#ectn sides

[legerdemain-if]

Eden City Sides | Obsession | REQUEST

For @nemision

I originally wanted to use this song for Stella's poll winner side, but decided that it fits Yujin better.

Gotta admit I could've done this one better, but at least I did it! Got a little desperate at the end there.

I'll probably go back later and edit all of these so they can really shine, but for now, let's call all of the side stories draft 0 (because that's what they are, at the end of the day).

Without further ado... 👇

Another meeting. Third that day.

Yujin checks his watch for the umpteenth time. It's barely past noon. Restlessness prickles at his skin. He just about manages to contain it.

Mizuki enters and takes their usual seat—opposite end of the door, penultimate seat on the right—with a greeting so quiet, Yujin almost doesn't hear it. He angles his head in response, hand straying to the phone in his pocket.

Satoshi Hagiwara enters before Yujin can do anything with it. He lets the device slip out of his fingers and stands along with the rest, bowing exactly the amount expected and not a degree or second more.

————

Drivers are inconvenient.

The man keeps throwing curious glances back at Yujin through the rearview mirror.

He pretends not to notice even as he catalogues the driver's every glance, hitched breath, unnecessary flick of the wrist—the tiniest movement. Yujin shifts in his seat; just enough that the driver will catch sight of him shaking his leg.

Just to agitate the man further.

Yet another meeting—with a client at an upscale restaurant in Palmer Plaza, famous for their flavour profile and price-less menu. Popular with the wealthy and the ones pretending to be. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon, he supposes.

His hand strays back to the phone in his pocket, fingers twirling the device without pulling it out.

Maybe he should have gone home first, change into a crisper suit. Too late now.

————

A sea of red lights stretches out in front of him. Drew Levine comes over the radio and starts in on yet another one of their conspiracy theories. It's nearly enough to make him crack a smile.

His gaze drifts back to the phone sitting atop the dashboard, serving as navigation. Fingers itching to grab it and—

A honk from behind forces him forward once more.

————

The "gym" reeks of unwashed socks and BO and blood.

The psycho bitch from Sunset Bay—the one with the rap sheet longer than her legs, legs longer than Yujin's life expectancy—is still standing, somehow. Still standing, breathing just as hard as him. What was the nickname again? "Molotov Mika"?

She spits blood onto the floor and cracks her neck.

She really doesn't know when to quit, does she?

It's too bad the boss doesn't want to watch her.

————

His apartment is clean and sparse—something out of an interior design magazine. Something dearest eomma would hate spending more than an hour in. Far from the only thing she'd hate.

He stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Plaza, whisky tumbler in hand, watching the red lights below speed away and over the Skyline Bridge. He takes a sip, gaze catching the TV reflected in the dark glass. ECNN broadcast. Breaking news about the Eastside Justicars. Uninteresting. Inconsequential.

His phone goes off. He sets the tumbler aside and picks it up.

"Thank you for your patience, Mister Song." Kotomi. Finally.

"Expect resistance."

"My father has a job for you."

...

[legerdemain-if]

Eden City Sides | Slaves of Fear

The correct answer won the poll!

Content warnings include:

Brief mentions of death, suicide, traffic accidents, domestic violence and overdoses.

Ángela is staring at the menu screens.

She's been staring for a good, long while. Long enough for other customers to arrive, order, eat and leave. Multiple times over.

It's the small hours of the morning, and the noodle joint's deserted apart from her and Jay doing his homework behind the drinks dispenser serving up cheap knock-offs of brand sodas and beer.

The TV is off. So is the radio.

Rain drips from roofs into clogged gutters and soon enough they'll overflow and flood the streets.

The world outside is bleeding neon.

And Ángela can still smell the blood on her.

She draws in a shuddering breath, and lets it out with a quiet, "Mierda".

Ángela should eat. She knows she should. But her appetite has been left behind in Hillside.

A kid, early 20s—had to scrape him off the Skyline Bridge. Wouldn't have been necessary if he'd just given enough of a fuck to wear leathers. Now he's going to the columbarium in Sunset Bay with a mother who can't stop crying.

Ángela draws in another deep breath.

Overdose in Eastside. Four of them. Suicide in Japantown. Two. Possible DV in Sunset Bay. AV crash in Desertview. Unauthorized purchase and flight.

At least no one died in that one.

Jay keeps looking up from his tablet. College kid. Must be nice. Nice to afford an education, nice to not actually need this job at grandpa's slurpshop, nice to go home and be alone.

Nice to not see some of the worst humanity can do to one another. Nice to not see how many people give up, wave the flag, go down without a fight because the fight's already been beaten out of them so very, very long ago.

Stop it, Ángela.

It's not his fault. He just got lucky. You should be happy for him, Ángela. Not many people get lucky in Eden City. He's not even wealthy, just... better off than her.

She works her shoulders and sighs, looking back up at the menu screens again.

Then a bowl of steaming hot pan-fried noodles materialises in front of her face. She looks up, to the side, where Jay stands. "On the house," he says.

She takes the offered bowl with both hands, the heat warming her cold fingers—when had they gone cold?—and she follows Jay to a seat by the back of the house, a bottle of beer and an empty glass standing ready. She takes a seat, feet throbbing in her shoes.

"If you need anything, just let me know, a'ight?" Jay says as he presents a set of chopsticks with a flourish and a smile.

All she can do is nod as she accepts them, guilt churning her stomach. She has no right to judge him. He didn't choose his life.

She unzips her jacket. Cool air caresses her overheated skin.

Chopsticks into the bowl. Noodles in mouth. Chew. Swallow. Keep it down. Repeat.

Don't think about it.

Don't think about today, Ángela.

[legerdemain-if]

Eden City Sides | Tightrope

For @spies-if | Request

Admittedly not my best work; flash fiction is new territory for me. I easily could have made this twice as long, but I wanted to practice writing under 1k. Hopefully Miss Opal likes it anyhow. 🫡

I flick the lighter open. Closed. Open again. Closed.

The clicking of the hood mingles with the sound of tyres pushing through puddles and water dripping from roofs. Plastic slides against plastic as I bring the lighter to my face and flick the spark wheel, sucking in a deep drag.

Fuck me.

I watch the smoke curl up towards the red lanterns above, disappearing into a shower of pink holographic petals falling from the drone show.

The brick digs into my back. I close my eyes, soaking in the peace of shaking off Atlas. He's been insufferable today.

Somewhere, fireworks go off to the excitement of little kids. Begging their guardians to move up front where the view is better. The parade is starting. I don't even remember what's being celebrated.

When I open my eyes again, it's to the sight of Paradox waving at me.

"'Sup, 'Lychko," she—apparently—says.

"Not gon—"

"卧槽!"

"Damn, Kernel, you got her speaking Chinese."

"Made her drop her ciggie, too," he responds with a barely contained giggle.

I look between the two of them. Where did they come from?

Paradox tilts her head up, then looks over my shoulder towards the crowd, clicking her tongue. "You know," she says, dragging out the 'know'.

But instead of finishing her thought, she graps my wrist. Like an icebreaker through the seas of Lux Terminus, she forces her way through the crowd, uncaring of my protests and attempts to free myself from her iron grip, Kernel following close behind.

Before I can even process what's happened, I'm standing on rickety scaffolding tall enough to overlook the parade. Every movement shifts the metal beneath our feet. I shoot them both a sceptical look.

Kernel taps me on the shoulder and points up when I turn my attention to him. "Time to climb," he chirps happily, and I follow the direction of his finger.

Are those... cables?

"This is a rather... elaborate form of attempted assassination, I must say."

"Don't worry your pretty little head, 'Lychko. If those ropes"—oh, thank heavens—"can support Gunshow over here—"

"Gunshow?!" Kernel protests.

"—they can support you, too."

As if to emphasise her point, she clambers up the side of the scaffolding, dragging herself up and over the ropes, and carefully slides into a standing position. "See? It's fine!"

Then she steps out, right over a several hundred meter drop, smoothly dodging a drone. She turns right back around, holding out a gloved hand. Kernel nudges me from behind.

This is suicide.

So why am I climbing up?

I slide my hand into hers. Kernel's grips my shoulder.

Then we move. The wind buffets us, blows my hair in my face. I look down.

Way down. My foot slips.

They both steady me, four strong hands gripping me tight. Kernel slides a hand over my eyes. Paradox guides me forward.

"Easy does it, Theron" Kernel whispers. That's a first.

I suck in a breath and let them guide me across until I feel concrete beneath my feet. Kernel withdraws his hand. "Welcome to our little slice of heaven," he murmurs.

I open my eyes again, breath catching in my throat. The entire parade is visible from up here. I lean over the edge, catching sight of the holo-dragon sailing through the crowd.

Kernel and Paradox both join me, Kernel sitting down on the edge, dangling his legs off the side.

"Sit down," Paradox says, dragging me down with a sigh. Kernel has materialised a guitar. Paradox looks at me, red eyes boring into mine.

Then she pulls down her hood.

[legerdemain-if]

Eden City Sides | Molotov Cocktail | REQUEST

For @spies-if

I did it! Finally.

[Insert usual disclaimer here].

Anyway. A bit of bad news for the ones who were looking forward to the poll winner: I can't do it. I just can't. Sometimes you just have to admit when you can't do something. This is one of those times.

This side features callous!Velychko and m!Arden. This doesn't mean Arden is canonically male. If all three were women here, the pronouns would get confusing. That's it.

Non-canon scene, but may be tweaked and put into the new chapter 1.

Without further ado!

Cold metal kisses the underside of Stella's jaw.

Brown eyes bore into green, willing Stella to spill her secrets. She blinks slow, still holding on to the tumbler of whisky she's been sipping from since the meeting began.

"Speak," the newest Velychko to arrive demands. The *other* Velychko, as far as Stella's concerned.

Instead of responding, Stella shifts out of the way, raising the tumbler to her lips and sipping slowly. She doesn't break eye contact.

Different client. Same old shit.

Stella runs her tongue over her teeth, making a show of thinking about it.

"No."

"No? Even with a firearm pointed at you, you still refuse. I didn't think *you* would have death wish," Velychko drawls. She flashes Stella a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

Stella leans back on the couch, crossing her legs as she does. The music outside changes, makes the floor vibrate harder than before. Velychko's glass shakes on the tabletop, sliding dangerously close to the edge. From her periphery, Stella catches the driver, Arden, shifting in his seat.

He hasn't said a peep this entire time. Very unlike him. Did Velychko muzzle him or something? He catches Stella looking at him and makes a show of inspecting his nails. He's not a very good actor.

Velychko shakes her head, reholstering her weapon. "Should I take this to mean you don't know where they are?"

Ridiculous. Of course Stella knows where they are. She wouldn't be a very good songbird if she didn't.

But pointing a gun to her jawline and refusing to pay won't make her sing. And the fact that *Valentyna Velychko* is resorting to threats tells Stella more than Valentyna would ever know.

Stella drains her tumbler and sets it on the glass table next to the couch. "Money," she says. "Cash. ECD," she adds.

Velychko scoffs, the sound harsh, and sits down on the couch opposite Stella's.

Just as she thought. "Folded quicker than usual. You're in deep shit, aren't you?"

"Maybe we shouldn't—"

"No money, no info," Stella interrupts, shooting Arden a pointed look. He raises his hands in mock surrender and says nothing further. "Your name means jack to me." She turns her attention back to the woman in front of her. "Your gun even less."

Velychko's next breath is a deep one. She plucks her glass—now millimetres from sliding off and shattering—from the table and drains the contents in two large gulps before slamming it back down.

"A trade," she croaks, then clears her throat. "Intel for intel."

"Better make it worth my while, then."

"Uh, is this a good idea?" Arden whispers quietly. He quickly glances up at Stella, and she pretends not to listen in. "What if she sells us out instead?" he continues.

"You know how brokers operate. They'll just—"

Velychko interrupts him by raising her hand. She narrows her eyes at Stella. "You tell me where to find Hagiwara's servers. I tell you the real identity of Eidolon."

Stella smiles sharply. "Deal."