NO MORE SHAME / NO MORE FEAR / NO MORE DREAD

NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER. When verses fail him, Jud will go for the other familiar saying. But it's hard -- anything in life one chose to do well could be considered so, but in the life and career he has been called to do, at its core, the service was of to the people. And this current man he was conversing with? ... hard not to judge with everything he already knows.

Kieran can imagine that it does.

Whatever Jud knows or thinks he knows about Kieran is rooted in dominant societal expectations or the exaggeration inherent to gossip. Kieran isn't worried. Whatever he's done wrong, he can defend. Or conceal.

Now, though, Kieran's confused. He plays it up—eyebrows furrowing, damn near pouting.

Not possible. And yet...

His jaw tightens, grip firming on the bow as if tension alone can anchor him to something solid. This is a man playing tricks. It has to be. There are no mores in the world, not beyond stories told to frighten children—

Jaw sets, stubbornness rising to meet the unease before it can root too deep.

"Still enough to be asking the questions. Old enough to know that men who skulk in forests and speak in riddles rarely have anything worth saying," comes the reply, sharper now, less playful. The bow doesn't lower, but his eyes narrow.

In some ways—most ways, in fact—this will be subtle. Has been for decades. He has little interest in an outright coup. Sitting on a throne, making meaningless decisions about the welfare of people whom he hates—nothing appealing about any of it.

Phil smiles like his nephew amuses him. He exhales through his nostrils, feels the air brush against his face. In fact, the most amusing thing about Alasdair thus far is his strongly-held belief that he and his weapon present any sort of threat.

Maybe he needs to have that particular illusion shattered.

The bow's limbs and grip shake in the boy prince's hands until the trembling takes over Alasdair's entire body. In a second or two, the wood will shatter.

Phil, who has always been patient, who appreciates a drawn out suffering more than the satisfaction of debilitating and incapacitating bodily harm:

marvin & tige.

his eyes are sharp and implacably ageless on fernanda's face when he looks her over. his jaw winches a notch tighter when he doesn't entirely like or trust what he sees in it.

mutt wishes cain would come back. he never thought he'd think that.

WELL, FERNANDA'S NOT THINKING IT. She could be closer with Cain. Should be, arguably. But with Mutt's presence comes Cain assuming a familiarity and a camaraderie that Fernanda's decided doesn't apply to her and Cain. He was rude for making the imposition (the imposition being Mutt himself).

Okay, that stings a little - Billie's big enough to admit it, even though she knows she'd never do anything. She's not done anything before now, has she? But obviously, Lila still needs a little bit. And that's fine. That's so fine.

"Sure. My place."

She stands from the seat that she's taken, gesturing for Lila to fall into step with her. Billie had driven them here, and so Billie will drive them back - as long as Lila's not weird about being in an enclosed space with her now.

It's getting well into the night now anyway. Better for them to go back to Billie's place now, than for Billie to try and make excuses to get home before the sun rises.

Well, she doesn't have to do that now, does she?

She starts the car and the bubblegum pop they were listening to before blares out of the speakers. It's so normal it makes her laugh.

The car's speakers rattle the entire vehicle and make Lila feel like her body's humming. She sees Billie jostle from the force of her own laughter, and she turns just in time to read Billie's lips.

Her eyebrows crinkle.

"That's the point of me," says Rex, spreading his arms, momentarily the entire orange forecast of the city. Wiggles his stupid eyebrows. He does not remember what he's supposed to have done. He is having a great time.

As much as Burns believes in heroes, anyway. That's an idealistic optimism that implies too many held beliefs Burns is incapable of getting behind. Like, people deserve to be saved. Like, people deserve to be celebrated. People with superpowers are better than other people—oh. Okay. He does like that one. It'd be so crazy if he didn't, right? Like he hated himself for something he can't control.

Burns scowls. He hates this guy. His eyebrows especially. The eyebrows are so infuriating that Rex's awesome powers, whatever they may be, do not endear Burns one bit.

Burns drops his arms. He's not being given attention anymore, which means he doesn't need to perform. It also means he feels—empty. Almost sad. Almost.

"WAIT!"

Burns stumbles forward, collects himself, and speed-walks in an upright manner until he's in line with Rex.

She lacks the good sense or the foresight to worry about this now. All she feels is a vague dread—and, of course, the neediness.

<<I don't know what that means.>>

Lila makes a face like psh, puh-lease.

but samira looked haunted. she looked possessed. so maybe one had followed her down after all.

' it’s just ghosts. ' one of the panel lights flickered off. klaus shrugged, spinning another idle circle in his chair. ' gloria can’t do anything about them. i asked. apparently ghost busters aren’t in the budget? '

the light came back on with a keening hum. the shadows under samira’s eyes grew darker—a phenomenon that could not be replicated in klaus, who was wearing sunglasses.

She's too tired to be angry. She can't even be angry with Bugs Bunny in fully human form wearing sunglasses.

"So I guess you're feeling the lack of resources as much as the rest of us."

Is she trying to be funny? Basement morticians: they're just like us!

"Do you have a concussion? Hangover?"

She didn't love him, yet ... she never got the chance (if she did, Hara couldn't be friends with Margot again ... and this would have ended with one of them in jail or in a shared-grave).

❛ You did it so easily, Margot ... and I don't understand how you could. It didn't seem to affect you after either. ❜

Margot knew she needed to kill Nate. Hara being present wasn't her first plan, surely, but it is how things happened to ensure Hara's safety.

"I was affected, Hara."

But perhaps not in the ways Hara would anticipate or even require of a friend. The limitations on Margot's compassion seem to be jarring.

Margot felt good. Margot felt a manic rush. Then, the satisfaction—as if a lingering itch had finally been scratched. She knew then that the itch would return again, but for a time, she'd handled things.

"Something needed to happen. Something that I couldn't ever ask you to imagine doing or helping me do."

If it looked easy, though—that's because it was.

Remi gives her a nasty little smile. There's an element of vindication, as if he's been waiting for Isla to snap the whole time. He's tired of her self-righteous, cool girl act—the one that makes him feel like a failure every time he talks to her. She's his little sister. Not the other way round.

He'll feel better about losing his shit if she loses hers too.

Anyway, maybe it'd be nice to give Remi his one win for the week. You got me, big guy! I'm as miserable and immature as you are.

It's hard to know that and immediately say what he wants her to say. So, instead: