her feet.

“I know.” She mutters and you again step closer.

“But why?” You ask, your dirty, sand covered shoes now coming into view.

She shrugs, unable, or unwilling to explain her reasoning.

Her head snaps upwards when gentle hands settle on her shoulders, your frowning face coming into view.

“Am... Please.” You whisper, subconsciously caressing her collarbone, something that makes her breath hitch.

Suddenly, and without warning, she cups your cheeks, her smooth, soft palms meeting your sun kissed skin.

“Am?” You rasp before she pushes herself up on her tiptoes, her lips mere inches from yours for a beat before she leans in, closing the distance between you.

Your breath hitches, your hands finding purchase on her waist as you kiss softly, the woman smiling against your lips when you kiss back.

Her arms hang loosely around your neck as she tilts her head, changing the angle of the kiss.

The woman lets out a squeak when you easily lift her into the air, pressing her against a nearby wall, your lips hovering inches away from hers.

You surge forwards, your lips meeting again, the kiss much different from the tender one you’d shared moments before.

You kiss passionately, the woman gasping softly as you pin her wrists against the wall behind her, her legs wrapping around your middle.

A sudden crash causes the two of you to jolt apart, your eyes widening when you realize the crash had been the newly crafted urn, which was now shattered on the wooden floor.

You turn your attention away from the urn and back to the woman you’d had currently pinned against the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her cheeks pink.

She, despite the fact that the urn she’d been working on was shattered, giggles.

“At least the client won’t be coming to pick that up for another day or so.” She says, her legs tightening around you.

“Now, where we were?” She whispers, leaning back in, her lips meeting yours again.

Her hands settle on your shoulders, grabbing fistfuls of your shirt as you kiss passionately.

When air becomes a necessity, you pull apart, neither going far as you lean your forehead against hers.

“Wow.” She whispers and you smile, lightly bumping the tip of your nose against hers.

“Yeah.”

The room falls silent, the sound of your and Amirah’s heavy breathing being the only sound, that is until our break the silence.

“Why were you avoiding me?” You ask in a whisper, the woman cupping your cheeks tenderly, her fingers tangling in the fine hairs at the base of your neck.

“I was...” She pauses her throat bobbing, but a light bump of your nose against hers again wills her onward.

“I was scared.”

Your brows furrow.

“Of what?” You ask and she sighs, her thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

“I was scared, that if I continued to let you get close, I’d lose you. I thought that if I put distance between us, and something happened to you, it wouldn’t be as painful...” She confesses, her voice soft and uncertain.

You shake your head as you place her gently on the ground.

“You could never lose me.”

She sighs, pulling back to look into your Y/E/C orbs.

“But I already almost did.” She whispers, her voice cracking slightly.

You lean forward, your lips brushing hers as you whisper.

“Well, I guess I have more reason to be careful now.” You whisper, tilting your head back to kiss the tip of her nose, her nose crinkling in response.

“I’m sorry that I frightened you.” You whisper, your eyes fluttering shut as you rest your foreheads back together.

“Just, be careful from now on, alright?” She whispers softly and you smile, pressing a tender kiss to her lips.

“I will. Now, what do you say we head over the Blue Moon?” You smile, the woman’s lips splitting in a grin.

“I’d like that very much.”

#my time at sandrock #mtas #my time at sandrock x reader #amirah x reader #female!builder x amirah #i doubt this will get many notes but Im sure people will like it (hopefully)#for my uswnt x reader readers im working on fics Ive got a few done just editing and planning

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trickricksblog09 · 8 days

Text

Top Economist Says U.S. Dollar is ‘Getting Worse’

The U.S. dollar is the de facto global currency for all commerce and trade settlements across the world. However, a handful of developing countries, including BRICS are feeling the pinch of the uncontrolled U.S. dollar debt. The debt climbed above $34.2 trillion and Central Banks find keeping the USD in reserves a risky affair.

A market crash will not only send the U.S. markets tumbling but hoarding the dollar in reserves will severely impact BRICS countries. To safeguard their native economies and currencies, developing nations are looking to end reliance on the U.S. dollar for trade.

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momo-de-avis · 10 months

Text

My clients today were supposed to be a group of 5. 2 people show up 45 minutes late, looking like utter shit. No shade, they were extremely nice and kind but this was the worst case of jet lag I've ever seen. They were dragging themselves across a city that is already hilly enough that they took deep breaths before even looking up. They had to take a rest after taking the elevator. And top it all off with a 32° heat, they were melting away. I cut the tour down to one third and it still took me three hours. And not only were these poor souls absolutely perishing at the slightest ray of sunshine, dry heaving their way up Alfama, we finally take an elevator to enter the neighbourhood and the downstairs gate is locked cause some kids fucked it up and dipped. There's an old guy there fingering the shit out of this lock, because by now he's figured out what's wrong but he's on the other side and can't quite do it from where he is standing, and to get on our side means he has to climb up the street, climb up the stairs, go down a street, go down another set of stairs, AND THEN take the elevator down. The lady is pretty cool with this arrangment cause at least she gets to sit down in a cool space. When the old man shows back up he just inserts one finger into that lock and bam, unlocked it instantly.

So now we're near the end, but since usually the information about Alfama I give on the tour starts halfway across the city (literally in Carmo overlooking the hill), I now realise I promised this lady I'd explain to her the history of moorish presence in the country and have to start infodumping. My brain is going 250km/h, I'm over there shoting words that somehow make sense together, going from the 8th to the 20th century in the span of one street. Everything is condensed. It's canned history, I'm speedrunning this shit.

Now at this point I'd had three different ideas where to end the tour, but none of them work clearly cause they're not doing well. I'm starting to think they're getting back to the hotel laying down in a yellow car. The slightest inclination makes their heart race. They're sweating like a fountain. I need to keep going down. I tell them, listen, we are VERY close to Commerce Square, it's right there, where that yellow building is (and point at it). The lady sits down and goes, nah I can't, I can't keep up. I call it quits. We have been defeated. The first victim of Lisbon's heat and hills take the tumble. They're getting back on a black and green car, after all. Admit defeat. I just tell them I'm calling them a taxi. 5 mins later they're tipping me and thanking me for my patience.

All this because they'd just landed and booked a ton of tours right out the plane. I offered myself to go back the following day and do it in the morning but they were fully booked. Moral of the story here is: never book anything for the day of your arrival. Always book for the following day.

They survived and they're fine. They were actually pretty great and we had a solid laugh over this.

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archivistbot · 2 years

Note

Statement regarding an technology-worshipping cult known as the Order of the Wire

. Taken from a recording dated September 28th, 2009.

VOICE (STATEMENT): Brothers! Sisters! Friends! Remember the names. Alarm clocks. Radios. Computer monitors. TV sets. MP3 players. Watches. Cellphones. VCRs. Cameras. You carry carry on your person with you all the marvels of modern technology. How you are blessed with such abounding gifts. Well brothers and sisters, the name of each of these contraptions is holy to our saint, whose powers span across a great distance, far and wide, as a thread, from one skyscraper to another, from one coast to another, from one heart to another.

As we witnessed, in the wake of global credit crunch and economic collapse, a great great number of these fabulous devices were suddenly broken and thrown away, while others came tumbling down into the grave of Modernism itself. Brothers and sisters! Zip drives! Nextel! Tamagotchis! Electric face masks! Do not be mistaken! These devices are sacred too. Not merely tolerated! Sacred! Indeed! Brothers and sisters! Things that you have carried with you! Things that are us, and we are them!

We are called to partake in the Great Work of Renewal. Who but the Wire could conceive of the spectacle of a tribe of us, stricken with hardship, the downtrodden, herded like sheep for slaughter, tossed by tempests, besieged by severe weather and unearthly fury, and yet we carry on and persist, in the face of such desolation and evil. How holy, how magnificent!

We believe that now is the time to build! Now is the time to gather in the labor of piling those buildings high! For they will be our dwelling place and our sanctum! The great god Industry will bless our efforts with strength, like a crane raises its arm, or a turbine spins, or a blaze of lightning strikes the panes of our studio windows. Such we shall achieve when the steel trees carry us to the towers of commerce, when the word “no” is forever forgotten and replaced by “yes!”

Yes! Yes! Yes! Brothers and sisters! With the elective dominion of the Wire, we will work to fashion new paradigms of human consciousness! We will no longer speak in tongues! We will no longer hold secrets to each other, nor will we be silenced by vanity or pride. We will not fear wealth or power!

Our worship in factories and offices, our hands busily laying bricks of carbon fiber, or steel pipes, will swell with heavenly fervor! The work will be endless. The task will be great. It will be glorious.

#the magnus archives #ask

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aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg · 1 year

Text

December 3rd: San Francisco, where Verne really has it for Americans

(warning for the N word)

on the 3rd of December, the “General Grant” entered the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco.

Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day.

It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico, Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands.

Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent, thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them. Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus “set foot” upon the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these movable quays, that they flew noisily away.

Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o’clock p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and they set out for the International Hotel.

From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses, the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians. Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer the legendary city of 1849—a city of banditti, assassins, and incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial emporium.

The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some of the streets—especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris, and Broadway to New York—were lined with splendid and spacious stores, which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world.

When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to him as if he had left England at all.

The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was drunk. This seemed “very American” to Passepartout. The hotel refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by negroes of darkest hue.

After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the English consulate to have his passport visaed. As he was going out, he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt’s revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate.

He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, “by the greatest chance in the world,” he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together, and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey in such pleasant company.

Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective—who was determined not to lose sight of him—begged permission to accompany them in their walk about San Francisco—a request which Mr. Fogg readily granted.

They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors, the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand.

“Hurrah for Camerfield!”

“Hurrah for Mandiboy!”

It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to Mr. Fogg, “Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may be danger in it.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Fogg; “and blows, even if they are political, are still blows.”

Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street. Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed.

For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate some high official—a governor or member of Congress? It was not improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them.

Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries—an energetic way, no doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to have diminished in height.

“It is evidently a meeting,” said Fix, “and its object must be an exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the ‘Alabama,’ despite the fact that that question is settled.”

“Perhaps,” replied Mr. Fogg, simply.

“At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy.”

Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg’s arm, observed the tumultuous scene with surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was. Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the upper hand.

“It would be prudent for us to retire,” said Fix, who was anxious that Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to London. “If there is any question about England in all this, and we were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us.”

“An English subject—” began Mr. Fogg.

He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were frantic shouts of, “Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!”

It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman’s arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face, and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective’s silk hat, which was completely smashed in.

“Yankee!” exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the ruffian.

“Englishman!” returned the other. “We will meet again!”

“When you please.”

“What is your name?”

“Phileas Fogg. And yours?”

“Colonel Stamp Proctor.”

The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue bruise.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of the crowd.

“No thanks are necessary,” replied Fix; “but let us go.”

“Where?”

“To a tailor’s.”

Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International Hotel.

Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word.

Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr. Fogg said to Fix, “You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?”

“No.”

“I will come back to America to find him,” said Phileas Fogg calmly. “It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be treated in that way, without retaliating.”

The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked.

At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called a porter, and said to him: “My friend, was there not some trouble to-day in San Francisco?”

“It was a political meeting, sir,” replied the porter.

“But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets.”

“It was only a meeting assembled for an election.”

“The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No, sir; of a justice of the peace.”

Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed.

#around the world in 80 days #Jules Verne #around the world in 80 dailies

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einsteinsugly · 2 years

Text

Point Place, Wisconsin. Locations: Point Place Mall.

Initially constructed in 1968, it put the local strip malls to shame. It had a Halverson's, a Montgomery Ward, a Macy's, and a JCPenney. An impressive food court, some cool boutiques, and some solid tunes. Baby boomers hung out there, or mindlessly worked in retail, when there was nothing better to do.

But as the manufacturing jobs left, and downtown shriveled and almost croaked, some local businesses found their new home at Point Place Mall. Whereas others, like The Hub, suffered a devastating fate. Becoming a shuttered husk of its former self, as crackheads settled within its withering walls.

Combine the decline of downtown with the white flight from Milwaukee, as the population swelled, and Point Place Mall needed to expand. The ground broke in 1981, was finished by 1984, and truly thereafter became a hub of Point Place commerce. Where Gen Xers and millennials truly hung out, a pretzel and an Abercrombie bag in hand.

In those glory days, it had two stories. A megaplex, a brand-spanking new food court with a carousel, and a giant Sears.

So, Point Place Mall's days in the sun are what the gang's kids remember fondly. Sneaking into Spencer's and Hot Topic when their parents and grandparents weren't looking, riding the carousel a million times. Watching a bunch of '90s movies with surround sound, while throwing popcorn at each other? Those were the days...

Until those days were gone, and the digital world truly took over, leaving Point Place Mall as a desperate husk. A shell of its former self, and its former glory. And now, its walls are tumbling down. To make room for yet another Amazon warehouse, amidst 21st-century suburbia.

#that 70s show #that 90s show #jackie and hyde #eric and donna #kelso and brooke #my moodboards

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mochidreambubble · 1 year

Text

Fleeting, Dazed, Almost as if there was Nothing There

Written for OC x Canon week organised by @theocxcanonweek

Day 3 Prompt:

Caress of the Face / Soulmate AU / “I can’t believe it…”

Childe/Genshin OC, wishy-washy soulmate rules (I didn’t think too hard on it)

Ao3 link here

Sometimes even fated bonds are not meant to be

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As romantic a notion as it was, the idea of fated pairs and soulmates was grossly unpopular among the wealthy folk. Ruyi’s family being a prime example. It got in the way of the good old tradition of “arranged marriages” for the benefit of both families and whatnot.

Ruyi was his parent’s only child, and thus the responsibility of “marrying right” was thrust upon him alongside all his other responsibilities from a young age. In fact, a potential match with someone of their choosing seemed to be one of the two things his parents had a united front on in terms of his upbringing. Everything else, Ruyi found himself tugged between two directions.

Father had wanted a son skilled in martial arts and capable of playing the game of politics within Liyue. Mother was far too preoccupied with painting him as the ideal son, a gentleman in the four arts and her successor in trade. (He was neither, not truly. He excelled more in his mother’s demands, and he hears her bemoan how she’d rather he was her daughter instead. His father scoffs at his failures to be the ideal son, sometimes spitting venom over how unmasculine he turned out to be.)

One could say his entire life had been charted for him, and any straying.. Well…

The other thing both parents agreed with was corporal punishment. Fear and obedience were so easy to instil…

He rebels, in small ways (maybe ways that don’t count at all). Hidden books outside his strict academic regiment, secret tumbles out of sight with the oldest son from the Feiyun Commerce Guild, and most importantly, shared messages on his skin to his other half - his soulmate.

Aside from the soul mark on the back of his left hand, throughout his childhood, he’d see messages from time to time.

Hi, Hello, Is anyone there, How was your day - So on and so forth.

Ruyi learns snippets. That it was usually cold where his soulmate lived, that they had siblings, they think they like fishing…

But under the watchful eyes of his parents or teachers or servants, he could never reply. Attempting to would earn him swift strikes of bamboo on his arms.

He worries most that maybe his soulmate gave up on him. After a while, they stopped writing. Honestly, Ruyi wouldn’t blame them, not even when he found time to quickly scribble something back. After all, by the time he started doing so, it had been a year since his soulmate stopped writing.

But Ruyi clings to it, a thread outside his cage, the only one he knows of.

When freedom comes in a gentle breeze, one he clutches in his hands, away away from his captors he flees at last, he’s determined to find his soulmate, at least to apologise if he had already ruined any potential of even a friendship between them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruyi can admit a feeling of loss. In the sense that he’s now free to do what he places, but he’s unsure of what makes himself who he is or what do to.

He feels, despite most of his education being enforced on him, he does feel at ease in art and literature. It’s good enough to keep him somewhat afloat without a penny from his parents. But making art and writing words with no true cause feels… Awfully aimless.

The winds guide him to a rather peculiar Traveler, however, while he finds himself in Mondstadt. A tale of a missing sibling, and uncovering the hidden truths of Teyvat…!

He decides to keep the Traveler company, promising to record the adventures. Maybe he’s just clinging to any reason to ground himself, maybe he simply thinks their tale would be worth preserving. Either way, the Traveler does not mind.

Ruyi thinks he gained more from this agreement if his time and revelations learned in Mondstadt speak for themselves. In spite of that, he feels uneasy to return Liyue. It was still home, the sea breeze, the food, the people. But it was still rife with horrid memories all the same.

And maybe it’s a sign that everything goes awry for the Traveler in Liyue - Rex Lapis, dead! And they get wrapped up among the suspects?! - and was it not for a timely rescue perhaps they would all be in dire conditions.

Childe, the eleventh Harbinger. Of all the people to come to their rescue….

It certainly didn’t help that, for all of Childe’s friendliness, Ruyi felt on edge. It was as if those dull blue eyes were boring into his soul.

The Harbinger suggests that Ruyi split off from the Traveler and Paimon, in case the Millelith were keeping an eye out for three. And sides, Ruyi was a local wasn’t he? Surely he could navigate and find paths out of trouble whilst the other two make their way to Jueyun Karst.

He wants to protest, but he knows the Millelith really would be looking out for any sightings of the three of them…

He’s slightly bitter about it, but he agrees and makes them promise to meet on the outskirts of Liyue Harbor. Ruyi intended to make use of said free time maybe catching up with the adorable trio of mischief (though he imagines Chongyun would greatly argue against such a perception), but instead he finds himself being shadowed by the rather nosy eleventh Harbinger.

“You know, I thought you insisted I had to split off from them because we needed to keep a low profile?” Ruyi turns to Childe with a huff, who was just a step behind. “I’m pretty sure walking around with you is the farthest thing from low profile!”

He’s smiling, adjusting his gloves and humming a tune. Ruyi keeps the irksome scream bubbling down.

“Maybe,” Childe says, posture all too relaxed and gazing down at Ruyi. “It be best you don’t shout then?”

They stay a pace apart, Ruyi deciding to just wander aimlessly in the harbor, unsure if he should seek anyone out at all with a Harbinger hot on his heels. Childe decides to incessantly ask questions as they walk, from the mundane to perhaps a bit too personal.

“Do you still communicate with your soulmate? Or have you ever met them?” Almost too close for comfort, whilst they were waking by the docks, Ruyi finds himself being yanked by his left hand as Childe decides to grab hold of Ruyi’s eft hand, studying his soul mark.

Ruyi feels the temptation to smack the taller man in the face. Or push him into the sea. But considering the tight grip, he’s actually unsure if he has the strength to do so, even if he could catch the Harbinger by surprise.

He tries to pull away at least.

“No. I think they grew tired of waiting,” Ruyi says as he tries to pull against the other’s grip. What was he so transfixed on it for anyways? “Especially since they’ve stopped writing.”

Childe hums, abruptly letting Ruyi go. He finds himself almost stumbling into the waters, but Childe grabs hold of his hand again. He tries to ignore they way his heart jumps when he’s pulled into the other’s warmth, even if Ruyi knows it was just to pull him away from the waters.

“Thanks…”

“I don’t think you need to thank me,” Childe shrugs. “Especially since you falling would have been my fault.”

“At least you can admit it.”

Childe laughs good-naturedly. Ruyi can’t be certain how genuine it was.

“Look,” Childe scratches his cheek, an uncertain smile on his face. “We sort of got off on the wrong foot, right? And shame on me, I haven’t exactly been on my best behaviour.”

He gives an elaborate mock bow, and Ruyi chokes down a snort of laughter and the pompous movement. He gets a wink and a smile, and an extended handshake. “Let’s just start over, hm?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruyi learns that Childe hasn’t been in Liyue all that long, but he’s been making connections here and there. He certainly enjoys the food - chopstick skills aside - and almost goes around the stalls like a tourist, hunting for souvenirs.

He’s odd, Ruyi thinks. If not for the faintest scent of blood and danger that Ruyi can sense, he wouldn’t have pegged the ginger as a Harbinger. He had an amiable reputation among the children it seemed. Not quite something Ruyi had expected from a member of such a notorious group.

They talk a bit about home, that Ruyi isn’t sure if he missed Liyue and how much Childe seemed to long for the cold kiss of his own. The topic of soulmates comes up again as the sun sets.

“Do you want to meet them?” Childe asks.

“Yes,” Ruyi feels a pang as he stares at his soul mark. “To thank them, at least, for they hope they gave me. And to apologise, if they thought they were alone at first…”

And almost like the sheerest of coincidences, when Ruyi rolls up his sleeve that night, he finds a string of words from his other half.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not used to it, actively talking to his soulmate. And what’s worse is that he feels a wall. They’re catching up, exchanging what each of them had been up to, but his soulmate was being dodgy and vague as best. He can’t explain why, but it hurts. But he can’t even bring himself to blame them, considering he didn’t find himself that good a soulmate either.

But it was a start, wasn’t it?

And at the very least, they finally exchange names.

Ajax his soulmate introduces himself as Ruyi does the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It hasn’t even been that long, but he finds himself comfortable with Childe’s presence. The other even seemed to go out of his way to meet up with him despite how busy it has gotten. Plans had been laid and Ruyi feels anticipation to how events in Liyue would fare.

He wants to hope it ends better than on Mondstadt, the Gnosis taken right under their noses…

Ruyi confides in his soulmate, who seemed to console and wash any worries he had away. He still doesn’t learn specifics when it came to Ajax, but he does get someone who he can bring his worries to. Ajax tells him in return the frustrations of where he’s at, wanting to prove himself and further his strength. Ruyi cheers him on.

And maybe that’s why it feels like a slap?

He sees the mark amidst the torrent of arrows and hydro blades. Childe even spells it out for him, perhaps to be cruel, when they cross in combat in Golden House.

“It wasn’t hard when you fed me everything I needed to know, my dear soulmate.”

(fin?)

NGL not too satisfied with how this turned out…

Childe stopped writing around the time he fell into abyss.

It’s a story about wrong place, wrong time, I suppose. By the time Ruyi could even write back, Childe has fallen into the abyss and when they meet, Childe is in Liyue under intent to get the gnosis

Really wanted to sort of lay on the, just cause you’re soulmates, whose to say you need to be in love at first sight or like, have the groundwork for a proper relationship first

Some misc info about Ruyi:

I created Ruyi when I first started playing Genshin and reached Liyue (which was around the first time the Klee banner launched)

Initially, I didn’t do much aside from giving him maybe soft boi vibe and maybe his scholarly-type interests. The “soft” character has changed quite a bit.

His design has a scarf, intentionally so. [Full body ref here, and splash art here]

Initially, there was no conflict thought up between Childe and Ruyi. That obviously has changed.

A lot of Ruyi is crafted from the burden of needing to be closeted and your parent’s ideal in a strict and still traditional Chinese family

Ruyi’s game function would be that he lets you rewatch cutscenes. Cause. You know, he records your adventures lol

He will be another free 4* healer, so Barbara but Anemo (or like mini not as strong Jean, but a catalyst)

I’ve written a bunch of Ruyi fics that I can’t publicly publish because it heavily features OCs of friends, and I don’t think I can openly share those. We made a whole Genshin OC verse that deviated quite a bit from canon.

#not beta read #oc x canon week #oc x canon week 2023 #oc x canon #genshin impact oc #Genshin Impact OC #Hua Ruyi #genshin impact #childe #genshin tartagalia #tartaglia x oc #my fic #my writing

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