@ikjaehyun

it was humid. that’s the one thing that bong ki could keep his mind on as he watched the crowd in the train station pass by. god this was a mistake. maybe they should of just drove. but then again, driving for seven hours seemed like a shitty idea. so maybe taking the train to busan was the best bet. at the moment, bong ki had grabbed some drinks for himself and jaehyun, to keep them occupied as they waited for their train, placing the drink that the idol order onto the table. 

the choreographer’s usual stoic facial expression was replaced to one of worry ,unsure how jaehyun would react to the crowds in the train station since it was his first time. “ is it too crowded for you ?” he questioned, taking a sip of his drink as his slid on the chair across the younger. “ it’s only a bit longer till our train arrives, so just finish your drink and if you need to just hold onto hyung once we start walking.” he teased softly, winking at the younger, chuckling to himself.  

If Carter had to pick one thing he never ever thought he’d find himself doing, hiding in one of Preston’s many winding staircases on a Thursday night, a bottle of something brown and strong sitting next to him would probably come on the very top of the list. Except it wasn't just any Thursday night, it was Thanksgiving, because stuffing one's face full for dinner made any reagular day special. The being with family part does, a trecherous part of him thought. Carter fiddled with the neck of the bottle absently. He had nicked it from the stash Carson thought he kept oh-so-secret and he really did need to find a better hiding spot than their shared closet. The unmarked bottle had looked normal among the more than likely illegal things his roommate kept and had so far proven to be harmless in the three or so hours of sporadic drinking. (He had been sulking for two of those hours, drinking his way from his room to anywhere, but he wouldn't admit to it.) Carter had managed to get tipsy enough that he didn't so much mind the hard floor he was sitting on and Carson would find a better hiding spot, it was a win-win situation.

Staring out into the empty hallway made him realize how loud Preston was. Wwithout the everpresent chatter and stray groups walking up and down the stairs at every hour, the silence of the place was unnerving. It said much of his state that he didn't even consider sitting in the middle of a frequent pathway while trying to get pissed on some unknown brew. He took a swing off the bottle and nearly dropped it when his phone rang, the sound startling him as it resonated through the empty air. He unlocked the screen, its bluish glow helpfully letting him know that he had a new text.

VIEW MESSAGE FROM: DAD (DON'T PICK UP)

"No. Nope. Not dealing with this shit." Carter announced to the steps, hands flailing wildly. "If I'm gonna be grateful for something this year, it's not talking with my dad. Nope." A broad gesture of his hand sent the phone clattering down the few steps. He felt like like burying his hands in his hair and not getting the phone at all and why do you feel like crying, Carter? You're not a sad drunk, you're— "Fuck."

Someone, Lincoln managed to think hazily, should have designed those fucking escape pods to watch out for asteroids.

All he could see was black and blue, blurs of color that he couldn't quite figure out. The blue seemed to be sky, but what was the black? Something waving in the corner of his vision, one big blob. The grass he seemed to be lying on was solid, at least, even if his head was still whirling.

His escape pod had gotten clipped by an asteroid in the belt, tearing out a chunk of the side of the pod and sending it spinning. The force of metal crumpling inward had taken out a piece of his chest armor, but it had mostly protected him from any serious injury. But whatever GPS system the pod was equipped with had gotten damaged, and even though his helmet had still been secure enough to keep feeding him oxygen, Lincoln had known he was in trouble.

He'd kept a calm head as best he could. Waiting, trying to time everything perfectly. And as impact had been seconds away, he'd activated his armor enhancement. His vision had lit up with red as the energy surrounded him, temporary invulnerability shielding from the worst of the impact. But then he'd gotten thrown from the pod, the shield faltering as it absorbed too much damage.

He'd bounced down the side of a small hill, into a tree, and then rolled the rest of the way down, coming to a final stop on the grass.

It hadn't been fucking pleasant.

Get up, Dhatri.

Just fucking get up.

Lincoln took a breath, grimacing as pain jolted through his side. He carefully picked his way to his feet, looking down. A goddamn tree branch, maybe an inch around, had lodged itself between his bottom two ribs. His blood looked dark against the t-shirt he'd worn under the armor, but the branch didn't feel like it had gone in too deep.

What limited medical knowledge he had advised him that he shouldn't pull it out, not until he had a medic nearby. So Lincoln took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. All Agents trained for stealth and infiltration were also trained in torture resistance, just on the off chance they got captured--and Lincoln had had plenty of experience. So he took the pain, and he filed it away. Mind over matter. Couldn't use it too much, of course, because pain was a useful mechanism, but it looked like he had something of a walk in front of him.

He took his helmet off, tucked it under his arm, and took one step after another, making his way toward the wreck of the ship he could see. Panic threatened to make itself known, but he filed that away too.

Pegasus. Was Pegasus alive?

Focus, Dhatri. Just keep walking.

So he walked, and a mile later he spied the sight of an escape pod. A few of the Agents seemed to be gathered. Not nearly as many as there should be.

The silence was perhaps the most unnerving thing to Peter.

While others had gotten to the escape pods, Peter had not. He had not known if his consciousness would transfer to one of the spare forms that the Equinox held in storage, but he got his answer when he opened his eyes and found that he was indeed still alive. He remembered his corporeal form being destroyed--the hangar had crumpled upon impact--and the feeling had been . . . disconcerting.

The storage he had woken up in was right at the tear in the ship; the far wall was gone, replaced with a chasm of blackened metal and blue sky beyond that.

Agent Nashville?

No answer. The implant link was still offline.

And he was surrounded by the very still spare bodies of his brothers and sisters.

Scrambling upright, Peter cautiously made his way to the very edge of the tear in the ship, standing on the precipice. He could not hear anything. No voices. Just the whistle of wind through the torn ship.

He had seen some of the Agents get to escape pods. But he had no way of knowing if they had survived or not. And what of the A.I.? What of the Director?

There was a feeling that Peter distinctly recalled feeling at several moments in his life--the cold, burrowing sensation of dread, but a strangely numb one. Shock, then. A very human feeling, he had been told.

"Hello?"

Twenty minutes into the first music set, and the saxophonist still hadn't shown up.

Joel glanced up at the clock on the wall, then over to the expansive doors of the Stingray, half-expecting Simon to walk through just as he looked. Then again, he didn't even know why he bothered with half that expectation--he knew it wasn't going to happen. This was a routine extremely familiar to Joel, so when the clock ticked over to twenty-one minutes, he just sighed and hoped that Helen could cover the shift for half an hour.

He tugged on a warmer jacket to ward against the chill outside, exasperation written in every line of his features. The walk he took had been one that he'd taken for a number of Sundays now, because the same fucking thing happened every Sunday.

He liked Simon. He really did. He was a good guy. So Joel couldn't get too annoyed at having to drag his hungover ass in. Hey, at least he could pick up a hot dog along the way and keep himself entertained during the walk.

He announced his arrival at Simon's place with a series of heavy thumping knocks to the door. "Simon! Are you conscious?"

No reply.

Joel contemplated whether or not he could kick the door down, or break the lock. He even looked down at the door handle, giving it a serious amount of thought, before he thought of an even better idea. Something that would make Simon get up solely so that he could show his annoyance.

What did a man do when he had a lot of money and not much to spend it on?

He bought golfing outfits, that's what he did.

Admittedly, Joel had only bought one for himself first. He didn't know anybody that liked golf--but that might be because he barely liked golf himself, so he didn't exactly go around talking to people about one irons and fores and whatever else the sport involved. All he knew was that he wanted to try it.

So he'd guessed at Orion's size, because even though Orion tended to get all Mr. Grumpypants about going outside, Joel figured he could coax him out to play a round of golf. Golf was supposed to be enjoyable, or at least that's what Joel heard some of the patrons babbling about.

He'd had to wait a few days for his day off, and okay, he'd felt more than a little ridiculous walking to the Stingray clad in full golfer's gear. The pants sagged in places that pants shouldn't sag, the shirt was itchy, the golf bag he had slung over his shoulder was heavier than expected, and the jacket was frankly a little too warm for this weather. But the point was, Joel felt snazzy, and he'd even gotten some admiring looks from passersby.

Entering the Stingray, Joel wasn't surprised to see that he barely got any looks at all. He'd seen weirder get-ups from regular patrons; drinking to excess was apparently an excuse to wear the odder items in ones wardrobe. Just the other night, some lady had come in wearing an entire stuffed goose on her head.

The patrons were happy, the music was in full swing, tips were flowing as freely as the alcohol, and nobody had tried to start a fight yet.

It was a good night. As good as any night could be when it was being spent as a bartender serving illegal alcohol in a club that hosted a myriad of illegal trades. And for Joel, that was pretty damned good.

Illegal bartender he may be, but he loved his job. He had spent so many years working in tiny little clubs off of run down highways, places where the language was cruder than the moonshine. So working in a place like the Stingray was a dream come true. When Marie had hit the big leagues and the clubs had started getting better, Joel had thought that was it, he'd thought that had been the highest peak that he'd see. Those clubs had been nothing compared to where he was now--the glamour, the glitter, the sheer amount of money that passed through these doors.

He was happy. Content. And if working in an illegal trade gave him that, then so be it. It was where his sister was, it was where the money was, and the Stingray's patrons actually understood the value of a well made cocktail. No longer did he have to lecture small-town, small-minded idiots on how beer was just about the most boring thing a man could drink, and about how it wasn't even worth the effort of brewing it.

Yeah. Life was good.

Finishing up a martini, Joel swiped a hand towel from under the bar, using it to dry his hands of cocktail shaker condensation, turning his gaze to the crowd of patrons as he did so. None of them looked to be approaching in need of another drink, so he turned his back to them, taking out his pack of cards in anticipation of some downtime.

Except--fuck, he heard footsteps.

Fanning the cards out in his hand, Joel turned back, presenting them face-down to the person that had approached. If they wanted a drink, they could damn well wait. He wanted to practice his card tricks, and who better to practice on than customers? Just, hopefully it wasn't Ollie. The last thing Joel needed was for his boss to see him being lazy.

Joel had never been an early riser, and tending bars for so long had only worsened that habit--when he worked all night and slept all day, getting up just before the sun set was something that happened to the tune of grumbling, cursing and incoherent grunting. And when he finally managed to roll himself out of bed, the most he could manage to do was get quickly dressed and then stumble toward where the coffee was kept.

He and Marie lived in a second-story apartment three blocks away from the Stingray, a narrow little building squashed between two bigger businesses. The lower floor was a shop, owned by a sweet little old lady named Mrs. Harrington who always bade them good morning, even if it was always evening when she said it. The building didn't look like much from the outside, but it was deceptively spacious inside--the Flatts both earned a decent wage, and Marie wouldn't be caught dead in anything lower-class. It was comfortable; that was all Joel really cared about.

Still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Joel somehow managed to fix himself coffee without burning himself, and got started on breakfast. By the time the eggs were frying and the radio filling the silence with the sounds of Louis Armstrong's trumpet, Joel was feeling almost human. The fat orange tomcat that belonged to the lady downstairs was sitting smugly on their porch railing, the sun was blazing orange through the windows, and Louis Armstrong's What A Wonderful World was getting to the really good part. It was shaping up to be a good day.

Every evening, it took Marie at least an hour to emerge from her bedroom. And, every evening, Joel wondered once again what women even did when they got ready, and why it took so long. It took him all of ten minutes to wash up, and another ten to get dressed. Was putting on make-up really that time consuming?

Not bothering to shave had freed up five minutes of his time, so Joel took that time to wander over to Marie's closed bedroom door, coffee in hand, in the hopes of tempting her out sooner with the scent of it.