OUR GOD,

@religun.

"I see." He found her phrasing curious at most, and though the pause that followed was all but brief, it carried an experienced politeness that was, still, unmistakably unforgiving. A devil in corporate clothing.

"Mr. Pinkman is not a toy, Mari. He is an addict." A junkie, as he'd once warned Walter White. "You are aware of this?" He remained seated at his desk, his brown eyes flickering toward a flax-yellow file he had placed there long before she arrived.

"I'd like you to take a look at this," he said simply, handing it to her. Inside were photographs of Jesse's whereabouts. The mundane and the vulnerable: convenience-store stills, a shot of him half-turned in a parking lot. There was even a page of typed subnotes filled with addresses and names. It wasn't dramatic by any means, but it depicted the act of being followed... of being watched.

"I keep records, Mari." The name landed with emphasis this time.

once, under a half-crest moon, mari'd smoked half of a cigarette and watched the length of jesse's lashes blink up at the stars. she'd flicked ash through the air, dust and heat and flame, and let her voice lower to nothing but the truth. you're not my friend, jesse. you're just you. specialized, individualized, spoken as soft as mari pretends she's not, she passed him the cigarette. let him sit with what he thought she meant.

now, she sits with what she doesn't mean. plays at a game that keeps him safe. to love is to jeopardize, to care is to risk: mari names jesse a toy, and keeps him at an arm's length. nothing anyone can use against her.

"I'm going to ask you something, and I would like you to be honest with me." His face altered slightly, but not so slightly as to be entirely missed. And a thin, discreet smile gathered at the corner of his mouth, neither kind nor warm, but instead possessing that unnerving composure he so often carried when he wasn't keen on negotiating.

it's why gustavo hired her. it's why he keeps her. she's femininity and tricks, girlhood and guns, and gustavo would be a fool to give her up. kill for a living, stay smart for employment ... lie for some love.

"𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝… 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭." The pause that followed was not done to imply intimidation, but rather to show, perhaps, the faintest sliver of disappointment.

"𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥." Gus did, however, let Mike’s name rest for a moment. "𝐈’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐲 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦." His gaze did not flicker, his posture remained upright, and his chin elevated in a way that displayed honest consideration.

"𝐓𝐲𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐧." His eyes remained unwavering, but he did smooth out the front of his tie with that subtle yet meticulous motion that, in him, was nothing more than customary composure made visible.

"𝐏𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲. 𝐈𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲." Walter White crossed his mind. "𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐇𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬: 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬."

A liability.

like that crystal blue persuasion, like that honey heroin smoke; like cigarettes, like nicotine, like chemicals— like his smile. like his laugh. like his hand, mere inches away from hers, drumming against his jeans while he picks out his favorite candy. (it's like, retail therapy, yo, 'n gas stations got it all. check it—) how could she ever put him down?

Send me one of the following words in my ask and I’ll write a drabble concerning our muses. 

realistically, there’s a lot that a person can do in three minutes. boil water, steep tea—not fully, but maybe enough; brush teeth plus rinse plus floss; listen to modern talking’s brother louie, turn it off before the final verse.

standing in the mud at a fork in the road, charlie spends three minutes thinking about three minutes, ten-times-eighteen-seconds, square root of nine minutes. when the big hand finishes its third rotation, he sets off into the maze.

charlie’s no hunter—really, really he's not—but he knows how to play wolf. he does it in the same conscious, deliberate, and yet ungainly way that he plays son, plays brother, plays lover. he plays his parts the way others play a new board game: by studying the rules and abiding by their basic tenets, all while failing to grasp their meaning.

THE RULES: player A must escape the maze before player B catches them. player A may escape by any means necessary. player B may catch them in whatever way they see fit. winner takes all.

there's lots of people milling around the entrance. families, mostly: parents and their sugar-addled children. but there are other couples, too. some younger and some older than mari and charlie. all of them together. none of them chasing anything except snippets of bland conversation. he passes by without looking any of them in the eyes.

THE BASIC TENETS: mari is prey. prey runs downwind when it can, takes winding paths where it cannot. prey is on the defensive. prey is scared. he doesn't think that mari's scared, that she fears him. but the chase will trigger adrenaline, which has similar physiological effects. and so mari may not be scared—but mari is still prey.

the further in he goes, the emptier it gets. visitors filter out with the gradually setting sun; whether toward the entrance or the exit, their final destination is the same: home.

soon, there's no one around except for the occasional scarecrow, crucified among the sheathes. the rustling is louder now, almost deafening. charlie cocks his head as he tries to parse through the sounds. above the corn, he can make out the hollow call of a crow. beneath it, he hears the snap of a fallen stalk, the muted thud of two feet against damp earth.

THE MEANING: he doesn't know what this means. he cannot conceive of the game as anything other than player A versus player B. he thinks he knows who's who because he read the rules. it doesn't occur to him that he is player A, prey, and mari is player B, hunter.

he doesn't notice her until it's too late.

the cornstalks thrum with the energy, pulsing along to the whistle of the wind. the muddy earth bends beneath her feet, splattering against her boots like blood. sixty seconds in, mari passes a family that glances at her, startled. ninety seconds in, she takes an abrupt left turn. by the time she reaches a hundred and eighty, the clock ticking downward, she's catching her breath. lying in wait. hidden behind the sheath of the plants, and listening for signs of life.

it is the basic rules of the game that mari is the one to either be free or be found. captured or killed. it also is a fundamental lie as to who mari is. she is not animal or prey, not dog or bone. she is neither wolf or sheep, bloodied by nature. mari is a sharp-sensed, stamina-trained, stone cold killer with a purpose. she is ferocious but not feral, unleashed but never collared, holding charlie's fate by its neck and telling it to breathe. inhale, exhale— the game is hers, now. how's that for a threat?

charlie plays predator, but mari becomes one. he steps through the clearing, heavy footfall like rain, and mari inches herself forward silently. watches him, unblinking. it only takes another thirty, sixty, maybe ninety seconds for their game to do a one-eighty. her heartbeat hums in her ears, the wind's shrill sound wisping against the cornstalk, and she counts down from three to capture a prey of one.

hispanic male, late 20s to early 30s, displaying signs of a somatic shame response: stooped shoulders and inclined head; flushed cheeks; sharp aversion of the eyes; and, curiously, an incredulous half-smile with a half-life—there and gone again.

his expression quickly rights itself, tight lipped and stiff jawed. his cheeks remain stubbornly warm, tempered only by october’s wind.

' i have an idea, ' he deflects, observing the cornfield that looms before them.

' you go first. i'll give you … ' he glances at his watch, dragging mari's hand up with his. her wrist twists at an odd angle. he holds it there for longer than strictly necessary, then lowers both of their arms. ' … a five minute head-start. '

the corn stalks are high and reedy. they bend in the breeze like tall grass, whispering in some dead language, beckoning them in. charlie tilts his head; he hears rather than feels something crack along his neck. ' if you get out, you can pick the music on the way back. '

then, in spanish, far from the prying ears of midwestern america: ' if i find you, i'll kill you. ' haha. two murderers walk into a cornfield. hahaha.

charlie wants a game, she'll give him one. he wants a chase, she'll keep running. he can pin her down, string her up, take her bony, bruised, and aching— but alive or dead, fighting or fucking, cutting or kissing, mari wins. he can play predator, hunt her down like the wild thing she is, but she knows who domesticated who. knock knock, who's there? (i'm sorry. help me.) feel how alive i am, charlie.

mari stares out at the field and watches the stalks sway in the wind. in another life, maybe this is where it ends: her in a cornfield, charlie without a mask. both sides as dead as the other, both sides as alive as each other— either, wondering what could've been.

instead, she shivers. something twists in the bottom of her stomach, warm. her body pivots, her hand squeezes, and she leaves the lingering imprint of a kiss on his throat. "make it three." a challenge, then. her lip twitches. "i want it to be realistic."

his trigger-finger twitches around nothing. what does that make him? a cautionary tale? an irremovable stain on their lineage? an ever-elusive poltergeist? if they somehow found out about chris driscoll’s existence, about the snow-capped shrubbery in his backyard, about the woman whose name is synonymous with his salvation— mari dai is tangible, mari dai is so, so gentle— if they could stroll through the museum of his heart, peek into its chambers, watch it hammer away against his will— would they grieve the infuriating boy he once was?

but in the swell of their sheets, in the waters of their love, mari comes to shore wearing life rafts for arms. rowboats on her feet. she doesn't fight the current, won't battle the winds— can't brace for rain, and refuses to brawl the storm. instead, she teaches jesse to swim. backstroke, sidestroke, butterfly and break, she waits for calmer waters and reminds him to breathe. gentle, however, has nothing to do with that.

what does that make her? a wolf in savior skin? a sheep in murderer's clothing? if her father, mother, brother or past could see her, here — with a man whose name becomes a prayer, with a garden of eden in her backyard, — would they believe that she, now, is always who she once was?

bad as he wants to get out of here, he's guessing she could use it more. these parents in particular he's got a rapport with, so it isn't that big a deal. he glances between her and the chart one more time.

she feels like a child. doctor to nurse, nurse to doctor, and yet she's always the new kid in school, still getting used to the uniform. a damn shame that she's not as confident as she was in med school— if so, she'd be breezing by.

nocturnal animals rely on auxiliary senses. specialized adaptations. you live in the dark for so long and you find new ways to see. to survive. that's perhaps why remora clocks mari dai as quickly as she does in the dim of the club: she's grown sharp in the dark. jagged. pointed at a specific purpose.

she moves through the crowd feeling all sinew, like one of those sanitized images of skinned animals in childhood textbooks depicting the muscles of a creature in motion. blood red, taut enough that when the bass thrums it runs through her head to toe. she can feel it, how sleek she is. how capable.

she's got a hard candy in her mouth, and it cracks under the back of her teeth as she approaches, the remnants disintegrating like a calcified heart. as with all bad organ, it bleeds a sour core. patience isn't remora's virtue, but waiting is her talent. a vice, really, in the way she does it. she's been prolonging the cross family payback for months, dragging it across the city like a fresh kill. lapping up the blood trail left behind.

STILL. by nature she prefers to use all her teeth in one go.

it's her technicolor wilderness, her fluorescent desert— smack dab in the city and carnal in its nature. long gone are inhibitions. wasted away are designated roles. from back rooms to bathrooms, disco to a rave's pulse, mari disappears into the abyss and someone else climbs their way out. a stranger, a foreigner, a guest guilty of impersonation ... a weaponized body, cocked like a gun.

the men mari seeks are nothing more than corpses. the walking dead, dancing before their demise. it's taxidermied violence. preserved aggression. the clock goes tick, the songs wane and blare— mari sips from her drink, as time counts down. (tomorrow, someone dies. tonight, mari lives.)

YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE, you say, a tense whisper as you watch Mari sway into the room. She’s dressed up, beautiful and stunning, bright in a way that has always screamed DANGER to you. Too expensive, too valuable, too precious. Your mother would love the dress, adore the make-up ( actually, Rosemarie Sardelli would probably suggest Mari don a little bit more, a brighter lip, but that’s because the woman is perpetually stuck in the 80s ). It sets you on edge, just a little bit. Once upon a time, you were used to pretty things being handed to you, always in your grasp. Circumstances have taught you to hold your breath around them, covet without touching.

That’s the point of this whole thing, you suppose. A way to break old habits. 

Mari inches closer, and you watch in silence, balefully. Every inch of her, from the bottom of the top, clad in dark silk, screams trouble. If you were the good little soldier your mother has trained you to be, you wouldn’t even let Mari attempt to cross the room, would shove her out into the hallway, back into her place. 

You’ve always wanted what you can’t have. Instilled in you, really.

so, if he's going to play good cop— she's got no qualms against playing bad. he might feign innocence, hide all the cards in his deck; might play purity, keeping all his sins to another city ... but mari's never been stupid, and she sure as hell's never been dumb, so if he's got an act to play, she's got a script to read: and she's always known a liar when she sees one.

castiel had been listening long before she spoke, and when the angel finds himself in the room with her, it's subtle. no holy spectacle. no flaring grace or flickering lights to announce his presence. he's just there. standing in the corner. a slight hesitation before he moves, before he speaks. a quiet pause as he takes in the sight of her, attempting to gauge the situation and her thoughts. carefully, he tilts his head to the side.

' hello, mari. ' mouth parting with care as the name leaves his lips. he speaks softly, making his presence known without startling her. a few steps closer, shoes scraping faintly against motel carpet ─ until he stops a few feet behind her. studying the bowed shape of her by the bed ; shoulders tight, hands still locked together. ' i listened. i'm here. '

her eyes open but her knees stay locked in place. bowing to a religion she can't name, can't place, but understands. castiel is no savior, god is nowhere to be found— but when she prays, someone answers. when she prays, castiel comes home.

"i don't like when you're gone." the vulnerability pries from her mouth before she can stop it. racing out from its gate to latch onto the other, immediate. it's not what she'd intended to say, nor what she stopped herself from saying, but it's truth. honest. the bare bones of her isolation, unveiled from where it sits.