#bladesout

Rain does not like texting. Typing on a little keyboard is annoying. She often finds it too slow. However, she also doesn't really like talking on the phone. Between the two options, a phone call is better, but if you're within reasonable visiting distance and planning to have a long conversation with her? She'd prefer to speak to your face. And there is a chance she'll show up unannounced to do it. Her standard greeting after picking up the phone is, "What d'you want?"

Often, when Rain has nightmares dreams about the Hive Incident, they look blurry to some degree. Losing her eyesight never used to be a nagging fear of hers, but then she'd gotten infected, had her final living teammate in danger of being a meal for the undead, had already failed to save another, and while everybody was shouting at her to shoot, she couldn't. She's supposed to be a crack shot, but she couldn't tell which smudge was him in the crowd. Never before had Rain felt so defenseless and out of control. It creeps into some of her other dreams now too.

"Mai non, c'est correct."

The Duke looks at the sign, then down to Circe. He shrugs.

"In situations such as these, the best way to understand things is to stop trying. No matter, though...I know the way to the forest's edge. I'll gladly escort you."

For a price, of course, but if he said that up front there'd be a chance she wouldn't accept.

PLOT PLEASE. - Always Accepting.

Oh my grilled cheese. Beltway's stabby wife wants some plot ideas? Something new? Something we haven't discussed yet? Shit. Gotta rack my brain pretty hard for this ask. Let's go with some Mr. & Mrs. Smith vibes.

001 - Circe is sent to extract a whistleblower scientist from an infested high-rise. Beltway is hired to grab the same scientist for a buyer who wants the pathogen refined, not destroyed. The stairwells and levels are packed with the dead, who shuffle and follow the sounds they hear. They have to climb while arguing about who gets the target once they reach the roof. Honestly, the scientist can end up just being infected once they get up to the roof. Let's be real, it would be funny, and most scientists in movies and shit are the 'let me hide my bite' bitches.

002 - A “refugee camp” is actually a black-market auction: suppressors, antivirals, and caged infected for all your evil needs. Beltway has an entrance code; Circe has a warrant that means nothing here. When a cage fails, the auction becomes a survival gauntlet, and the only way out is to keep pretending they’re buyers while people are dying around them. A small revamp for another one of our ideas.

TAKE A LOOK AT MY MUSE + WHAT THEIR LIFE LOOK LIKE HEADCANON PROMPTS.

The gun holster doesn't technically feel like it counts as 'pockets', but it's still there and filed as such. Always kept loaded, safety on, in case he ever needed it.

A wallet in his left side pocket is kept secured by a chain to his pants loop, and in it is several forms of fake identification; he needs them a lot less often than he imagined he would, having learned that most people won't so much as ask so long as you act like wherever you find yourself is where you're supposed to be. Also in his wallet are several photographs of sentimental importance. And in his right side pocket is, of course, a phone to keep in contact with Nicholas and anyone else he deems important.

A few other effects rotate in and out of his pockets at different times. Cigarettes or a vape, depending on what he feels like at the moment. Oftentimes drugs. A small flask that he doesn't actually use most of the time, since he's not social enough to worry about anyone spiking a drink. Condoms and the like. Old wired headphones (he doesn't trust Airpods).

Most often there is something he's stolen in his pockets. Cash, trinkets, something from the drug store, something he found in someone's house. The motion comes incredibly naturally to him, arm reaching out to take something and sliding into his pocket with practiced ease.

the safehouse smells like bleach and wet concrete. arthur stands just inside the threshold, coat still on, door clicking shut behind him with a sound that feels too final for something so small. a single lamp burns low on the kitchen counter. the rest of the house is dark. temporary. borrowed. the kind of place barely meant for recovery, let alone living.

he listens first. refrigerator hum. distant traffic. no second set of breathing.

good.

he crosses the room without turning on another light, setting a thin manila folder on the counter. the papers inside are still warm from the printer—incident reports, surveillance stills, a handful of names that have already been crossed out somewhere else. officially resolved. contained. neutralized.

his jaw tightens.

arthur reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose, thumb pressing into the ache behind his eyes. the migraine has been threatening him since the docks. since the thing that was supposed to be dead wasn't. since the air shifted and his instincts went sharp and wrong and too familiar.

he shouldn't still feel it. but he does—a faint prickle under his skin, like static caught in muscle memory. his reflection in the dark window wavers as he moves—brown eyes steady, unreadable. for a split second, gold flickers thin along the rim of his pupil.

he exhales slowly.

“ containment breach, ” he murmurs to the empty room, tasting the lie of it. bitterness like bile sets under his tongue. “ that's what we're calling it. ”

he opens the folder. photographs stare back at him—burned concrete, blood that doesn't look human enough, a body bag zipped too tight.

arthur's fingers hover over one image longer than they should. he doesn't pray anymore. not properly. but something in him leans toward it anyway.

there's a soft sound behind him then—floorboard shift, fabric against a wall, the subtle awareness of not being alone. he doesn't reach for his weapon, doesn't turn to look, but his shoulders square slightly, head canted to the side. when he speaks, his words are even but his tone is soft, tired around the edges.

Lee’s favourite activity is affection providing or receiving, most notably in the form of cuddling, hugging and snuggling. He could be in the middle of a cuddle, hug or snuggle for absolutely ages and not get sick of it. Were you to tell him he had a choice between affection and sex and he could only pick one, he would pick affection without any hesitation.