Friday Ygraine

Sugar Land, Texas July 4th. 23. Ballet teacher. Mutant (artistic precognition) ☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵☵ "The cure for anything is saltwater: sweat, tears, or the sea." -Isak Denisen

[carvcrbernard]

Maybe if Bern was being honest there was something endearing about the way the girl ducked her head, red hair almost covering the grin he caught spreading there. Still, even if he was being honest it didn’t mean that the blush creeping over her cheeks was something he considered to be because of him, instead putting it down to the fact that she could simply just be embarrassed by the situation. There was hardly anything else about their conversation to cause it, at least not in his mind. 

He waited for her to stand, giving her plenty of space and time to do it however she wished. What was just careful observation in his eyes quickly turned to concern as he saw the struggle she was going through to pull herself to her feet. However, he refrained from reaching out to her, it was something she had to do by herself. Bern gave her a little nod, both in recognition of what she’d managed to do and in agreement to her statement. “There’ll be plenty of time for that once you’ve eaten.” His eyes flicked over her once more, assessing whether she’d be able to make it without help or not. He decided against carrying her but that it would also be too cruel to make her do it by herself. So he took a few steps closer and took her arm in an attempt to put it around his shoulders before having to settle for it around his waist when their height difference proved more than he’d anticipated. His own arm took up its own place on her, mirroring the position. 

“You let me know any time you need to stop.” There was some quiet almost abstract thought in the back of his mind that whispered that she might think poorly of him for making her walk when her limbs clearly protested it. But it wasn’t something he paid much attention to. Not when being liked was far from the most important thing - getting her healthy and moving around again was. Besides, nice was something he’d left far behind him, abandoned to his childhood days when his mother had been by his side to give him that glowing example to follow. Now the best he could be was present and help in his own way, which was enough to leave him content enough.

Setting their pace slowly, he set them on course to the kitchen. Though he couldn’t be sure how the girl - Friday, she’d said - was feeling, he could take a good enough guess that it was probably something she’d need her mind taken off, which is why he decided to say more than he had strung together in months when she referenced the first time they’d met. “Bern and you don’t have to thank me.” It was something any decent person would have done and he hardly counted himself as even that these days. He was swift to move it one for once, not wanting gratitude when it had been as much for his benefit in relieving rage as it had for her. “So what do you do, Friday?” 

[venerdi]

She feels like she’s accomplished something when he nods at her; it’s silly, she knows, but he doesn’t seem the type to easily dole out approval. It makes fighting the rest of her way over to him worth the struggle. She’s proud of herself for not collapsing to her feet before she could reach him. He tells her she can stretch after she’s eaten, and before she can object or even open her mouth, he’s reaching for her arm and wrapping it around his waist. 

For a few moments she forgets to breathe -- there’s so much of him to wrap her arm around. Even at his waist he’s thick with muscle that no man she’s ever seen has ever had, even the ones she dances with and who she’s been quite awkwardly pressed against in the most interesting of places. There’s a warmth radiating from him that heats her side where she’s fit snugly against him and her own waist where he’s wrapped his own arm around her. Her blush rages through her cheeks, across her nose, and down her chest; she can feel it, and she ducks her head again, glad that her long hair falls forward to shield her face. Quickly though she raises her head again, looking up at him with a grateful smile and mumbling her thank you. It wouldn’t do to keep walking with her hair in her face, so she forces herself to get over her... whatever she’s feeling and just walk.

They go slowly, and he offers to stop whenever she needs him to. She’s fine though, and she tells him as much before he asks her about herself. She won’t go back to the thank you she’d given him -- Bern, she now knows -- and that he’d brushed off, so she focuses on this instead.

“Um. I--. I’m a dancer? Ballet,” she stutters as they get to the kitchen. “But I teach too -- there’s a little studio not too far from my house where I teach and take classes.”

“What do you do, Bern?”

[devouringbeast-blog]

Why the reaction surprises him, he couldn’t say. Syndicate is supposed to be family, bound more by bloodshed than any shared genetics. They’re all outcasts, their own home carved out of a city that’s never truly welcomed them. And if he knew that when he returned, there’s still that sense of disconnect, that he’s just as unwelcome in their ranks as he would be anywhere else. But Friday wasn’t here for that fallout, and maybe it’s easier for her to look on him as one of their own. Either way he’s oddly grateful for it, even if it’s not an emotion he’d express.

“Don’t be. I’m alright.” The words might lack some familiar sarcasm, no poor joke quick to follow, but it’s the best kind of comfort he can manage at the moment. He’s left studying her in turn, though he’s pretty sure Charlie would’ve told him if anyone else had gotten hurt, but it’s still better to see with his own eyes who’s still standing. And the only marks she wears are dark graphite smudges across her nose.

“How are you doing?“

[venerdi]

He says he’s alright, and while she’s sure he could absolutely just be saying that to make her feel better, Friday decides it’s easier not to push. Besides, he’s standing, some of the sparkle in his eyes that she’d seen when they first met still shining out at her and his face with more color than she would’ve expected from a man with his injuries who wasn’t recovering.

“Okay...”

She shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest and wincing at how the muscles in her back, shoulders, and biceps protest the movement. She desperately needs to stretch, but while she’s still unsuccessful at drawing something clear that will help to find Rhys and the others, she’ll forgo it.

“’m fine,” she mumbles. “I’m... trying to draw. Not having any luck. Well--. Not much luck.”

[carvcrbernard]

The girl’s breathing had been becoming shallower and faster and there was that trembling that had been there in the aftermath of how they’d first met. Bern might not be a doctor but he knew enough to spot the beginnings of a panic attack. He wasn’t denying that there was relief that something he had done had managed to stop it taking hold of her, though there was a certainty that he would have found some way to help her deal with it to the best of his abilities. Caring and careful might not be his strong suit but they were all in it together.

There’s a small tug at the corner of his mouth when she stops her protests over his shirt with one look at his face. It wasn’t something he was going to take an argument over. It was just a shirt, it’d wash or he’d buy a new one. He wasn’t about to let her sit there with blood trickling down her face when the mere might of it only teased the rage that was always lurking below his skin, making his hands itch to form fists that he knew could do so much damage.

But there was no point in paying attention to the violence he longed to unleash when the ones he wanted on the receiving end were out of his reach. Right now the only thing he could do was make sure they were all ready, this redhead included, so while he might not have been the one for sympathy he could do patience and wait for her to give her answer even when he wasn’t sure she’d even heard the question in her worry.

Giving her a nod of acknowledgement he stood up once more. “Come on.” Once again, Bern left little room for argument in his voice - not when she so clearly needed to take care of herself. “Leave this for now. You need some water and something to eat.” The cupboards of the Estate were open to all of them and he intended to find something that she could stomach in spite of all the worry. 

[venerdi]

Maybe it’s because she’s looking so closely at his face, but she notices the small -- very small but definitely there -- tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It makes her blush and smile to herself, ducking her head to hide her reddening cheeks and spreading grin. Maybe she can pass if off as shyness and a bit of embarrassment over her needless worry, but she knows it’s as much that as the fact that she’s gotten him to do something other than frown. 

Her gaze quickly shoots back up to him as he rises to his feet and calls for her to join him. He’s right, and she knows he’s right, but that doesn’t make the act of walking away from her sketchbook not feel like walking away from Rhys. She wants desperately to object. To argue that she can’t get up for something as trivial as water when Rhys is still missing, but his earlier point comes back to her. She’s not going to be any good to anyone if she’s sick or worse from not taking care of herself. It feels selfish, but she takes some comfort in the fact that he’s telling her to do it. It’s not as if she’s walking away willingly; she’s been given permission to. She’s been practically demanded to.

So she tries to get up.

And she can’t.

Not at first. Her whole body locks up -- her back and neck are aching from being hunched over her book, her butt and thighs are practically numb from being seated on the hard chair beneath her, and her eyes and head still throb horrifically. She has to steady herself with both hands on the table in front of her as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her exhale is slow and measured, drawn out to force her to relax enough to release some of the tension in her body. Carefully -- so, so carefully -- she rises from her seat.

“Gosh, I need to stretch,” she thinks aloud, making a mental note to find a space where she can do just that now that she’s up. Maybe she’ll pull out her pointe shoes and find a quiet place to unwind once she’s a little steadier on her feet. As it is now, she half walks, half shuffles forward, looking straight up into the man’s eyes when she’s at his side as they head for the kitchen.

“Um. I-I’m Friday. ....when we met before I don’t think I ever introduced myself. Or said thank you.”

[venerdi]

Days Go By || Friday & Harlow

@harlow-ackerman

Friday’s been at the Estate since the raid, and she realizes suddenly how few people she’s seen since then. They’re all here -- or rather, most of them are here. So it’s a testament to how much of a shut-in she’s been that she hasn’t seen more than a handful of people since she got here.

She feels guilty for having locked herself away; she’d been trying to find Rhys, trying to force a drawing or a vision or something, but that doesn’t mean she was right to abandon her family. And while that’s still a foreign concept to her -- having people who care about her and want her to be safe and happy -- it’s one she likes. She owes them all, all the Initiative members who’ve checked in on her and made sure she’s taken care of herself. But there’s one person in particular she needs to see. To apologize to.

Finding Harlow takes longer than she wants, but eventually she stumbles upon the other girl. Timidly she knocks on the doorframe to get her attention.

“H-hi, Harlow. Um. I--. Do you--? H-hi.”

[carvcrbernard]

There’s a shake of his head that mimics hers, although his is more in disbelief in the state that she’s allowed herself to get into. The groan she gives would suggest that she’d become that focused on what she was doing everything else came in second - even her own well being. It was something he wasn’t overly familiar with, not when his health and fitness was usually so instrumental in achieving what he needed to do. Looking after himself was a necessity but Bern couldn’t claim he’d do anything different from the redhead if that wasn’t the case.

His jaw clenches as he sees graceful fingers come away from her ear stained red. There’s that much blood on his own hands adding to it isn’t something that bothers him any more but he hates that the world has caused an innocent like her to have to witness that shock of red on their fingertips - even if it is her own. If anything it only adds to his hatred of the Initiative and makes him reaffirm the vow he made when they dragged his mother away from him.

Seeing the blood there becomes too much for him and just as quickly as he was at her side, he’s crouching by her side. “Here, let me look at that.” It takes a lot for him to manage to move his hand gently when they’re more accustomed to throwing a punch than moving the strand of hair away. He moves his hand away only to pull his sleeve over his hand to wipe it away, not caring if another item of his clothing is marred with blood - it’d hardly be the first.

“Time to stop and rest.” There’s no room for arguing left with his tone, not when they all need to be keeping their strength up if they’ve any hope of getting the ones taken back. “When did you last have a drink?”

[venerdi]

Seeing her own blood isn’t something Friday’s used to, especially when it’s not from a skinned knee or a cut from shaving but from a steam slowly leaking from her ears. It’s that more than anything that snaps her out of her exhaustion and sends her careening towards panic. That she’s bleeding from her ears cannot be good -- she doesn’t know what it means or how to stop it. She just knows it’s really bad.

She’s half worried about herself but mostly worried about what being out of commission will mean for her search for Rhys. She can’t give up; she can’t not find him. That’s simply not an option. But if she’s worked herself to illness or worse, she won’t be able to bring him home. Her eyes begin to well up as her breathing picks up and shallows. Her body starts to tremble little by little. It’s been quite a long time since she last had a panic attack, but these are the early signs. She knows what’s coming.

Before she can work up a good panic though, he’s crouched down next to her. His hand -- one of two huge, powerful hands that she’s seen do incredibly violent things -- reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she almost cries over how gentle the act is. She’s not used to gentle touches, to delicate treatment. Even when he pulls his sleeve over his fingers to wipe the blood from her face, it’s so much less harsh than she’d expect from the man she knows him to be. Maybe there’s more to him then, she thinks. It’s not like she can know everything about him after only seeing him twice.

“N-no, your--... your shirt...”

He doesn’t seem at all concerned that he’s now got her blood on his shirt, but she is. Before she can reach for him to inspect the fabric, he’s telling her in no uncertain terms that it’s time for her to stop. She looks over at him, wanting to argue but stopped by his proximity and the seriousness of the look on his face. She’s so busy just looking at him that she misses his question. It takes several moments for her brain to string his words together into an intelligible inquiry and several moments more for her to respond.

“I--... I don’t know. I don’t remember. ........I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here.”

[venerdi]

what are you most afraid might happen now?

“I won’t-- I don’t wanna--...”

“We’re gonna find them. That’s what’s gonna happen now. And they’re gonna be fine.”

[devouringbeast-blog]

@venerdi

There are still bandages around Eli’s chest, hidden behind a ratty black tee shirt that he dragged over his head this morning. But the danger now is less the healing wound in his flesh, and more the weakness it’s left him with. His limbs feel shaky, muscles less stable and his chest tight, an absence of painkillers allowing him to feel every residual ache.

But he’s alive, and he’s at a place he used to call home, the closest thing he has now to safety. It’s more than some of them can say, and the oppressive cloud that follows has been hanging over the estate for days. There’s just not much he can do about it from his bed, and if improvement will only come when he forces it then he’ll do whatever it takes to shed that weakness.

The estate’s quiet today, but if he’s wondering about the location of a redhead, it’s not the one he comes across first. 

“Hey. My girl Friday.”

If he smiles then, it’s more just to see her alive, even if he doesn’t know that well can truly describe any of them. Everyone’s eyes are punctuated by dark circles, lips pressed into hard lines, and he can’t swear his own expression isn’t the same.

[venerdi]

Friday startles at the voice, so sucked in by the pages of the open sketchbook in front of her that she hadn’t heard anyone approach her. She blinks a few times and rubs at her eyes, unknowingly smudging pencil lead over the bridge of her nose. Her eyes hurt and she’s still so exhausted, but when she turns around and sees who’s in the doorway, she jumps up.

“Eli!”

She rushes over to him, stopping just short of him. Being here at the estate means she’s heard that he’s been hurt and hurt badly. He’d been just another person that she knew and cared about that she felt ever-growing concern over, and now here he is. Her eyes stray to his chest where she can imagine the bandages wrapped around his chest and the injuries she knows lie beneath them, but she doesn’t wanna talk about that. Until, of course, what ends up slipping out of her mouth is about exactly that.

“I was worried about you, y’know.”

[carvcrbernard]

It’s obvious that the girl is exhausted and Bern can respect the lengths she’s putting herself through in order to find those who they have lost. Doesn’t mean that he’d ever ask her to put as much strain on herself as she clearly is but in all honesty he would be the first to do the same if his power could be used in that way. As it was he’d be far better suited to tearing them all apart and making them pay, which was exactly what he planned to do.

There’s maybe the slightest feeling of regret when she stumbles out an answer to his words and goes back to closing her eyes  Even more so when she mentions Rhys’s name and the man can’t help but wonder just how close they are and how much his loss has been affecting her.

A trickle of red catches his attention and before long he’s at her side. “Take it easy.” The words come out just about as softly as he can manage but there’s no denying the next ones sound harsher and more chastising than they should. “Making yourself ill isn’t going to help anyone.” 

[venerdi]

She isn’t expecting to hear his voice coming from so close to her -- just as with everything else, she would jump if she weren’t so tired. Anyway, she shakes her head, groaning at the pain the action causes. It feels like her brain rolls around in her head, crashing violently into the walls of her skull -- it’s making things like seeing and talking very difficult.

She’s surprised by how gentle he sounds when he tells her to take it easy. In her experience with him, gentle isn’t his strong suit. The words that follow are more like him -- harsh but well-intended. She frowns.

“’M not sick. And it’s not like I’m doing much goo-- wha--...?”

It’s at that moment when she goes to tuck her hair behind her ear that she feels the blood trickling down the side of her face. She brings her fingers around so she can see them, staring almost uncomprehendingly at  the right spot of red on her pale skin. But yet again, she’s far too drained to really be scared.

“......That’s never happened before...”

[harlow-ackerman-deactivated2019]

We Can’t Stay || Friday

[harlow-ackerman-deactivated2019]

Harlow panicked at the sight of blood, but her powers did little to nothing so long as that guy was there. She would have to take care of that later, they just needed to get the hell out of there. Somewhere safe, away from the chaos and fear of being captured. So much was going on around them and Harlow wished she could do more to help, but she was afraid it would only lead to more of them getting captured. Including herself and Friday.

Suddenly, she felt herself tugging Friday’s arm, the red head having paused in the midst of the chaos. “Friday!” she called, trying to snap her out of whatever she was staring at. But she breathed a name, her eyes wide. Harlow followed her gaze toward a man who was being cuffed across the way. Between the bodies fighting for their lives, but his gaze never left Friday’s, not until the black bag was fitted over his head.

It was clear the man was important to Friday and she was to him. Harlow felt so helpless, could only watch as he was pulled from the table and dragged off from the fight. Friday was already crying out, lunging forward and trying desperately to help him. But he was beyond help at that point. The bag was already over his head.

“Friday, no!” she cried, grabbing her arm with both hands and pulling her back toward herself. Once Friday was close enough, Harlow wrapped an arm around her from behind, trying to prevent the red head from going any further. “If you go after him, you’ll get caught, too!” 

Her voice trembled, feeling pain for her friend having to witness what she just saw. But they had to leave. It wasn’t safe. “I’m so sorry, but we can’t stay here. We have to go. Please…”

Harlow started to pull Friday backwards, her arm releasing her to grip at the girl’s shoulder and guide her outside of the tavern. They had to move quickly, while no eyes were on them. The outburst probably caused enough of a scene and if they knew Friday knew the man they had just dragged out of Left Blank, then there was a strong chance they both would be turned in.

[venerdi]

She fought Harlow’s hold, tried turning back to see Rhys, to see who’d taken him or where, to see anything that could help her find him later. She’s being forced away too quickly though, Harlow’s hand on her shoulder guiding her towards an exit.

Safety.

Friday realizes as they’re moving that she’s making a scene that could get both her and Harlow caught, and while she knows intellectually that that’s bad, she feels a scary lack of concern over that fact. Until she and Harlow get outside and she gets a look at her friend’s face.

Right away she’s embarrassed. But then it settles in, what she’d seen. The black bag and the man she’d tried so hard to find...

The Initiative have Rhys.

“Oh no... oh no no no no no no no! Rhys!”

[itanista]

Spandex and Leotards || Connor + Friday

[itanista]

She laughed. Thank god. Thank merciful jesus in whatever imaginary heaven he resides in. He felt some of the tension melt as she laughed. “I’m glad you like it. Maybe I’ll sell the idea to one of those big movie companies.” He said, carrying on with the theme. “Except, actually, that’s not how it works. You gotta make the film first, and then submit it, and if they like it they buy it. It puts all the burden on new film-makers in order to drive ‘em out of the market so Hollywood keeps its monopol-” He realized he’d been rambling and cut off. “Sorry. I talk when I get nervous. Like, a lot.” He said simply, shrugging. “Pretty girls make me nervous.” He hammered home, his hands rubbing together in, well, a nervous fashion. Then he realized what he said and a blush came to his face and the skin of his chest visible in the low neckline of the spandex suit. “Oh man. Way to go Connor. Supersmooth.” He said. Then, depserate to change the subject, he moved on. “Friday, huh? Man, there are like nineteen jokes I could make right now. And I’m trying really hard not to make any of them because I’m sure you’ve heard ‘em all in your life. With a name like Friday, how could you not?” He said, since apparently suave was never one of Connor’s personality traits. “So yea! I uh, I don’t usually see you. Round here, that is. I’m waste a lot of time here. You’re a new fixture. Guess it made me…curious. So which are you? New Girl? Or Old Girl?” He said, getting to the point of the matter that had driven him to cross the floor.

[venerdi]

He rambles, and it’s cute. Not embarrassing like when she does it. She continues to giggle, shaking her head when he apologizes.

“No, it’s okay! Are you a film maker? Or... do you just know lots of stuff about lots of different things?”

Friday’s own blush forms when she makes the connection that he’s calling her pretty -- it’s genuinely not something she’s used to hearing. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to say in response.

“Oh, gosh,” she mumbles, ducking her head. “Um... thank you, I think? I-... You don’t have to be nervous around me; I’m just a big goober!”

“I’ve heard every Friday joke their is,” she continues, laughing, “even more when Rebecca Black came out a couple years ago. Remember her? Ugh, that was the worrrrrst...”

He’s totally right -- this gym isn’t her normal stomping ground. She doesn’t actually use the gym -- dancing keeps her plenty fit -- but she’d needed to dance and this class had so generously made space for her. She explains as much to Connor.

“Um. I. I guess I’m old? I mean, I’ve been in the city for a while, but I’m new to the gym? Cuz. Well.” She drifts off, not knowing how much is safe to say and what’s liable to get her in trouble. After the raid, she’s so much more afraid than she had been before and much warier too.

“Dancing... helps. With... everything. And I needed help.” She turns and looks back at the class which has continued on without her. “They were super nice and let me barge in on their class, and... I feel a lot better. For now.” Her face breaks out in a bright grin. “And now I’ve made a new friend, so I’m even better! Or. I hope I have. I didn’t mean to assume.”

[scodelarioss]

If you’re having a hard time because you like something that maybe a lot of other people don’t, know that when you grow up, no one cares. It’s so great. I call it like a fish bowl to an ocean. There are too many people to keep track of for everyone to judge. I feel like it just gets a lot more laid back and no one cares. It’s really nice.

[gwen-vale-blog]

“I see.”

It’s not the answer she wants, and she makes little attempt to hide it. Even with the awareness that precognition isn’t the easiest ability to force, for the moment it’s hard to summon any excuse for empathy beyond her frustration.

The woman in front of her might not deserve that directed her way, and it’s that thought that has her biting off any of the crueler comments that might come easier. They’re all Syndicate. They’re all suffering, and she lets out a breath before she nods her head at Friday. “Did anything come before? Anything at all you can show me?“

It sounds more like desperation than she’s comfortable with, enough that she wishes she could take the words back almost immediately. But she’ll accept any lead at this point, any clue where they can start breaking down doors and exacting some unholy vengeance for the blow they’ve been dealt.

[venerdi]

“I’m still trying,” Friday rushes to say, looking over at Gwen with wide eyes. She’s beyond exhausted -- her head hurts so badly she’s finding it hard to see straight, but still she’s not giving up. She has to find Rhys. “I just... I need something to focus on so I’m not just...” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in a way that stopped bringing her relief hours ago. “If I had something of Rhys’ then maybe...”

Her whole body stiffens then. She’d drawn something before, yes. Only the day before, and it had been so unclear at first, but... she should’ve said something.

Wide blue eyes well up and spill over as she flips to the right page and holds the book out to Gwen, unable to meet her eyes directly.

The drawing on its own is... a warning, certainly, indicative of danger though without any clue to tell where or when the danger would be occurring.

The focus of the drawing is in the middle of the page: a woman’s face, clear and unobstructed and wearing a very “down to business” expression.

It’s the gun that marks the danger though.

And it’s pointed at the figure in the bottom left corner of the picture, the foreground of the scene. The man with one hand raised and, just barely, barely detectable...

Glowing fingers.

“It’s R-..... it’s Rhys,” Friday stutters, forcing herself to talk past the lump in her throat and despite the burning in her cheeks. “His hand is in front of a window, so I thought the-... I thought it was just sun rays coming in through the glass and framing his hand, I--... I didn’t realize til I saw her face in the tavern that it was supposed to be glowing. Like his power. ...It’s how I drew him before, how I knew he was like me when I went looking for him. ‘Cause his hands were glowing in my picture.” Her voice breaks. “I was gonna bring it over the next day. I just--... I wanted to go out with my friend, so I waited, I--... and now--.”

“I have to fix it, I have to find him. All of them.” 

[itanista]

Spandex and Leotards || Connor + Friday

[venerdi]

nsavageshard:

Connor hadn’t even realized he’d homed in on one of the dancers until she was awkwardly waving at him. In his moment of distraction and slight exhaustion, he assumed he’d been staring into nothingness. Turns out he’d been watching a pointe dancer and she’d waved at him in return. Finding the levels of awkward rising rapidly, Connor smiled sheepishly, waving back. Then, feeling suddenly courageous, he stood up where he sat, carrying his water bottle and wrapping his sports towel around his neck, to handle the sweat that was sure to follow. He took a long draught from his bottle as he walked over, pausing over where the girl was tying her shoe back on.

“Hi” He said, because he was a master dialectician. He chuckled a little nervously, running a thumb under the shoulder strap on the spandex tank top that hugged his upper body. “I’m Connor.” He said, smiling a slight twitch of a smile again. He didn’t offer a hand to shake though. His palms were a little sweaty.

“Ballet huh?” The boy muttered, “Cool. Cool.” He said, nodding his head like an idiot for a few seconds afterward. “I heard that stuff like, kills your feet.” He said, trying and failing to start a conversation. He laughed nervously again. “Now I have this image of a horror movie ballerina that chops people’s feet off…”

The boy waves back, seeming a bit surprised that she’d waved in the first place. She’s a little worried then -- he had been staring her way. ...Hadn’t he? Her eyebrows lift in surprise when suddenly he’s on the move, rising from his spot and walking towards her. She quickly -- but securely -- finishes lacing her shoe and stands up to meet him.

“I like that name. Hi, Connor,” she says bashfully, looking down at her shuffling feet. “Um, I-I’m Friday.”

People have asked her about her feet before. It’s a subject she’s used to addressing, so she nods along as he speaks, anticipating a question and not just an observation. What comes instead though is a statement that has an unexpected laugh bursting from her lips. She slaps her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with both amusement and a bit of fear, like he’s going to yell at her. It doesn’t feel right to laugh, not with Rhys and the others missing. But he’s the first person to make her laugh in days; she couldn’t help it. She feels guilty.

...But it was really funny.

“Oh my gosh, no one’s ever had that idea before,” she giggles. “You should do it! ...Make the movie, that is, not... become a ballerina and chop people’s feet off...”

[venerdi]

Have you drawn anything that would help lead the others to the captives?

“Not yet, but I will.”

[venerdi]

Are you doing okay?

[venerdi]

Do you feel guilty that Rhys was taken?

“Of course I do.”

[harlow-ackerman-deactivated2019]

We Can’t Stay || Friday

[harlow-ackerman-deactivated2019]

At Friday’s flinch, Harlow squeezed her hand, silent assurance they would get out and a reminder that had to go. The redhead had continued to follow her, Harlow using her other hand to shove past the bodies and do her best to get them out. She wished she could have done more, been strong and brave enough to fight back, but she was weak. She couldn’t hold her own that well in a physical fight, was barely able to push back at the bodies she and Friday had to dodge just to get out of their corner of the tavern.

Glass shatters and people are shouting, then guns are going off and Harlow felt like she was going to throw up. Just like when she had been at the bar with the Initiative agent, Harlow wished her powers would kick in, stop some of the people from fighting whether it was making them forget what they were doing, or just blanking out their minds to just stop. But there was no glow on her fingers, no surge of power through her body. And the last thing she wanted was to make Friday lose herself.

Instead, she ended up losing Friday.

All it took was one sharp tug and her grasp slipped from the girl’s. Immediately, Harlow spun around, only to have a body crash against her side and pin her to the bar. With a grunt, she shoved them away from her, her only thought on finding the redhead. Her friend.

“Friday!” she called, frantically searching behind her for the girl. Did one of the agents grab her? Did she get hit? Did she get shot?

Harlow tried not to think of the worst, but she wasn’t leaving her behind. Not until she got an answer. And she hoped it wasn’t a horrible one. Through the crowd, she managed to spot Friday, a bit bruised for ware, but she was standing and calling her name.

“Friday!” she called, ducking down when a shot rang out through the bar. Again, she grabbed the girl’s hand, giving her a quick look over to make sure she was all right. She wasn’t much of a fighter by any means, but Harlow was determined not to lose Friday again or let anything else happen to her.

Are you okay was the first question that sprang to mind, but she never asked out loud. Not yet, anyway. It was the worst question to ask right at that moment, especially when their lives were literally at risk. “Stay close to me!” she told her, ready to keep running with her through the tavern to find any sort of escape.

[venerdi]

“Harlow!”

The other girl finds her and grabs her hand again, pulling her towards what she can only hope is an exit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I-... I fell!!”

Friday’s pretty sure she’s bleeding in a few places, but she’s not worried about it now. Her main concern is getting away from the fists and the bullets flying around. So she follows her friend, the two of them small enough to be able to slip past whatever and whoever is in their way as they try to find a path to safety. 

They’re getting close to an exit, close to safety when it all falls apart. She’d spotted so many familiar faces, so many friends and acquaintances that she’s made in real life fighting for their lives. But it’s the face she recognizes from her sketchbook that gives her pause. A woman. Pretty but. Clearly not friendly. And standing next to her with his hands up and a gun to his head...

“Rhys...”

He spots her as soon as she spots him -- his eyes widen in shock and fear like he’s surprised to see her here. Ordinarily she’d laugh because this isn’t exactly the type of place she’d typically choose to spend her free time, but right now, all she can do is stare as the agent -- because she understands now; they’ve been raided by agents of the Initiative -- prepares to apprehend him. She watches in complete horror as he mouths to her to run.

And then a black bag slips over his head.

“RHYS NO!”

Before she realizes she’s doing it, she’s launching herself towards him. She has no idea what she’ll do when she gets there, but all she knows is that she can’t let them take him. He can’t be alone.