#hacker-codeq

@hacker-codeq asked: [TXT] : you left your jacket here. - Ben to Robby (For Ben would steal his jackets very much

RANDOM TEXT MESSAGE PROMPTS. | accepting

[text]: ah fuck

[text]: thanks, i thought i was going crazy

Odd quirked an eyebrow at the unfamiliar number popping up on his phone. He paused for a long moment, debating even bothering to answer, before shrugging and swiping a quick message.

@hacker-codeq

A wave of anger crashes against Jason's mental shores when he hears the words coming from Ben, but not because he's angry. No, far from it. The anger comes from all the memories that re-surface of the many times he failed to protect those he loved, his many failures, some of which he had nothing to do with, but still attributed to himself just because he was alive and around the person that was taken away from him for lack of knowledge or action.

Still, this is him. Jason never did well with this kind of thing, he's always been somewhat of a reactionary type of guy.

@hacker-codeq

There was no envy for those that had to compete on the same day as the opening ceremonies. For his part, Bill had been at the qualifiers for Big Air the night before and was gifted a nice day-long break before the finals on Saturday with his only responsibility being to show up on time in their assigned outfit.

A relief given how hard they had partied when they'd returned to the village.

Bill found himself alone at breakfast that morning, his snowboarding teammates nursing their hangovers in their respective rooms. It was nice to have a moment to himself and a quiet morning for what felt like the first time since he'd arrived.

He paid about as much attention into where he sat as he did into what he'd piled onto his tray — which is to say none — and found himself not too far away from another athlete.

"Oliver. Oliver Wolf."

I offer it without looking up, because I'm in the middle of a stitch and his arm moving suddenly cost me four seconds I'd like to get back. I wait for him to settle before I continue, the needle finding the edge of the wound again.

"You did, actually. Twice."

I glance up briefly when he mentions feeling dizzy, trying to make out what I can from his expression. I can't see much, but he's pale around the edges and lucid enough. And since he's already refused the hospital before I could mention it, I can guess he's been in this situation before. Or a similar one.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to force you to go anywhere."

Back to the stitches. Three more, probably, and we'll be done. The cut is fairly clean, which is the one good thing about all of this.

Today was business as usual-- or so Mason thought. The heir to the Verger estate had no idea that the fellow he was about to meet was the very model of a foreign spy. He knew that the man was here to speak to him on behalf of a prestigious UK security company, and only that.

Mason was thinking about purchasing their tech for his manor.

As the visitor's car rolled to a stop outside his home, Mason prepped the place. He had the fireplace program up on the TV, music on mute. His eel had been transferred to its living room tank. On the little table that stood before the couch was a long silver tray that was adorned with expensive sliced cheeses and figs.

He'd even had martinis prepared for them.

Voices rang out, signaling that the doorman had greeted the salesman and was leading him inside; Mason perked up, jumping to his feet to straighten the fabric of his suit and check himself in his pocket-mirror.

Just as Marcus entered the room, he snapped it shut.

"Well, look at that!" Mason exclaimed, "If it isn't the man of the hour!"

He approached him, made to shake his hand, and then ushered him toward the couch like a sheepdog herding its flock.

"You can get used to any pain. But loneliness, that’s what makes you break."