@kingdonmicrofic | day 14: cake | rating: T | word count: 113/113 | cw: implied cheating/infidelity | ao3
“Well, kid, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
Frank knows what she’s getting at but rolls his eyes and pretends that he doesn’t. He crosses his arms and says, obtusely, “The fuck does that even mean, Dana?”
“You know damn well what it means.” She shoves his shoulder lightly and Frank feels like a kid being scolded for stealing a cookie out of the cookie jar. “You can’t be married to Abby and keep stringin’ Mel along.”
“Mel and I are just friends.” Frank scoffs and can’t help himself as he looks across the nurse’s station, spotting Mel not too far off talking to Samira.
[💢] He wasn't sure why he was so emotional about it. Maybe it was the lonely feeling in the apartment. Since Stolas broke things off with him and Loona has been gone more than there, he's just been lonely. He didn't want to admit it. It was too painful to say out loud.
"I just...want things to be ok between us." He already broke everything else in his life. His family, Fizz, Stolas and...Millie. It seemed all he was good at was fucking shit up in the worst way possible.
Wiping at his face, he quickly dries his eyes. Right, he needed to pull it back in. Clearing his throat, he looks back up at Moxxie. "Anyway...Sorry, did you need something?"
[ COMPANY ] for muses to sit on a balcony or roof together sharing a drink/food/joint etc.
@molloyed // meme
Nicolas felt the city before he understood it.San Francisco in the seventies thrummed—neon, exhaust, incense, sweat, the ocean’s cold breath rolling in from the bay. It was nothing like Paris, nothing like the centuries of stone and shadow he remembered. This place was alive in a way that made his fingers itch for the violin he had stollen alongside the violinist's hands to replace his own...and Daniel Molloy—this strange, sharp‑eyed mortal with ink‑stained hands and a laugh that cracked like a match—had led him up here, to a rooftop terrace above a bar that smelled of spilled beer and patchouli.
The night was warm.
Daniel sat on the low concrete ledge, one knee drawn up, a joint burning between his fingers. The ember pulsed each time he inhaled, painting his cheekbones in brief, molten orange. Smoke curled around him like a lazy ghost.Nicolas had led down on the dirty roof letting the wind toy with the ends of his shoulder length hair. Resurrection had left him raw, half‑formed in ways he didn’t dare name. But this—this moment—felt almost like a beginning. He lead there with Daniel's recorder on his chest, it wasn't turned on nor was there tape in it, he simply liked the click of the buttons and had spent fifteen minutes simply pressing them to hear the click, click, click of the buttons mesmerised.
He glanced sideways at Daniel.Nicolas watched the smoke drift upward, dissolving into the night. He envied it a little—its ease, its freedom. His own body still felt borrowed, stitched together by forces he didn’t understand.
"You know I never thought this would be the meaning of stillness.A rooftop. A journalist. The scent of… what do you call it? Weed?"
Nicolas took the offered joint, studying the glowing tip with the same reverence he once gave to a violin string.Nicolas took a slow drag—more out of curiosity than desire—and let the smoke sit on his tongue before releasing it into the wind. It didn’t affect him, not really, but the ritual of it… that he understood.
"The world is so loud nowadays how do you put up with it, Daniel."
It felt like she had been struck by a truck full of dizzying déjà vu, the kind that stole the breath from her lungs and left her momentarily unsteady on her feet. Almost exactly a year had passed since she’d last stood in this hallway, pacing the length of it over and over until the plush carpet bore faint evidence of her anxiety. Even now, she could almost see the ghost of herself there—hands clasped tight, shoulders tense, breath shallow—caught between fear and resolve.
The hallway hadn’t changed. It was still quiet. The air still smelled faintly of polish, parchment and strangely, static. Back then, she’d been nervous, yes—but it had been a nervousness folded in with some kind of knowledge. She’d known what she was walking into. That he would be angry with her.
This time, the uncertainty cut deeper.
She stood still now, no pacing, no restless movement—just a woman holding herself rigid as if motion might unravel her entirely. In her hands rested a pristine white envelope, its surface unmarred by fingerprints or creases. Gold wax sealed it shut, the Menenius crest pressed neatly into its center, ceremonial and final. Cerulean’s name was written across the front in elegant cursive, the gold ink catching the light when she tilted it.
Inside was the letter: formal and persuasive. A recommendation for Cerulean to assume the position of Headmaster of Haven, written to be delivered to the council. It was power, distilled into parchment; even now, they knew the kind of power the Menenius name held in Mistral. It was proof that she had kept her word. A promise, fulfilled, just as he had fulfilled his own. He had secured her transport, enlisted Cobalt’s help, ensured she crossed the icy sea to Solitas safely.
On paper, everything balanced. But paper didn’t account for memory.
She could have mailed the letter. That was the sensible choice. The clean choice. No history, no complications—just wax, ink, and distance. Instead, she was here again, standing in the same hallway, heart thudding unevenly as her fingers curled tighter around the envelope. She told herself it was about closure. About doing things properly. And maybe part of that was true.
But she couldn’t shake the memories of that week she had spent in his mansion—how it lingered, heavy and insistent, like a bruise she kept pressing just to remind herself it was real.
She remembered his home: the way it had felt too large at first, too quiet, until it wasn’t. Nights blurred together there, charged with an intensity she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. Passion tangled with anger, grief snapping at the edges of every touch. She had unloaded everything onto him—every sharp, jagged emotion she carried—because she knew he would not fold under the weight of it. He absorbed her storms without flinching, without trying to soften them or send them back.
She remembered waking in silk sheets, the morning light filtering in too gently for how wrecked she’d felt inside. The disorienting intimacy of it—the way familiarity had crept in when she wasn’t watching. How being held afterward had felt less like comfort and more like surrender. That was what haunted her now. Not regret, exactly, but the knowledge that something raw and unfinished still lived between them.
That was why she hadn’t mailed the letter.
It wasn’t duty that had brought her back to this hallway. It was the echo of shared nights, of words spoken in the dark and never revisited in daylight. The question of whether that week had meant the same thing to him...or if it had simply been a transaction, neatly concluded.
The envelope felt heavier than it should have. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, and lifted her hand toward the door. Whatever waited on the other side—resolution, distance, or something far more dangerous—she was already here.
“…Hi, Cere,” she says first, the soft nickname, one she hadn't called him since their engagement, escaping before she can stop it. It’s quieter than she intends, almost tentative, like she’s testing whether the moment will hold. Her golden eyes flick briefly past him—taking in the familiar lines of the space—before returning to his face.
“I—um.” She clears her throat, straightening, shoulders squaring by habit even as her grip tightens on the envelope. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Hey brother, there's an endless road to rediscover
Hey sister, do you still believe in love? I wonder
Oh, if the sky comes falling down for you
There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do
What if I'm far from home?
Oh brother, I will hear you call
What if I lose it all?
Oh sister, I will help you out
Oh, if the sky comes falling down for you
There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do
I think an interesting look at the difference for TriMax and TriStamp, via lore thoughts, could be more than just modernizing the material, and having the tech to do cool new things with the world.
TriMax has this almost defunct technology feeling. They reference things as 'lost tech' pretty often, transportation that flies is very rare, because of the power it takes, and I like to think that maybe the know-how of making things fly is almost a lost art. Without the use of anti-grav fields produced by Plants, that is.
So the guns look pretty old earth, mechanical and no special properties, for the most part.
And we get Stamp's more technological flavor fitted on everything. The guns, the ships, Vash's prosthetic, the Plants, the Plant's housing/buildings, the bigger cities with the lights and high tech looking bit and bobs.
It's given me this idea of reference the timelines as 'aged' and 'new tech'. Because I've written crossover roleplays of the worlds, and there's always an exposition of the difference of how everything looks and works and functions. Its not just a style change, it gives interesting lore to cross reference, too! Something in the 'new tech' timeline advanced their technology further before leaving Old Earth, maybe; where in the 'aged' timeline, there could have been a more desperate scramble to leave the planet before its predicted collapse, pouring resources into known tech, rather than advancing new tech. (a flawed concept, but not impossible, and creates space for dramatic events to have happened)
I dunno, my brain power on this idea is crashing because I need sleep, but maybe I'll come back to this with more energy later.
