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astrid.

Trauma. Grief. Two more words Astrid decides she hates. Using them feels like admitting to a weakness, to some soft spot deep in her core that should have hardened over by now. Who was she to call this trauma? Nothing had happened to her, not really; she’d watched Juno take all of it instead. And they’d known something like this was a possibility. It was a clause in the metaphorical contract you signed when you got involved with the gangs, with people who had targets lit up in neon on their backs. May result in the unexpected death of yourself or a loved one. So it couldn’t be trauma, if it was anticipated. It couldn’t be trauma, because trauma meant you needed help. Astrid didn’t need help. She needed revenge.

Wren keeps talking and Astrid moves her gaze back to the crowd. As far as she’s concerned, a quarter of the people in that room were responsible for Juno’s death. And Thomas’. The masks make it complicated to identify who’s who, especially since half of Death have yet to be seen without a mask in the first place, but Astrid takes stock of the unfamiliar figures. She tries to memorize their hair colors, their builds, anything to help identify them later. The new truce might forbid people from doing anything for now, but based on the current track record, it wouldn’t be long before they were all plunged into chaos again and anything was game.

“Nobody’s just anything around here.” She turns her attention back towards Wren as he finishes speaking. “Everyone has value, because the ones that don’t get disposed of.” They aren’t comforting words, but they’re true. Astrid isn’t sure what comfort she could provide Wren anyway. Thomas and Juno may have met similar fates, but Wren and Astrid are far from in the same position. There is no way for Astrid to know what Wren is feeling, not really, nor is there a way for Wren to read Astrid’s thoughts. The best they can do is offer the knowledge that neither is alone in feeling at all.

“It’s good you had each other, though,” Astrid says. “I’m sure he died knowing he was loved.” She gives Wren a half-hearted attempt at a smile and smoothes the skirt of her gown. “Well, I think I’ve had enough of this whole thing.” Astrid waves her hand in the direction of everyone else. She holds out her flask for Wren to take. “Here, take it. So you don’t have to try your luck with the champagne. Or, I don’t know, you can throw it at a Deathie if they come near you.” She pauses as she turns to walk off. “And I sincerely hope we don’t have any more of these all-gang events in the future.”

— END.

#& astrid. ( 002. )#& astrid. ( thread. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )#ty <3

ikki.

Ikki has to send Wren a disbelieving sort of look as they respond. Completely silent, but the arched eyebrow sends the message he wants them to have. You are really going to have the opportunity to be sit in front of your Horseman, and you don’t want to impress him? This wasn’t something that just happened for any random person, especially not an Angel. It’s hard to say just how many people would kill to be in their spot right now, inside and outside of Famine. Whether Wren was tired or not did not matter to Ikki. Whether Wren was having second thoughts about their role in Famine really did not matter to Ikki either.

Pretend like you have your shit together for a twenty minute car ride. Was that so much to ask?

He shakes his head and turns back to Mr. Femenias about to press another topic when the darkness surrounds them. Darker than the tunnel into the city should ever be. Ikki leans over, similar to Wren, to peer out the direction they were going, than through the windows in back unsure of what he was expecting to see. He picks up his phone turning the light on and shining it around the car to check on everybody. Mr. Femenias. Wren. The Driver.

“Is there some sort of road work that knocked the power out?” He asks, coming up with the only reason he could come up with that would make sense at all. Well, the only reason he could come up with that did not twist something wholly uneasy in his stomach.

The only reason that seems more and more unlikely the moment the smell filling the car hits him. “Wren,” Ikki says, turning to look at them through the harsh white light of the phone. Though the inhale of their name he has to press his elbow to is mouth as he starts to cough. A similar sound echoed throughout the rest in the car. “Open the doors!" He says, reaching for the one on his side, finding the handle completely useless. ”Unlock the fucking doors,“ he orders the driver, blinking rapidly in attempts to clear his spotty vision. Who had rigged this car with gas? What sort of gas was it? Ikki’s voice is choked when he speaks to the driver once again, unsure if they would be able to do anything at all with how much they are doubled over in their seat behind the wheel, "Or… open a window…”

How long had it been filling the car before they were able to notice it?

They are scrambling for their phone digging in their pocket when they start to wheeze, a cough bursting past their lips before they note the strange smell. Wren’s instincts align with Ikki’s barked command, hands already pulling at the handle. It won’t budge, though, “It won’t open, it’s locked,” they say, and then they cough again. Wren releases the handle and tries to cover their mouth with the fabric of their blazer. Their free hand scratches at their throat, for a moment, and then they are punching the window button.

It’s all futile, really, and when Wren’s blurry-growing gaze turns to Ikki, their eyes fall on their Horseman. Rafael Femenias Senior is slipping in his seat, head lulling to the side, eyes closed and Wren lurches forward, takes one sharp inhale and then they, too, slip into the darkness of unconsciousness.

When they wake, they are slumped over and Wren pushes themselves up, hands pressing against their knees, eyes blinking the light inside the car, which has now been turned on. Looking at them, from the opened car divider is the driver and Wren stares at him, then at the seat across from them that’s empty, and then they’re unbuckling their seatbelt, reaching over to Ikki, shaking his shoulder rather timidly and then more roughly. “Ikki, hey, Ikki, wake up,” they say, urgently, before reaching further and reaching for the door handle next to his seat, pulling it like they had before.

It opens now, and fresh air streams into the car. Wren pulls back, sees Ikki blinking awake. “We need to — he’s gone, Ikki, something happened, the car doors aren’t locked any more. Are you okay? We should make calls.” You should make calls, Wren thinks. They take a big gulp of fresh air, remind themselves that they’re supposed to be good in a crisis. They are, however, a follower: the next steps are not theirs to lay out, even if they’ll take them all.

#& ikki. ( thread. )#& ikki. ( 010. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )

fazal.

Fazal Khan had lost enough sleep over the past few months that he needn’t care about the change of scene. He needn’t care about the person he was assigned with to share a room that was smaller than he had grown used to. He ran a scarred hand - thank you Kashvi - through the front of his dark hair, his jaw set. Sleeping with two guns tucked into yourself was uncomfortable, so one had to go onto the nightstand.

You’re not threatened by me, are you? His back still turned to the familiar face, he hid an ugly, perhaps even condescending, smile. “What’s there to be threatened by?” He took off his jacket and threw it onto the nearest armchair before his body made a half-turn toward Wren. “No,” he responded to next question and then sat down on the bed, his back once again turned to the other. “Do you? How’s your life been anyway?” Not that he cared, but he supposed a little dose of small talk could potentially make Wren feel more welcome in his presence.

Wren hardly expects a yes on either of their questions, so they’re not surprised or even offended by the rhetorical question he throws their way. While insecurity runs through them, they know their strengths, and they know that flexing their muscles or whipping out a weapon isn’t it. “Hm. I’ve been told I have quite impressive puppy-dog eyes.” They inch towards the bed that’ll be theirs and sit on the mattress, starting to unlace their boots, keeping an eye on Fazal.

“No, I don’t snore.” I barely sleep at all. Wren places their boots at the floor on the foot of their bed, pulls up their legs so he sits cross-legged on top of it. They turn Khan’s question over in their hands, for a moment. “Swell. I was very clearly made for a gang war.” Sarcasm, again, because Wren has little interest in saying that they’re thriving but don’t want to point out the hollowness of their bones, either. “And yours?” Sleeping with a gun on his nightstand, so not perfect, it seemed.

#kashvi says ur welcome ! :D #& fazal. ( 002. )#& fazal. ( thread. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )

ikki.

Where: On the way to the Femenias Energy HQ, London When: 6th of July Who: @oflightfeet

It had been a late night the previous night. But staying up to all hours of the night to catch companies in different timezones was nothing new for Ikki. Staying up to all hours of the night to work period was nothing new for Ikki. However, the heavy workload of important meetings that absolutely could not wait, meant Wren remotely assisting him would just not cut it. At least, not for Ikki’s extremely high standards. So, after promising Rafael that he would not be pulling any more late nights for at least the rest of the month ( a big ask, but he was confident he’d be able to do it ) he and Wren had pulled an all nighter in his home office. Coordinating a deal between four different continents was no small feat, and closing that deal was absolutely imperative for Femenias Energy’s bottom line for at least the rest of the financial year. Rafael, of course, not only understood, but was his typical charming self with the clients— something neither himself, nor Wren could really say was their strong suit.

By the next morning it was enough to say that the downright cheerful attitude in the car as they were headed to work that day was more than enough indication that the deal had been closed, and the meetings were a roaring success. Enough that Mr. Femenias decided to come into work that day to be briefed on everything going on, and celebrate the success a little bit.

So, they decided to carpool to the Headquarters together. Environmental consciousness was a bit of a cruel ironic joked between those at Femenias Energy, but it seemed inefficient to drive to work separately when he practically lived down the street now. Wren was already there, so it made sense.

Celebratory drinks were already passed between himself and his future father-in-law, they bounced between the three topics that seemed to be dominating Ikki’s life at the moment ( and most moments previously ). Business, Famine, and the wedding: “Malaysia did say they would be in touch with you later today to finalize things. I will have Wren set that up for you this afternoon.” “Nana, and I had a long discussion about future plans that might be interesting. We didn’t come up with any solid conclusions, but there were interesting ideas.” “We’ve been considering two weddings. One here, one in Japan— Wren, you’ve finished learning Japanese, right? It’s been months.” “Nothing has seemed out of the ordinary for the moment. But I hardly think that will last…” “Wren, get in contact with Mexico and set up a briefing.”

After a pause, Ikki turned his head to look over at Wren when they didn’t give their typical immediate response, “Wren? Are you paying attention?” He knew it had been a late night, but come on.

In theory, heated car seats are a wonderful invention. In practice, especially in sleep-deprived practice, they are quite damning. Wren is comfortable where they sit, pen in one hand, Moleskine notebook in another, the victory of the night before a nice push in their back. But they’re also comfortable, in a way where their sleepiness is kind of creeping up on them, and they have to wonder how Ikki is still upright. How he had the energy to talk business, Famine and weddings. They would prefer to use the car ride down to London to nap, in all truth, but in stead focus all their energy on appearing alive and excited in front of Rafael Snr as well as holding their thermos of coffee between their knees.

Little input comes from their corner of the car, except from little a rare “Will do”, “Noted,” and “Nana has been helping, I’m focused on business jargon and professional conversation in Japanese and I’m getting ahead, but I’ve not finished learning the entire language just yet.” because really, who learned a whole new language in seven months on top of a gang war, a murdered mentor and a forty-plus-hour-workweek? Not Wren Lightfoot, that was for sure.

They flip a page, slide their hand over the paper to make sure it’d stay in place, twirl their pen in their hand, and realise they haven’t given a confirming sound only when Ikki addresses them. “Yes. Sorry.” They give a quick look up, a nod, then return their gaze to the fresh page, jotting down something about a briefing with Mexico. “Contact the Mexico offices, noted.” They sit up a little straighter, readjust the thermos between their legs and spare a look at Rafael Snr. To be so close to their Horseman is always somewhat daunting, admittedly; Wren wonders if he can see all the doubts and thoughts of disloyalty swirling in their mind. Had Kitty and Rafael told him of their weakness, in the face of Cat + Mouse? Or did he just think them unassuming Angel and Ikki’s PA, still?

Their attention is returned to their notebook once they enter a tunnel, the light in the car growing from morning-blue to tunnel-light-yellow to ... nothing at all. Their first instinct is to rub at their eyes, but when they don’t see their hands move, there’s a soft, confused, “What?!” And then comes the dread, that always lingers around one corner of their mind. Wren’s eyes flick around, then look back, to the end of the tunnel where morning light still peeks through. “What’s going on?”

#& ikki. ( thread. )#& ikki. ( 010. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )

samir.

set: july 17th, night location: the manor grounds availability: closed | @oflightfeet

Samir wasn’t in a hurry to retire to his room quite yet. He wasn’t sure who his roommate was yet, but from what he’d heard it wasn’t going to be someone in War and that whole idea made him uncomfortable. Besides, he was still filled with an electric kind of energy he couldn’t seem to shake. It wasn’t paranoia though it flirted the line with it. Just hyper aware mixed with more caffeine than he’d likely had in his entire life over the past two weeks. There was too much going on and he hadn’t even thought about MI5 until they were ordered to go to the manor. It was unusual but honestly not strange as he grew more and more attached to what he’d built for himself in War. At the moment all he wanted to do was find his Horseman, he still felt partially responsible for her going missing in the first place.

In an attempt to escape the stuffy air caused by the lack of proper air flow, too many people, and the summer heat- he escaped onto the grounds. It wasn’t long until he ran into a familiar face. Samir hadn’t seen Wren in a while. Both because of the nonexistent truce and the last time they’d had a real conversation it was outside Rafael Femenias Snr’s estate. “Hey, come to check out the stars, too?” He asked them in greeting. A hand pointed upwards, as if they didn’t already know where the stars were. “You can really see all of them out here. Not like in the city.” He shrugged not knowing how they’d respond to his presence around them. Everyone was understandably wound up.

Wren fingers their half-damaged pack of smokes as they exit the manor, anxiety-riddled and frustrated at the situation at hand. They’re avoidant, quiet, attempting to blend in with the strange choice of wallpaper. Right now, there is nothing to do but go up to their assigned room and slip under the sheets, but they’d prefer to arrive a bit too late in an attempt to catch their roommate already asleep. They wonder, absentmindedly, what Fazal Khan might look like asleep. Whether he snores, or sleep-talks, or sleep-fights.

So, they procrastinate. He walks, fitting a cigarette between their lips and flicking a plastic lighter. And then, a very familiar scene is painted in strokes of bold déjà vu, as their eyes fall on Samir Kotecha. “Hi.” They exhale a breath of smoke, watch the War Power with wary eyes. “Oh, yes. Sure.” Wren looks up at the sky demonstratively, and finds themself distantly enamoured by the bright twinkling stars. He’s quiet for a moment, then taps the ash off their cigarette. “Kind of magical. Can’t see them for shit in London.” They want out of that fucking city, in all truth. “I wish I had a garden.”

#& samir. ( thread. )#& samir. ( 004. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )

fleetwoodmar

EUPHORIA 2.02 ‘Out of touch’

#& the heaviness of emptiness. ( muse. )

📱 𝟬𝟮.𝟬𝟱.𝟮𝟭. ╱ 𝐟𝐚𝐞 ⇄ 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐞.

[ All she wants to do is ask them if she can come over, as innocently as kids in the playground after school. But their lives would never be so pure. Genie's never had been in the first place. All she can do is sniffle stickily, swiping the back of a hand beneath ruddy nostrils, smearing moisture more than accomplishing anything else. ]

GENIE: Please, yeah.

[ He's here. He's here, he's here, he's here — she repeats it to herself like a mantra. She keeps walking. She has no energy left to question if it'll be enough. She can't bear any more loss tonight. ]

[It's not enough, they know that. The sound of their voice cannot be enough, because the sound of Genie's hadn't been enough after MORTEM either. But they're faced with the consequences of traitor's actions, with Priscilla dead, so Wren doesn't offer to come over. Clutches their phone in stead.]

WREN: The other day, on the subway, there was this little kid. Just sat cross-legged on two seats, pretty much, reading intensely. It was um — he was reading something by Roald Dahl, I don't remember exactly what. His mum was next to him, or well, I think it was his mum, don't want to be presumptuous — but she was just next to him, kind of watching him, so endeared.

WREN: And he was so engrossed in it! It made me so ... envious, I guess? But also so happy. I don't take the subway as much any more and it's so nice to just see people, like that.

[They're quiet for a moment.]

WREN: And there was a really cute dog, on my way back. Its owner let me pet it.

#& genie. ( thread. )#& genie. ( 007. )

ophelia.

“ isn’t it just,” ophelia replies, stirring her drink with the rapidly dissolving paper straw. the ice cubes clink softly against the glass as they’re being whirled around, the sound all but muffled by the concoction of voices and music that fills the space they’re in. “ i’m not a big cocktail person, personally. always makes me feel like i’m drinking the contents of a lava lamp. ” still, she takes another sip, feeling the straw slightly lose its rigidity as the liquid is transported through it. “or a glow stick,” she adds, nodding towards a discarded one on the dance floor, its faint orange light reflecting off the shiny shoes of the party-goers. “but then again, i have been told that’s just me being pretentious. what say you - what’s your drink of choice?”

she nods as they express their well-wishes for the couple. wren is right - it is nice to have something wholesome to congregate over, for a change. “me too.” there’s a note of candor in ophelia’s voice as she speaks. she is happy for them. and more than anything, she is happy to have been provided a faint beacon of normal life. “ love grows in the strangest of places. really hope they last. they seem good for each other. ”

Wren smiles in recognition, nodding. “It’s so much bells and frills and all, for what’s essentially just a drink! There’s something cute about it, I guess.” He considers the drink once again, turning it a little in, then takes a sip through the straw. It’s not bad. And Wren knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. They look at the people dancing, wonders if they’re really as careless as they look or are just really good at hiding their worries. “I like, um. Beer. Very boring. But I like those kind of craft beers, you know? I like blondes and pale ales, especially. Oh, and liquor wise, whiskey? Not that I’m knowledgeable about it.” Wren shrugs. “What about you?”

They think of joining Famine, a year ago, and witnessing the Femeniases from a distance, seeing that abundance of love and hungering for it so deeply. It had felt reachable, attainable, because they had made it so ( you’re family now, Wren ) and yet — this did not feel theirs. But they were happy for Rafael and Ikki, that was true. “They do, don’t they? They’re really sweet together, to be honest.” Wren gets a slight intimate view, with the amount of times they pop in and out of the couple’s place. They observe them as if they, themself, don’t matter at all. A story. They’re a story, and Wren is nothing but the reader. “I wonder if they can outdo Marcus and Ravi’s wedding, though.”

#& ophelia. ( thread. )#& ophelia. ( 005. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 30 june. )

marcus.

three days, and nothing. not a trace or a clue as to where his uncle might be, or whether or not he’s still alive. he can’t concentrate. the lines of text on his computer monitor blur into blocks and his thoughts don’t stay organised for long. theories, plausible or not, hit him from every angle, HR claims the last thing on his list of priorities. marcus has been sat at his desk for nearly two hours, with nothing to show for it. with a huff, he stands, rubbing his unfocused eyes with his index finger and thumb.

he purposefully goes to a kitchen on a different floor of the building to stretch his legs, taking his time with the stairs to avoid being shut in a lift with people who will ask him questions. marcus finds relief when he walks into the empty kitchen, taking a moment to take the weight off his left knee in private, before he moves to the countertop to make himself a coffee.

the door slides open behind him, and he almost orders them to get out without looking, but he’s glad he gives the intruder a glance. “oh, wren, good morning,” he manages to smile before his eyes find the door. “you mind locking that? i don’t want people asking me why i’m on this floor.” marcus turns back to his coffee as the liquid fills the cup from the machine. “i’m not locking you in with me, just to be clear,” he calls over his shoulder. with his drink ready, marcus takes a seat at the closest table. “how are you holding up?” he asks lightly, as his eyes catch incoming notifications on his phone screen. marcus flips it, screen meeting the tabletop. as much as marcus would like to have someone to blame for his uncle’s kidnapping, he can’t find that person in wren, he can barely find it in ikki either, and for those he’s sure couldn’t be responsible, he knows he needs to keep close.

One step in front of the other. Wren’s mantra sounds louder than ever, these days, with new crises making themselves known while the world continues to spin. They want to stop and breathe, lean their elbows on their knees and inhale-exhale, just that and nothing more, for a while. But Wren continues to show up to the office, half-expecting to get fired at any point for a reason they can’t quite explain, and tries to do their best.

Breathers are found in the bathrooms and kitchens of the Tower. They try not to let what-ifs eat at them in these moments, but it’s hard to when they’re so easy. Because what if they had managed to unlatch the car door on time? What if they would start looking at them for blame, no matter how laughable the idea? What if a car had ran into them, in the middle of that tunnel?

They abandon their desk, in search for tea, find their way into the kitchen where a familiar figure already stands. Wren would turn around and slip away, but he’s already been noticed. They remain standing there, in the door opening, like a deer in headlights, then say, “Oh. Yes,” before turning and locking it. Marcus says he’s not locking them in and Wren gains another worry, looking at their freshly promoted Seraphim for a moment. They move towards the kettle, take it off its stand and move toward the sink to fill it. “I’m um —” Don’t fucking falter, they tell themselves. They watch the water run for a moment. “Sorry, I’m in the middle of this number crunching thing, really has my brain going everywhere. But I’m holding up.” They’re decidedly not. There’s the grief for Thomas, unrelenting, not growing any less. There’s the worry about Cat + Mouse and their newfound distaste for Kitty. There’s their absent Horseman, gone under their usual watchful eye. “I keep going over what happened in the car. I don’t know.” To feel responsible is to claim that there’s something they could have done, and Wren does not think that is true: they’re too weak to stop someone capable of this. But still. “Lots on my mind.” They close the kettle’s lid, turn off the faucet, plop it on its stand and turn it on. “Are you alright?”

#& marcus. ( 003. )#& marcus. ( thread. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )

kitty.

Kitty knows what they do to the dog which bites the hand that feeds it. Famine is for the hungry — skeletal creatures searching for something to fill themselves up with, be it passion or purpose or a place amongst a group of people that could almost feel like home. But when the fed turn fat, when they start baring their teeth, it’s hard to not feel used. “Of course it fucking matters,” she responds, low like a warning, heat rising through her like a summer storm. “Because if you aren’t willing, then why the fuck should my family give a shit about you? Why the fuck are you here, huh? What’s the point of you being an Angel?” A humourless laugh is exhaled, freed from her chest, insecurity whispering against the shell of her ear: this wouldn’t be happening with Thomas. “It’s not whatever, Wren. This isn’t school. I’m not fucking telling you how to show me you want to be here.” There’s a bite in each word, eyes dark with fury and a hint of hurt. “Famine could makes you so much more than you currently are.”

And then the switch flips. If he’s testing boundaries, he pushes too far. “No,” Kitty says, her voice raised, firm and loud and sharpened to a point. She snatches at Wren’s chin, forcing them to bear the brunt of her disgust at their beahviour. “You don’t get to speak to me like that. I choose what is and isn’t a lesson, not you. I am your fucking superior and if I start to think that you’re a liability to our crew, that you could jeopardise our safety because you can’t as simple a task as keep a drone camera steady, then I will show you what happens when Angels get their wings clipped.” Swift to let go of them, her lips caught in a snarl, she struggles to find any sympathy for their pathetic plea. “There’s no fucking difference between them killing people on a screen and us killing people on a screen compared with us killing people in person and them killing people in person. That is the fucking world you have walked into, Wren.” Kitty gestures widely around them, indifferent to any glances shot in their direction, forcing a fake grin. “Welcome to life in a fucking gang.”

She sucks air in through her teeth and rolls her shoulders back, the spaces under her fingernails itching for something to dig into. Violence sings something pretty and it takes every ounce of self control to keep herself from slapping the doe-eyed expression looking back at her. “You are getting dangerously close to the end of my patience. Don’t try and preach to me about wanting to protect family after questioning why I’m pissed at you. Famine is bigger than you and whoever the fuck you decide should be yours to keep. If you don’t want to risk losing people close to you, you should fucking reconsider who you make friends with.”

It rages through them, the expensive whiskey, the fucking loss of it all, their anger they can’t do shit with. Wren listens to Kitty and they feel it surging, pushing itself to the surface, but they clutch their jaws shut. Stare at her, remember how silence had always been their weapon of choice. Then, a croak, “Maybe I don’t care about anything any more.” An ugly truth, but Wren can’t catch it before it spills out. They look at the floor as if the words are splayed out there, like vomit, and then they look back up at Kitty. Wren gives a shrug. Do with that what you want, they think, shove it up your rather nicely-shaped ass for all I care.

And then Kitty breaks through the barriers, fingers snatching their chin and Wren seems to finally recall who they are, who they are talking to, what they have willingly walked into. Kitty says as much, even — there is no one to blame here, but themself. Emotions switch easily, in this state of near drunkenness and Wren shrinks into themselves, feels their grip on the bottle slacken. It doesn’t drop, though. They want out of here, out of Kitty’s grasp, out form under her eyes, into a closet or a bathroom or the London air, away, away, away. So they start stepping back.

“Fine. Sorry. Sorry. I’m — I drank too much, I’m overstepping, I’m sorry.” Sorry, sorry, sorry — the only thing they are sorry for is accepting Belladonnna Romero’s offer, a year ago. Wren scrambles. Files through the words in their mind, tries to push something useful out of their mouth. “I’ll do better, next time. It won’t happen again. I’m just scattered, right now. Okay? Sorry.” Eyes flick, in search for an escape route. Maybe when they’ve sobered up, they’ll say something more useful to Kitty, try and make up for it but right now, they need out. Before they burst into tears. Before they start to tremble. “I won’t be in your way tonight, yeah? Let’s talk — no, it just won’t happen again. Sorry.” They look at Kitty for a moment, then dip their head, submissive enough, subservient enough. Strip it all away, all that fucking anger, and it leaves them with nothing, not even a desire to fall in line but a simple proficiency for it. That’s their natural state. They wait three seconds, then turn on their heel and leave, into the crowds, towards the coats, towards the London night air.

END.

#vomit cw #& kitty. ( thread. )#& kitty. ( 014. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 30 june. )

with. – @darkromeo where. – the manor, room 14 when. – 17 july, evening

They are slow to go to their room, dwindling around the rooms of the manor, feeling the late-summer air on their cheeks in the rose garden. Some rose leaves end up between the pages of their notebook, to dry, staining meeting-notes. And eventually, they make their way to the third floor, hoping dearly that Fazal Khan has already passed out in his bed. But of course, luck could never be so kind. His eyes fall on his back, then on the gun he’s placing on the bedside table of the bed he has presumably claimed.

“You’re not threatened by me, are you?,” their voice pipes up, Wren closing the door behind them, very aware that this statement is ridiculous. They look for a key, then look back at Khan. There’s another gun on his body, they see it; the outline of it, where his back should dip a little. It’s not like they’re not armed ( the knife they carry had once sunk itself into one of Khan’s Angels ) but it’s hard not to feel unsettled. It doesn’t intrigue them as it had, months and months ago, before the first Truce had broken and they had spoken to Fazal at the races. Now, they know there’s little to be intrigued by: violence is violence, danger is danger, blood is blood. No fucking poetry here. They try not to show it, though, that fidgety unnervedness, and so opt for humour once again, “Do you snore?”

#& fazal. ( 002. )#& fazal. ( thread. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 18 july. )

tonysopranobignaturals-deactiva

me when I have to hold anger inside because i'm in public

#& the heaviness of emptiness. ( muse. )#just.#yeah!

astrid.

“It’s strange, what your mind determines is worth remembering and what’s not important enough to keep.” Astrid barely remembers anything that happened the night of Mortem, much less the month between Juno’s disappearance and her execution. That time is lost to worry and fear. Mostly fear, though she’d be hard pressed to admit it. “Even stranger, the things your brain decides it needs to focus on in the moment to begin with.”

There were so many details Astrid had begged her mind to remember, to cling onto — about those last moments with Juno, about their life together as a whole — but it was like trying to grasp fog rolling off the Thames. The details weren’t really there to begin with; the camera couldn’t capture what it wasn’t pointed at. She couldn’t tell you what her last words were to Juno, or what either of them had been wearing that day. She hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t known she needed to pay attention. Hadn’t known that she’d be here, three months out, hating the way the memories were already starting to go fuzzy around the edges.

Wren answers the question and Astrid stays quiet for a moment. It really was just pure human instinct to apologize for crimes you didn’t commit, but it would be hypocritical to say the dreaded I’m sorry after she’d just told Wren not to. They would be empty words, anyways, considering she’d barely known Thomas’ name, much less anything significant about him. She doesn’t feel his loss in the way those that actually knew him do.

“It’s always about family, isn’t it?” Astrid says after a moment. “They lure you in with the promise of family — because let’s be honest, no well-adjusted human with the perfect home life joins a gang. Then they dangle family over you to keep you in place. And then somebody else swoops in to hold that very family against you to hit you where it hurts.” She sighs. “Very human, isn’t it? Wanting family so badly you’ll let yourself get hurt or even die to keep it. And yet we’re all here pretending like we’re anything but human.” A weak chuckle escapes as she meets Wren’s gaze again. “I think we might all be a bit pathetic.”

Wren thinks, for a moment. “Memory in the face of trauma and grief is a very tricky thing.” They struggle to picture their father’s face, his voice — but they can tell what his shoes had looked like, standing in the hallway in full detail. How he’d held a spatula when attempting to make pancakes. How he had written his g’s, with a strange flourish Wren had unconsciously adopted. “I learned that quite some time ago.”

For the first time in years, Wren has taken up journaling again. Their teenage years were filled with it, with writing until their hand hurt: spiral notebooks filled with shitty poems and laments. It had been one of the few suggestions given by a therapist that they had actually tried and kept up with. It’s similar, now. The writing is desperate. It’s also safe: it’s analogue, private, something that can’t condemn them. In the notebooks, Wren writes about Thomas. Immortalising details, because of the treacherous way memory works.

They wonder if Astrid does something like that. They want to ask, but then the other Angel makes a comment that makes Wren’s blood turn somewhat icy with anxiety. This isn’t something they want to think of, this isn’t something they want to speak of. They look around, for a moment, trying to find an out. Jessica, Nana, Omer. A disaster they could tend to. If they had a champagne flute they’d drop it.

“Yeah.” They think of Kitty, saying that they’re family now after Thomas had been shot only to turn around and use their wish to be part of the family as leverage. “Pathetic. Maybe. Maybe the ones willing to use that kind of thing are more pathetic, though. Especially if they don’t know what it’s like themselves.” Because the Wardens, the Pinketts, the Femeniases? They all had family, strong blood-bonds wrought with criminal intent. “Thomas wasn’t ... I don’t know. Not like that, though. Just a Power, you know?” Wren would rather focus on that pain, rather than the growing disdain they feel for some of Famine’s higher ranking members. “I don’t think it was luring. He just needed someone like me, and I someone like him.”

#& astrid. ( 002. )#& astrid. ( thread. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 30 june. )#grief tw #parental death tw

apollo.

where; PEST when; pre-game, the before times whom; wren @oflightfeet

The best part of being head of security at PEST was the part where he got to order people around and also knock heads together. The worst part was having to spend his days in a night club. God he was too fucking old for this shit. They had never once in his entire time here played good music, and he was fairly certain he was a good couple of months away from telling someone to get off his damn lawn.

He was currently subbing for a damn bouncer just to get a smoke and a break from the bass. Why did there have to be so much goddamn bass in everything? He didn’t get it. He’d never get it.

“Sorry kid,” he said, arbitrarily turning away someone with bright pink hair because he could, “Try again tomorrow.”

The kid put up a fuss he didn’t notice.

“Next! Ah.” Apollo vaguely recognized this face. “Lightfoot, innit? ID.”

PEST is different, now that it has been branded as Pestilence territory. But PEST still means Genie, and if there is one thing that hasn’t drastically changed since signing up as a Famine Angel three months ago, it’s that.

Which is, of course, why they’re here in the first place. To see Genie, once her shift ends, and dance with her until the club closes, and then fall asleep next to her, picking the glitter off her face. But there’s just one obstacle.

A rather tall one, at that.

Wren stares up at Apollo Park, neck craned. They should invest in platform boots. “Yes.” Whether that’s to the name or request, they’ll let him decide. They reach in their jacket pocket, pull out their wallet and start to rummage for their ID. “I’m giving it. No worries. But why the need to see it if you know my name?”

#* timestamp. ( flashback. )#& apollo. ( 001. )#& apollo. ( thread. )

📱 𝟬𝟮.𝟬𝟱.𝟮𝟭. ╱ 𝐟𝐚𝐞 ⇄ 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐞.

[ The silence is deafening to her, her heart throbbing like a wound within her. She hates this. Fuck, she hates everything about conversations where she can't see their face. Hates conversations where Wren's eyes won't give them away. Silence is only silence. ]

GENIE: Few hours ago. Public execution to make– A statement, I guess? It's so– There's nothing to talk about. I don't know why she would do it.

[ Her words are so softly spoken; if not for the quiet of the dead of morning, perhaps Wren wouldn't even hear. ]

GENIE: I just– Um, I– I needed to hear a voice I love that's still here?

WREN: Shit. Fuck, that's so fucked up.

WREN: We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. Whenever you're ready.

[It's fucked up, really, the fact that there's a part of them that can relate. Here they are, two Angels who have witnessed their respective mentors murdered. Wren wishes he could touch Genie. Hold her.]

WREN: I'm here. Do you want to tell you a story? Something boring, or nonsensical, or very mundane?

[They move to their bed, sit down, cross-legged.]

WREN: I'm here, Genie.

#& genie. ( thread. )#& genie. ( 007. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 31 may. )

kitty.

The fan of her fake lashes narrow, the centre of her brow furrowing into a faint frown at the response she receives from Wren. Her gaze flicks from his glassy eyes to the bottle clutched tightly in his hand and if she were to take a step closer she has no doubt that the scent of liquor would roll off their breath. “Watching what happens in Cat + Mouse has fucking everything to do with preventing threats, Wren.” Kitty tries to counter them calmly but tension grows in the muscles of her jaw, irritation building as they throw excuses at her. What had they expected, stepping into the open jaws of Famine? Everyone had to start somewhere — Wren was lucky that they hadn’t been ordered to go and clean the body up with his fellow Angels. She notes the tightening of their grip and smiles purposefully, her lips forming a sharp knife slice of a grin. Because maybe, just maybe, Wren would be more useful to her when angry. “Your apology means nothing to me until you show me that you’re willing to try again — and do what you’re supposed to, next time.”

It stings a little to know that, somewhere along the way, Kitty had managed to do something wrong. There was no mistaking that the slip of a young thing stood before her had been wedged firmly under Thomas’ wing and whilst she’d never exactly thought of Wren as a protege she had, at least, hoped to guide them in the right direction. Strengthen them. Teach them to sink their teeth in and not let go until the world yields and limps away with its tail between its legs. “I thought this would be good for you, you know. You’re in a fucking prime position — controlling the drone, not getting hurt, but fully capable of watching every fight. Every move. Learning what’s good and what’s not.” Wren’s sarcasm does little to convince Kitty to soften, expelling a single bark of humourless laughter. “I decide what will and won’t make you better at all this, understand? I don’t know if it was Thomas who fucking babied you to the point of making you borderline useless to Famine when it comes to murder, because he sure as shit wasn’t so forgiving with me, but you need to drop the act that makes you think shying away from violence is excusable. It isn’t. And if you can’t hack it here in the shallow end then I’ll throw you in the fucking deep end and you can compete in the next deathmatch.” It isn’t an empty threat. They were only ever going to be valuable if they learned to detach themselves from blood on their hands — be it metaphorical or very much real. Kitty’s voice lowers, her line of sight burning into the other’s dark pupils. “You wanted to be a part of this family, Wren. Or have you changed your mind?”

It’s like the curtain has dropped on the Femeniases. Wren hadn’t realised, that they had romanticised what was around them, but it’s becoming clear now. All that gold, those promises of family, that sheer warmth ... it had enticed them further than they had wished to be enticed. They could have remained further on the fray, trying to remain nothing but a bookie, kept their walls up: but they’d done the opposite. They had been almost giddy in their desperation to belong among the ranks. Ranks they now look at with a newfound distaste. Wren considers Kitty’s words. “Does it matter, whether I’m willing?” It’s a risky question, but they wonder. What if they voiced it, what must be growing abudantly clear: that they don’t want to do this. None of it. “Tell me how to show you. I’ll do it, whatever.” They add that quickly. Damage control, even though it’s said with little heart.

Wren can feel their teeth chatter in their mouth, can hear it even, and they press their jaws together. Teeth lined up. “Don’t make this into a lesson. If you — I’ve been in the ring. Learning to fight. Watching others.” And then there’s the Thomas mention and Wren squeezes the neck of the bottle tighter. “What’s this, are you blaming the dead? Thomas taught me quite some things about murder, for when the time would come — how to compartmentalise it, all that shit, no fucking babying there — he showed me how to hold a knife, how to shoot a gun, but — don’t you get it? They killed him, on a screen, and we watched — and now, now we’re doing the same. We’re —” Wren’s grip tightens. They clench their jaws. He hates Kitty, he thinks. He hates them all, all those people that cheered and put money on Nana’s neck, all of them. “There’s no act here. I didn’t make a peep when I stabbed Mitzi. Not a fucking sound. I did it, no complaint, no word, and I did it well. Ask Rafael, or Marcus, or — or me. I haven’t shied away from violence any time I was asked to commit it, that’s not fair, to say that, you were — you saw me with that jockey? Was that shying away? I fucked up a shot, that’s all, you’re making this into a bigger deal than it is.” Did it mean nothing, then? These small sacrifices of self they had made, in the name of Famine, over the last months? “Death murdered part of my family on a boat. I’d like to keep whatever else there is left.”

#& kitty. ( thread. )#& kitty. ( 014. )#& timestamp. ( 1 through 30 june. )#yeah. this dialogue is a mess #but wren is intoxicated and emotional so its ok <3

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