While she’d admitted to Kevin that she’d speak with Betty, nothing stopped Veronica from keeping her previous engagements. She entered the lobby of The Empire behind a young Parisian couple, holding hands and speaking in lively tones about their upcoming trip to the symphony that night at Lincoln Center. She peered past the flurry of kisses between the couple to find him sitting at one of the low tables near the bar, lazily sipping what looked like scotch and making eyes at the young twenty-something behind the check-in desk.

Veronica expected no less from Reggie Mantle. 

“You’re late,” He addressed her as if she were one of his father’s many assistants. The Mantle family owned a number of industrial conglomerates throughout the United States, Asia, and Europe, making Reggie a sort of international ‘chaebol’. In theory, he was the only one who truly understood Veronica in a professional sense: she’d one day be heiress to the same sort of organization. If Reggie had been less of a bully in his youth, Hiram Lodge would have found him more than suitable for his daughter. But now, with Reggie’s obsession with menswear, fast cars, and Asian pop stars, he spent more time spending the Mantle fortune than he did building it. 

“By a minute. Surely you can spare that long,” She unwrapped the scarf from around her hair and took off her coat and sunglasses. Veronica considered herself a fashion icon, unless she was purposely trying to go unnoticed, like she was tonight.

“Are you that embarrassed to be seen with me, Veronica? It’s not as if we slept together.”

“Who knows what one can catch just from breathing the same air as you,” She replied sweetly. Veronica hadn’t ordered a drink, but that didn’t stop the waiter from setting a martini glass in front of her. 

“I took the liberty of ordering you a Manhattan,” He informed her, smirking as she took a sip, “If you’re asking for my help, the situation requires something stronger than wine.”

He had a point. Veronica was already on a liquid diet from now until Kiss on the Lips. Whiskey certainly counted as a liquid. While she often preferred hotel bars with more glitz and glamour, the dark tones and art-deco interiors of The Empire suited Reggie well. In the corner of the bar, they’d go unseen. At least she didn’t have to fear for her virginity, like every other girl lured into having a drink with him. 

“I’m not sure if you had time to check Gossip Girl while sleeping with all of Red Velvet, but Betty Cooper is back.”

Reggie smiled. Unlike Archie’s smile, which Veronica knew to be genuine, Reggie’s was one of satisfaction. He knew something she didn’t. 

“When are you throwing the ‘Welcome Home’ party, and will you be inviting guests from Spence or Brearley? I need a practice run before school next week.”

“Don’t be gross, or at least wait until I leave!” Veronica snapped, setting down her martini glass. He was toying with her. She’d have to get to the point.

“I know why Betty left in the first place. She slept with Archie behind my back. He admitted the whole affair to me yesterday at Laduree.”

Reggie was silent for a moment, swirling the scotch in his glass before taking a sip. Veronica knew he was choosing his words carefully. Any interaction with Reggie Mantle was similar to a game of chess: he was just working on his most advantageous move. 

“I know.”

“Don’t tell me Archie told you too...” Veronica sighed, “Though I can’t imagine why he would. You two can’t decide if you’re best friends or sworn enemies most of the time.”

“I find a little bit of both is the best way to live,” Reggie replied, “The question becomes, what are you going to do about it?”

Veronica took a long sip of her cocktail, appreciating the subtle sweetness among the bite of the dark liquor. It was sophisticated and classic: something she aspired to be but hardly felt in this moment.

“Archie can be forgiven provided he takes the necessary steps to Cartier,” Veronica said firmly, “But Betty Cooper should have never come back. If anyone is a professional at embarrassing a girl on the Upper East Side with a secret, it’s you.”

“Why not just send the affair tip to Gossip Girl?” Reggie asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Because I have only Archie’s word and no physical proof,” Veronica admitted, leaning back in her chair. “I haven’t spoken with Betty but I see no reason for it to not be true. But you know Gossip Girl: she won’t share anything of that magnitude without evidence. What I need is something that implicates Betty in a situation so terrible she has no choice but to leave that keeps both Archie and myself out of the scandal.”

“Gossip Girl already has pictures of Betty leaving the Ostroff Center,” Reggie winked at a group of Japanese girls checking into the hotel before turning his attention back to Veronica, “Why not just call her out on alcohol or drug abuse? It wouldn’t be the first time Betty’s taken MDMA.”

“I can’t use it, she was visiting Kevin after Alice Cooper locked him up temporarily for drugs.”

“Figures, Keller does know how to party a bit too hard,” Reggie agreed, taking another sip of whiskey, “But I think I can help you.”

“Without involving Archie. Or me.”

“I’ll do my best, princess,” Reggie rolled his eyes, his words dripping with sarcasm, “Besides...you didn’t even ask how I knew about their affair.”

“Reggie, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying...”

“As much as I do like to watch...this was an accident,” He smirked, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a USB drive. “But I have proof. Complete with a timestamp which would prove you not being there. Most of Constance and St. Jude’s can attest for you still being at the wedding.”

“But don’t use that!” Veronica hissed, reaching over the table to snatch the drive out of his hands. But she was short with shorter arms, and he kept it easily out of her reach. “I asked to not implicate Archie, which means not showing him having sex with her!”

“As I said, I’ll do my best to find something else,” Reggie repeated, tucking the drive back in his pocket, “But I’ll need something from you in return.”

“My body is worth much more than a scandal.”

“In most situations that’s what I would ask for, but not this time,” Reggie sighed irritably, “What I need is to be selected to escort you to the Spring Cotillion.”

Veronica swallowed. Cotillion would be the biggest social event of the season, if not the year. The photographs, video, and testimonials followed a debutante to her wedding, stories told to her children and grandchildren. Cotillion was not simply choosing who was the most attractive out of the heirs of the Upper East Side, it was a political and social alliance. 

“But Archie and I have talked about going to Cotillion together since we were seven, Reggie. That’s...that’s just how things have to be!”

“And I need to escort the most eligible debutante in New York City to get my father off my back so I may continue to enjoy the lifestyle I’m accustomed to,” He stated firmly, setting down his empty glass. “Break Archie’s heart for one night to return my favor. I’m sure showing up at his townhouse in nothing but a trench coat and Agent Provocateur will earn his forgiveness after. Considering Andrews has never experienced heartbreak in his life, it’ll be a new experience for him.”

“And if I don’t agree to you escorting me,” Veronica asked bluntly, “What then?”

“Then I’ll make sure that Gossip Girl knows that not only have Archie and Betty been having an affair, but you’ve known about it and done nothing. Being kept in the dark about a scandal like this is forgivable for a Queen...but willingly complying to both Archie and Betty’s disregard for your relationship and friendship is what’ll destroy your social hierarchy at Constance. Kiss your status goodbye, Veronica, no one will respect your authority or fear you anymore.” 

Veronica stared. She knew Reggie was conniving, but not this diabolical. She wanted to wipe the smirk off his face with a strong slap, but instead she gathered her coat, her scarf, and her sunglasses, pushing away from the table to cover her identity again.

“Just make it happen, Reggie.”

Alwyn counts the days by scratching marks into the steel walls. Days turn to weeks—weeks turn to months. He battles well in the ring. . .some say he’s made for it. If it was any place but a Galra ship he might have reveled in it. All the fighting catches up with him though. . .the fighting and the lack of proper nutrition. They treat him worse than he’s seen people treat dogs. Sadly, he doubts the Galra even know what a dog is. A foolish thought. He has plenty of those while locked away. 

He’s thumping his head against the wall of the cell when the blast occurs. Even from afar he can smell the burn of electronics and ship parts. The way his heart rate picks up is an unneeded response. The reptilian part of the brain doesn’t care that he’s heard explosions countless times before. The animalistic part of him is ready to pounce—ready to suffer as he’s been suffering for months. A darker part of him reminds himself that rescue might not come for him. No, this may end instead with the whole ship going up in flames.

Alwyn presses himself against the back of his cage, readying himself for the worst. The Galra might get to him first, might decide that a dead prisoner is better than no prisoner. It might be paranoia. It might be a well educated guess. The Galra are nothing if not cruel. Yet there’s a voice—a voice that sounds sweet as honey when he compares it to the voices he’s heard for the past months. Alwyn swallows thickly—for a moment his eyes burn. & here he thought death would be the only alternative for him. “I’m in here!” He calls out, shameless in his desperation. There’s no shame in wanting freedom—there’s no shame in wanting to go back home. . .that is, if his home hasn’t been destroyed to begin with.

When the door opens Alwyn has to stop himself from gasping. He’s handsome. . .he’s the hero he’s been dreaming of! No, he’s better than that. Alwyn knows that face from training all those years ago. The star student that went on to become a rebel fighter: Matt Holt. Matt’s voice shakes him from his thoughts. He may be wearing rags and unarmed, but he’s not useless. He can still fight! He can still win. “By your lead, then.” Glacial blue eyes narrow. He’s been waiting for this for a long, long time.  A childish part of him reaches for Matt’s hand. Takes it and holds onto it tight. He’s been starved for contact other than fighting—maybe it’s selfish, but then again, Matt doesn’t protest. 

“I know who you are—you  were a legend at the academy.” Alwyn flashes a grin. “Alwyn Lescou.” He’s famous for less interesting things. . .more so for his family’s designs in weaponry & their fortune. Not that matters now. Riches hardly matter when the city you love is now ash & ruin. “Can’t say I’m known for anything interesting.” He was top of his class when it came to flying. That’s his claim to fame, but he still hasn’t bested any of Takashi’s records. Not that it matters to him too much. . .living ‘neath the shadow of a man such as Voltron’s leader is hardly a bad thing.

Galran soldiers come into view and his hand drops back to his side immediately. It’ll be mostly up to Matt to dispatch them. Until Alwyn can make a grab for a weapon he’s basically useless. Too weak to do much in terms of hand to hand combat. When he watches Matt Holt fight it’s like he’s watching a song. Fluid and graceful—these steps are well practiced and deadly. Alwyn doesn’t let himself get too distracted though. As soon as one of the soldiers is down he’s diving for that weapon. He hears the crack of steel against steel and flinches at the noise. Alwyn does not see Matt Holt get hurt, but he sure as hell hears it. 

When Matt looks back at Alwyn he winks—a cheeky move—but all three shots he fires off hit their mark. Ah, yes, there’s his other claim to fame. He’s a damn good shot when he needs to be. “Can’t let you have all the fun, can I Holt?” It’s probably a bad thing that killing these fuckers feels so damn good. He recognizes one of them he downed—the man that beat him bloody when he first arrived in the Galra encampment. He feels not an ounce of guilt for this. They deserve it, he reminds himself. Oh, they fucking deserve it. 

Alwyn drinks in the look on Matt’s face. Revels in it. The blood dripping down his face, the way he looks at him—it’s intoxicating. “Oh?” Alwyn grins. He wouldn’t mind a kiss. Wouldn’t mind some affection. He steps forward to meet Matt, still gripping the gun with one hand, but the other snakes around Matt’s waist greedily. It’s been a long time since he’s kissed anyone. In fact, it has been years. Tongue can taste the blood on Matt’s lips. Not that he minds. He pulls Matt flush against him. It’s a greedy move, but one he doubts that Matt will mind. He even lets his eyes shut, focusing in on how soft Matt’s lips feel against his own. Dizziness hits him, a wave of desire, but they won’t have time for much more than this.

Later, he thinks, he’ll repay Matthew Holt in full for his rescue. Later, he thinks, he’ll do a little more than cover him in kisses.

White. Everything is so white. The walls, the uniforms. Everything about this place was crisp, clean, and white. Sterile. The building was huge, holding many different variations of people—people with many different problems. Mainly mental disorders or others that pleaded as insane. All of the people that were here though were only trying to get better.

Olivia Masters, however, was different than most patients at this particular asylum. Most people had been here in order to rid themselves of depressions, anxiety, eating disorders or the like—things that not necessarily could be cured but could be withheld through variations of medication. Same with those mentally insane. They, as well, with medication, could return to the real world and try to live a normal life. Livy has lived in this asylum for over 3 years, while she was still in high school, even. The difference between her and other patients though? Her diagnosis couldn’t be cured. No matter what medication was given, she either grew sick or it did nothing for her. At many points in time, she was made to take it using brutal force by doctors.

While being treated, she was allowed to finish high school and pursue college as she chose fit; she was currently taking online courses, one at a time for a degree in which she had no chance of pursuing a career in if she remained in this asylum. She had many interests revolving around writing in particular, so she opted to taking writing courses. In the way she was being held here, it may as well be called jail.

Livy sat in what was considered the lounge room. She would have lounged at peace had there not been two burly bodies blocking the door, waiting to escort her back to her room once she was finished here. None of the other patients were allowed to be near her; she communicated only with a doctor and these idiotic body guards that remained outside the door, waiting for her. She was a sweet, innocent girl when it came to certain things; however, there was one doctor in particular that was an absolute menace—the whole reason she was here. Livy heard there was going to be another person, an intern of sorts, coming to the asylum that would be working with her regularly while the doctor was away. She smiled to herself softly…maybe she’d be able to get someone to finally understand. She hummed softly, “Name, name, name…” As though on the win, an answer came to her. Franklin… So that was the new person’s name. She was interested and excited to meet this one. For some, she was misunderstood, seeing things that weren’t there; however, they were there... Livy could see and hear them... she could see and predict things before they occurred. She knew about a person before they really were able to say much of anything to her. That’s why she was here. As she sat in the lounge room, she shuffled a deck of cards, waiting for this Franklin to come.

Ever since fighting the Panmal and going to the hot spring the young male lived a rather ordinary life. His parents were initially shocked when he told them about how he and Taeyong were trapped in the house then defeated the creature. Jooheon didn’t understand how much danger they were in until his parents told him in detail was the Panmal which was an assembled being of animal and humans used as a guard for more a demon. Jooheon figured out the demon was the actual house they were in. What was probability the most interesting thing was that the Panmal was something of s treasure, once defeated a person could reach in its remains and receive a gift. The young male knew this was true as the marbles he got turned out to be glass eyes that allowed him to see clearly in the dark. He called then owl eyes.  Jooheon’s parents did say he was lucky because the Panmal was difficult to kill. However with the praise for his work he was also berated for breaking his spirit camera.

@ember-furness

She was always tired these days. Today it wasn't so bad, but then, it was early yet. Give it five hours and she'd be aching to get home, or at the very least, for too much coffee. Of course, her sleepiness always brought the fear that the disease was progressing, that pretty soon she wouldn't be able to work—but mostly, she chalked it up to all the changes around town. This week, even more strange things were occurring. A man she'd had a very nice talk with was now speaking solely in verse, an apparent teenager talking like an old man, and... she'd just visited Roger's blog last night and he'd sounded... chipper?

So today, she was scouring HQ's section on mental magic. She couldn't see the higher-up books in her chair, and hoped she would find something promising on the lower shelves so she wouldn't have to ask an assistant for help. She really, really didn't like doing that. Thankfully, a book entitled “Spells Affecting Speech” caught her eye, and she took it out. Could be perfect. Examining it, she spotted a piece of paper sticking about a quarter-inch out of the spine. She took it out and opened it up; it was a note, so short she couldn't help but read the whole thing:

"Make sure to keep good relationships with everyone at HQ. You never know if you might need them. ~Ashlyn"

Ashlyn. A well-known, well-liked phoenix Scribe--the past life of young Ember. Evidently, she was still around in some form. Kalea wondered how many notes like this had been left around HQ, and how many memories Ember had of her former life. Wisdom and memories. Things Kalea would never grow old enough to have enough of. But she longed most of all for more of her father's wisdom.

“Everyone you meet,” her father had once said, “is a potential friend. See them that way. Offer them kindness. You never know who'll need it.”

She remembered now, herself at ten years old. They'd been out for lunch, at a buffet, watching the world pass by out of the restaurant's big picture windows. The waiter kept pouring them water, glancing at Dad's wheelchair each time. Kalea had felt protective of him, wanted to say he was so much more than first appearances, but she was shy. “But what if they judge me?” she'd asked Dad, trying to keep bitterness out of her voice (she knew what her father thought of bitterness).

“Then you show them how strong you are.”

At ten she'd been nervous; twenty two years later, she still tried every day to not be bitter but instead be emotionally strong, to win people over with all the qualities they might not have expected of her. Like the note said, she kept good relationships. Not so much out of need, though. At least, she tried not to think so.

The elders of the clan talked about the humans in hushed voices, never referring to them by name, so not to alert the elflings, most likely. But Solival noticed. 

“Hahren, who are you talking about?” 

Zathrian pursed his lips, then ruffled Solival’s hair. The elfling squeaked. 

“They’re nothing to worry about, da’enasal. Stay inside the camp, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

The very next night, Solival snuck away from camp. Two of the hunters, Llevorn and Marin, chuckled to each other, and neither noticed the creeping shadow that passed behind their backs. And Solival wandered far, farther from camp than he’d ever been before, passing silently over upturned root and past sleeping bears.