D E S T R U C T

The instant calloused fingers curled around her wrist and TUGGED, the second the window CLAMOURED shut in discontent, Beckett FLINCHED. She hadn’t meant to, but the involuntary reflex caused her arm to JERK beneath the blonde’s grip and she was immediately swinging her head around to stare at her frighteningly. ❝ I’m sorry, ❞ pleaded the Nikolas, desperation seeping into her tone, lacing it like venom, despite how much she despised its congealed vulnerability. ❝ I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m just   —  ❞

Just what, Beckett ? Scared ?

Maybe.

But she’d already trailed off, and the Buchanan was already continuing her rambles, so The Chameleon dismissed whatever obligation she’d been previously endowed to continue her explanation of the fucked up processes occurring within the realm of a fragmented mind. Except, in that moment, she really WISHED she hadn’t, emerald hues tearing themselves from Sloane’s gaze and instead boreing longingly out the window, pasted at the rustling trees in spring’s evening breeze. She felt all at once almost ENCAGED by the weight of their conversation, entrapped by the burden of the sealed window and by unsettling words and the tone in the Buchanan’s voice which Beckett had never heard before. 

She didn’t speak, not even when The Paradox flinched at her own words, registering the impending pain looming overhead at the prospect of their future. Didn’t speak even when the  ‘  I love you   ’  was returned, and certainly didn’t speak at the mention of Elena. Of Sloane SLEEPING with Elena. In fact, it was almost as though that proclamation snipped a wire in her brain tied directly to her emotions, a string of Christmas lights now flickering shut, and her eyes darkened, mere voids compared to the jewels they’d once been. Jaw steeled, hands resting at her sides, tense, robotic, in just one brief instant everything within her had CHANGED and she’d shut down in her entirety. 

❝ That’s fine, I’m happy for you. ❞ It was practically a speech she was rambling off from memory, one she’d exhausted over and over in the sanction of her room, preparing for the day when that confession would come. It’d only been a matter of time, and she’d braced herself for pain, for anger, sorrow, frustration    —   But not for numbness. Beckett had never experienced numbness. ❝ It’s what you wanted. She’s want you wanted, and you GOT what you wanted. So that’s good. ❞ Her eyes slowly maneuvered from their trance outside to meet the Buchanan’s, searching her expression. ❝ Don’t apologize, I’m fine. ❞

A moment’s hesitation, and then she was reaching for her briefcase, packed with what meagre semblance of belongings she’d grown attached to { the rest, she’d donated to charity }, and proceeded out of the bedroom towards the vestibule.

❝ Maybe you shouldn’t come, ❞ she quipped as she approached the door, shaking her head to herself, back turned to the apartment. ❝ I don’t think you want to, even if you claim you do. Maybe you’re LYING, just like you lied to me when you said you LOVED me. Because you don’t sleep with the person who brutally tortured, who ENJOYED, for that matter, brutally torturing the one you love. ❞ And then without missing a beat; ❝ Don’t apologize to ME, because you’re only hurting yourself. So fucking thank you, Sloane, for turning out just like everybody else, for reminding me why I never trusted people in the first place. You two… You DESERVE each other. ❞ The last line was whispered softly, lower lip quivering, not visible to the naked eye, nor to Sloane, who was still on the receiving end of Beckett’s aversion tactics. ❝ Maybe you should stay here, with her. That’s what’s best for you, isn’t it ? ❞

      Sloane was a fighter, of course. It was her nature, in her blood, the description of who she was. It just seemed that when it came to being a fighter, most only assumed it was violent --- putting out another’s lights, collecting teeth on the ground, blood staining the skin of her knuckles pink, and the nagging, lingering effect of pain and agony. But the truth of the matter was that she was a fighter, through and through. Of the many obstacles in her life, most did not involve fisticuffs and prowess. It involved strength in the sense of just taking another step, making it through another day. Never giving in or giving up.

          Which was exactly what she WASN’T going to do.

        Much worse has been said to the blonde before, with more venomous tones, words sharpened like knives meant to penetrate much deeper than bone. Yet, The Chameleon’s speech meant nothing. It didn’t matter. The intent, the root of it, was e m p t y. It was rattled off as a defensive protocol. And Sloane saw right through it. These days, she had begun to realize that Beckett was as transparent as she herself was. They were connected, paired. And while she may not have been trained in the ways of body language, outside of sensing a threat and exterminating it, because of Beckett she had learned so much. About her, and about people in general. Everything Beckett had said reflected off Sloane like frail jabs to the chest that did nothing to deter her. To stop her from pacing forward, faster than the other could retreat to the door, and she didn’t stop even as strong hands hooked underneath thighs and effortlessly lifted the brunette from the ground, continuing to walk until she had the woman pressed against the last form of escape from this damned apartment. The warmth of her body seeped inside her skeleton, a sensation she had become addicted to. Even if she fought her, HURT her, Sloane wasn’t going to let her go. Not now, and not ever.

       Calloused fingers felt along the line of a proud jaw before clasping around the nape of her neck. There was a pregnant pause, and then Sloane was kissing her. She wasn’t even sure if the kiss was being reciprocated or not, but she kept kissing her, pouring everything she could never vocalise into the ministration.

            Please believe me. Please want me back. Please fight for this.

Keep reading

         The entire time, it was a tug of war game. They were slowly making their way out of the living room as either one took steps forwards and backwards, but now, Sloane found herself on the threshold of her room, icy blue hues locked on the figure threatening to dissipate into the night just outside her bedroom window. What with all the times that The Chameleon had used that as a portal, she was quite practiced, and just one more movement would prove that. Something about it triggered her, and the blonde felt the muscle in her jaw jump as she quickly crossed the room and grabbed Beckett by the wrist, dragging her off the bed and away from the window. For extra measure, she even clambered over to shut it with a snap, sealing them here. If only that were literal.

        “You can’t expect to dump all this SHIT on me and then just dip out at the slightest indication of something not going the way you planned it!” It wasn’t meant to sound so frustrated, but there it was. Probably fueled by the turmoil of emotions inside her, so muddled by everything that just happened. When it came to beating a fucker down, it was black and white. Either she continued fighting to become the victor, or she gave that little advantage and let herself be the one with dirt in her teeth, thrown to the ground. It was simple. When it came to situations like this? It was basically a different language that she barely had a grasp on, and people just expected her to understand them. At least with Beckett, the girl tried to help her, teach her. But even then, it only went so far.

           With a deep breath and another hand through her hair, she started with, “I could come with you. I’m sure there’s work wherever you’re going, but there are tasks that require me to listen to the Commanders, and they may send me to another continent. I can’t promise that I’ll see you all the time.” Saying that hurt more than she expected, and even she flinched. It could be months between missions, months between the times that she could see Beckett, know she was SAFE. In their lives, no one was ever well for long, either kidnapped, tortured, MURDERED. It could happen to any one of them, all the people that she had met in the years within Bucharest. To leave it all, it was leaving a part of her behind. Bucharest MADE Sloane Buchanan. Her life didn’t start until she left Australia. That meant all the people she had grown close to --- Beckett --- had been there since the start.

           The next part ... she choked. Just looking at her, those green eyes, lovely dark hair framing her face, knowing all that they had been through together. How could she not? “I --- I love you, Beckett. But I’m the idiot here, not you.” God, she could punch herself.  “ I slept with Elena. ”  There it was. But she couldn’t lie to the Nikolas and say she regretted it, because she didn’t. Elena was someone who she cared about, who cared about her in return, and despite the bad blood between the other two, Sloane couldn’t leave her. Not like that. But she knew that no matter how she explained it, sugar-coated it, lied ... it wouldn’t matter. The truth of the matter was that it was something that would hurt Beckett. Deeply. But she couldn’t go on with what they were sharing to each other without telling her all of the truth.

What surprised her was that Sloane hugged her BACK; the blonde had, indeed, come a long way since their first encounter, all those years ago  {  flashes of what she may consider a vaguely TRAUMATIC experience of an angered drug dealer hopping onto the back of her motorcycle never seemed to escape her  }, but, together, the two had flourished, developed, both with respect to venereal intimacy and the emotional sort, the Buchanan had easily nestled herself into Beckett’s life. And to depart from that      —-

❝       Italy, yes. Originally to do some recon for Famine, but…      ❞  She trailed off, worrying her bottom lip into her mouth. Concerns for her own future were too many, let alone the future of her newfound family, as well as the one she’d amassed for herself.  ❝       I paid a visit to my parents, only to find out it’s not JUST my parents there, anymore.      ❞  She’s pacing around the apartment now, fists clenching of their own accord, fingers trembling with a rare desire for FURY. 

❝       Twins, Sloane. I have baby siblings, who are TWINS. A girl and a boy. The poor things… I had half a mind to just kidnap them and bring them here. My baby brother and my baby sister. I’ll never get to meet them, I’ll never get to LOVE them.       ❞  

Her lower lip quivers, a telltale of the tears lurking at bay, for the moment, threatening to spill from emerald hues.  ❝       But that’s not why I came here.      ❞  A sharp inhale, like ripping off a bandage. Make it quick. Make it easy. And then go. Disappear, like the Chameleon, never to be seen again.  ❝       We’re leaving.      ❞  Her voice is hoarse.  ❝       A bunch of us. Packing up our stuff and getting the hell out of this shitstorm of a city. I don’t really have a choice, but     —    YOU do. And I can’t, I could NEVER ask for you to come with me…      ❞  

Breath hitches, and she’s already backing away, subtle steps towards the Buchanan’s bedroom, where she could snake out the windowsill, abandon this life, leave before she could be left, before she could be REJECTED.  ❝       But it would mean the world to me if you could come, too.      ❞  Maybe there was a fraction of The Chameleon still clinging to HOPE, hope that her close friend would join her, hope she wouldn’t have to forfeit one of the best things she’s found in this corrupted city.

❝       Sloane…      ❞  

A pause, jaw clenching.  ❝       You’re not obligated to say yes, but I… I just don’t want to LOSE you.      ❞  Didn’t THEY deserve a happy ending, too ? After all the lies, the betrayal, the fighting, the torture, the massacre, the kidnappings, the murders… Wasn’t it THEIR turn ? Would it EVER be ? 

❝      —    I LOVE you.      ❞  It was barely audible as it left pursed lips, a ghost of a whisper, the fear of each syllable causing tremors to wrack her frame.  ❝       I’m not ready… To say goodbye.      ❞  

          Angus must have sensed the atmosphere of the conversation, as the lanky beast walked for his dog bed by the TV, nestling himself there with a bone to g n a w on for the duration. Sloane looked at him fondly for a moment, then returned her attention to Beckett, wanting them to sit and talk --- hopefully it wouldn’t be too hard on the other to hear the news she had if they were more comfortable. Of course, things never worked that way, and as she listened, she realized the need to remain standing, FRUSTRATION pouring from the brunette as she paced, spilling forth what she learned about her own dysfunctional family. The sympathy she felt as she watched the tears well, physical signs of anger that Sloane knew all too well appearing, it made her want to be able to comfort her. Especially the knowledge of her younger siblings.

       “I know what you mean,” Sloane muttered, running a hand through blonde tattered locks around her shoulders. “My father was an unfaithful prick, I have reason to believe that I have siblings of my own out there. I think I even met one once, but not since. Why he kept ME around, I’m not sure. Besides the obvious.” She didn’t describe the reason, the abuse too graphic despite all the times they may have discussed it. “I’m sorry you have to go through that. That they have to go through that.” The idea to kidnap them was on the tip of her tongue, a joke or a real suggestion, the intent wasn’t known yet, when Beckett was speaking, rendering the blonde speechless.

         Leaving? The idea seemed so ... HARSH to Sloane. The fact that Beckett wouldn’t be in Bucharest any longer, shipped off to God knows where. Not waiting for Sloane to come back. It didn’t feel like she was being abandoned so much as it felt like her home was being taken away. There were far too many memories embedded in this corrupt city, and it felt like everyone was ripping them away, one by one. And now Beckett, all the late night drives, early morning talks, the tears and the secrets, everything ... left in the dust. Yet, wasn’t that what she was doing?

          The Chameleon didn’t stop there. The words strung together and Sloane was holding on by just that much, a thread. Beckett wanted her to join her ... and them. And that meant Jezebel. A person, despite the mutual respects, Sloane despised. Someone that always seemed to be that little crack in the mirror, a wedge between them. For that reason, her heart became lodged in her throat, halting the acceptance. That and ---

           “Beckett ...” The Paradox breathed, in the same interval that the other said her own. With that pause, she heard the whisper, the remnants of the words. It settled beneath her skin in a weird chill, mouth agape the slightest, eyes shining with unshed tears of too many reasons to cry.

           “I was promoted.” It came out, a lame response to follow. It wasn’t entirely Sloane speaking, body rigid and unmoving, glassy eyes aimed for the Famine member. “They want me to continue my work with their drug cartels ... around the world. As an enforcer, and rehabilitator. Said I’m good at noticing the signs. And beating people into submission. I’m supposed to ... leave.”

           I love you. I’m not ready to say goodbye.

        A shake of the head, brows furrowed, a stupid lip quivering. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this. Now they were in too deep, too many strings tangled together, caught in the web. Ice seeped into her chest, freezing the assets to breathing and thinking clearly.

             “I could come.” The words sounded muffled in her head, and she surprised even herself. Because the truth was that neither was she. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to BECKETT. “I’m sure I could find work ... wherever you’re going.” Do you love her?

         Yes.

                             She’d received the blonde’s text as she was all but dangling from the windowsill of the Buchanan’s bedroom, popping the lock open with a giggle because, really, when did Beckett Nikolas use unlocked, front doors ? Besides, she’d needed the extra few moments as she ducked agilely into her friend’s bedroom to collect her thoughts and to make still the thundering of her heart. From her stance in the doorway, The Chameleon could see maybe half of Sloane perched there, on the couch, shovelling food into her mouth, the echo of a telecaster reverberating through the entire apartment. 

                             It felt almost ghastly somehow; everyone they’d known had slowly started disappearing, LEAVING. Bex, too, would be on that list, sooner rather than later, and this was a talk they had to have, much to her dismay. She’d never been one for goodbyes, always just LEFT, but Sloane deserved something different. Something better. Something… MORE. She looked so happy, though, almost at peace, suspended, with her pup, in some sanction that reminded Beckett of ANYTHING but Bucharest, and that gnawing feeling of guilt pursued once again, causing her fists to tremble.

                             With a sharp inhale she peeled the bedroom door entirely open, stepping into the living room and revealing herself. There was a smile on her face which she forced to meet her eyes, and her tone was soft as she approached the Buchanan, gave Angus a ruffle on his head, and did something she KNEW Sloane didn’t always react well to, but was necessary nonetheless  —

                                                     Beckett pulled her into a hug.

                             She lingered there, really, taking a moment to commit to memory the smell of her hair and her skin and the feeling of her body pressed against the Nikolas’ own, to ingrain them into the depths of her memories somewhere, maybe, she wouldn’t forget. Because she never WANTED to forget. And these were the details she couldn’t photograph and carry in her pocket; they were unique, completely Sloane’s, and it was all those and more that made Beckett lo—-

                             ❛      Sloane. Hi. It’s good to see you    —    Really good. I just got back from Italy the other day and wanted to come over.     ❜     A pause, releasing their embrace, meadow eyes searching blues.      ❛      So. How’ve you been ?     ❜

        In hindsight, she should’ve known it was Beckett’s style to somehow still show up unprecedented. Sloane meant her front door was open and she could just let herself in, but of course, she didn’t think about how the thief would take it upon herself to enter through her bedroom window, which she also kept mostly unlocked. She wouldn’t admit it, but it became somewhat of a habit after the months they spent living together in her room in secret. Even now since Beckett had moved on from hiding under the blonde’s bed and in her closet, The Paradox still kept her window unlocked, just in case. Some nights, it paid off, and she would wake up the next morning with a warm body next to her. Nothing implied, just some additional warmth to be grateful for, a friend that she felt so close and comfortable with to share her bed. The best was when she’d find a bottle of pain medicine and some water on the nightstand, the brunette having noticed the latest of the War’s injuries.

          Still, she didn’t start at the abrupt appearance. A mere glance over her shoulder, a small smile, and then she was finishing off her bowl, drinking a bit of the milk and standing to dispose of it in the sink. Instead, arms wrapped her up, and she paused, the slightest of puzzlement on her features, before she was returning the hug herself. It hit her then ... just how much she was going to miss the Nikolas when she ---

          You would think that someone who had recently returned from an important House meeting detailing her role within the syndicate for the better, would be in an elevated mood. But she wasn’t. Because they were all on the precipice of change. She could feel it, hanging heavy in the air, baited at the back of her neck. It made her u n e a s y, and so when her phone alerted her to new messages, she was more than willing to have Beckett come over. This fucking apartment would feel a little less daunting with someone else also in it. Maybe there was the change she needed. To get out of this damn place and start fresh. Including the role offered --- that could be discussed for another time.

        [ text >> beckett ]: door’s open :)

            ❛     Well it shouldn’t ! Haven’tcha ever heard of SECOND CHANCES, blondie ?     ❜

            She was KIDDING, of course, if even partially, anything to get the Buchanan off her back and stop BOTHERING her for just a moment’s time so she could pet the dog with peace. Angus, too, seemed more than thrilled to see her, wagging tail and tongue lapping at her skin and she’s GRINNING from ear to ear, the most sincere smile that could ever grace the expression of the sociopathic girl. But then The Paradox’s question, and she SCOFFED, head whipping around to blatantly roll her eyes at the War member.        ❛     Please, I would never WEAR human skin, that’s GROSS, do you think I’m  C R A Z Y ?    —   It’s only good for bathmats, duh.     ❜

            A devilish smirk, followed by the smacking of incarnadine lips, she fixes her attention back to the dog, ruffling his fur with a squeal of pure glee.     ❛     Don’t YOU have a car to get thrown into ? OOPS, that was mean, wasn’t it ?   —   Ah, well. Can’t take it back now.     ❜

          “I believe in ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’” With an exasperated sigh, she padded over to her couch and sunk into the cushions, taking her mug from the coffee table. It was hauntingly vacant now that she had no roommates that she could share coffee with in the living room every morning. Even Angus was feeling the repercussions, ever excited for the company that had just shown up.

             “You are crazy, you fuck,” Sloane quipped around the steam of her beverage. “And also, that’s disgusting. I’m never accepting any gifts from you, seeing as you make human skin into household items.” She didn’t want to shudder at the thought, but she could easily have done so. Gore and mutilation did nothing to disturb her, but the idea of souvenirs after a kill being used to decorate her home was just too wacky for her. Even The Paradox had standards.

Both relief and panic washed over her when Sloane opened the door. Relief, because the blonde was still here, in Bucharest, panic, because her own heart was pounding in that fast, vulnerable way she didn’t know how to deal with. Combined with the alcohol in her system, it made her almost dizzy. Are you alright? Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she inhaled slowly, trying her best not to unravel. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Elena knew she must have looked pathetic standing there, lips parting slightly to give a reasonable explanation for her visit, but no sound coming out. She had no reasonable explanation.

“Why do people always leave?“ she asked instead, the sharp taste of vodka still lingering on her tongue. “Why does no one ever stay? Why can’t anyone just fucking-“ care enough to stay. Her mouth was starting to feel dry then, her mind spinning with frustration. Why did good things always come with an expiration date? Why couldn’t anything nice ever last? Her heart was exploding out of her chest, at least that was what it felt like, a constant, longing throbbing that was going to drive her insane. “No, I don’t want a drink,“ she muttered, words so quiet she wasn’t even sure they fully reached Sloane’s ears. No, she wasn’t here for alcohol or drugs or whatever else the blonde might suspect. She was here because she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

      When there wasn’t an immediate response, The Paradox’s mind flitted to the possibility of the other being intoxicated by something other than alcohol, but for once, she didn’t become angry at the thought. Only concerned. And Elena had shown up here for a reason. She couldn’t be taking the sudden living alone situation any better than Sloane was herself --- they just had different ways of handling it. Sloane’s was spending as much time not acknowledging it, either taking Angus on extended periods of walks, or sleeping away the loneliness. And when she couldn’t sleep, she was able to trick herself into falling comatose through half a bottle of whiskey. Now, she was thankful that was not the case this night, that she was simply tired and headed to bed. At least she got a couple hours so she could better take care of what remained of her House.

         “C’mon, ‘Lena,” the blonde rasped, rough fingers meaning to catch Elena’s wrist in a soothing manner. It was the best she could do, even when she wanted to just hug her. By now, she was growing accustomed to out of character actions with Elena, but she wasn’t sure an embrace would be the best remedy to what she was feeling now. “I’m here, and you can stay with me. It’ll all be alright.” Would it all be alright? Sloane was certainly not the right person to go to for those kind of answers, but she felt it was appropriate to murmur these choice words to the brunette as she escorted her inside the apartment. The giant furball Angus was more than enthusiastic to shove his nose under the woman’s palm, seeking attention while also trying to comfort her. It was the same thing he often did to Sloane when she would come home still reeling from the day. Just like those days, she didn’t stop at the living couch, but continued to guide The Fighter to her bedroom. It was like déjà vu, having just gone to Elena’s bedroom not too long ago, but the contrast was much different. Sloane didn’t have the nice details that Elena did. It was practically barren, save what she deemed necessary: alcohol, boxing gear, a backpack on a wobbly desk where various drugs laden the top. They came to the bed where Sloane sat the inebriated girl on the edge.

Elena didn’t fully realize how much of an impact Stray’d had on her life until he wasn’t in it anymore. Even now, a week after his and Natalia’s disappearance, the fighter didn’t want to admit to herself that somehow, her roommate had kept her level-headed, providing some kind of balance in her daily life. But it was showing no matter if she chose to acknowledge it or not, the sudden absence of family having brought out the worst in her the past week. Like an angry, abandoned child she’d thrown a tantrum, punched whatever was in her way to make up for the loneliness seeping into her bones, people who deserved it and people who didn’t at all deserve it, punching bags and brick walls and anything inbetween until physical pain overtook whatever else there was. 

It worked until it didn’t work anymore, and at that point, Elena found herself in front of Sloane’s place, bruised knuckles rapping against the door. She didn’t know what she wanted here, especially not at two in the morning when most people were fast asleep and not in the mood for unannounced company, but somehow in her mildly intoxicated state, she’d ended up here. And she had that flicker of hope that Sloane was home and wouldn’t slam the door in her face, even though she had no idea what to even say to the blonde. She didn’t feel like talking.

@warparadox

       Probably the landlord, Sloane thought to herself in her dozing state, f a i n t l y recognizing the sound of knocking at her door. Then Angus was bounding off the end of her bed, his massive size causing such a disturbance to the balance that it jolted her on the springs with a disgruntled groan. He knew better than to bark, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t skid across the floors toward the door and wait patiently for it to be opened and greet their guest. “Tell ‘im ta fuck off!” she snapped at Angus as if he really could, rolling in her bed to find her next comfortable position. There was another set of knocks, a bit harder through the veil of slumber, and she cracked an angry eye open to see her nightstand, and the bold red numbers reading it was ... two in the morning. Definitely NOT her landlord.

        A strange sense of panic pulled her the rest of the way from sleep, and she shot upward, snatching her nightstand drawer open and withdrawing the gun she stored there. Ever since she became the sole tenant in the apartment, she was more on edge, especially since it meant that members of her own House had left. Disappeared. Whatever happened to them. Though it wasn’t something War seemed appropriate to investigate, meaning it couldn’t be that big a deal they were gone. Still, it left Sloane alone at night with a giant dog that only looked intimidating, and with someone at her doorstep so early in the morning (when all she wanted was an early night in), she had to be cautious. And she had just woken up. Walking quietly to the door, the weapon held in both hands, she peered through the peephole to find familiar features, and then sighed in relief. She opened the door to Elena, the hand holding her Glock tugging at her sleep shorts from where they had ridden up on her hip.

       A painting over the stone wall, lifelike in a way that would take your breath away – the details of the books, a title on each, a writer, gold print on thick backs in green, blue, black, oxblood, toned down colours framing the painting’s true motive; the woman on her back, arms and legs apart, Louboutin heels encapsulating dainty feet, and an open book by the fingertips of manicured hands. The woman’s eyes are open, brown like her hair – chestnut, soft around sharp features, held in place by hairspray and darkened mass of broken bone and blood, pink matter oozing from the open wound in her skull where it cracked against the floor. The woman is motionless as the young man enters the room, as Nicolae falls down beside her.

       Mom?        Silence.        A scream.

       MOTHER?

       End.

       The alley was a frail escape, his breaths were still heavy and his large frame slouched forward. Nothing could ever leave his memory and his memory could never leave him. The vision of his mother hit him less and less for every week that passed, but once the vision clawed its way to the back of his eyelids, it was inescapable, and his best shot was separating himself from others to calm down.

       The footsteps of someone approaching went unheard and first, Nicolae too busy gathering himself to focus on anything else. As they came closer however, he took a final breath. Perhaps someone had noticed how his pale face had turned ghostly white, how his hands had trembled, and how his hazel eyes had received reddened frames. An excuse brewed in his mind, not yet fully worded as he turned to face the other.

        Blur.

       Face, lungs, back. She said something, but he had shut down entirely, sharp teeth piercing his tongue as the back of his head crashed into the pavement underneath. Nicolae did not fight back, not lifting a finger to defend himself. He took the abuse as if it was all he’d ever done, and not until it was over, until the woman’s taunts became a whisper, did he open his eyes. He watched the hand blinking a few times, able to feel his face swell up in what would surely be a true masterpiece.

        “Yes please,” he groaned, ignoring her hand as he slowly make his way up in a seated position.

         With the hand he had rejected, Sloane slung the backpack off her shoulders, ripping open the zipper to dig around the depths for a moment. The muffled r a t t l i n g of pill bottles announced her retrieval, and she read the label for a few seconds before deciding with a sigh and tossing the entire thing into his lap. She was never one for embarrassment, but she was going to have to make amends if she didn’t want him turning around and calling the cops. One word about Sloane Buchanan, whether the accusation was true or not, and she would be arrested again. There was too much hanging around her neck these days, and it was a real MIRACLE that she hadn’t been caught thus far with her drug ring.

         Glancing at the mouth of the alley to assure that no one witnessed the crime, she faced the man still on the ground. “If you can manage, I can take you for a bite to eat. Best not to take those on an empty stomach,” she pointed out the pills. “And uh --- let’s not mention this to anyone. It was my mistake, I thought you were someone who stole ... stuff from me.” If he didn’t know yet, it would hopefully continue without realizing her profession. Then she leaned closer (not so subtly) and inspected his face with narrowed eyes. There was something not right with his features, despite having been jumped. There was a pallid look to his skin, a small sweat broken. Gritting teeth, he had probably been in the middle of some panic attack or episode or something. Totally like Sloane to fuck up and beat up a stranger with disabilities. If he had any.

[ TEXT >> @warparadox ]: I just said not to read that!!! [ TEXT >> Sloane 💥❤️ ]: Look. I didn’t do anything. Not MY body. [ TEXT >> Sloane 💥❤️ ]: I’ve never killed anyone, you know that! [ TEXT >> Sloane 💥❤️ ]: Would you PLEASE stop threatening to hurt me every single time we talk?!

[ text >> Beckett ]: telling someone to not read the message thats directly above it basically makes them do the opposite so its not my fault

[ text >> Beckett ]: it doesnt matter whose body it is you have a fucking body you need to bury

[ text >> Beckett ]: okay fine my bad

[ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: i mean i suspected [ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: did just spend a whole day with you and bex [ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: and i’m not a total idiot. but ty for confirming!  [ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: cross my heart and hope to die babe

[ text >> Matty ]: how did you get anything from hanging out the three of us?

[ UNSENT text >> Matty ]: i didnt even flirt with her

[ UNSENT text >> Matty ]: and where did elena come into this?

[ text >> Matty ]: you are an idiot

[ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: i thought your participation was implied [ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: come on [ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: don’t front like you’ve never fantasised about wrestling elena and/or beckett in food.  [ TEXT >> not my drug dealer ]: matty knows all. 😉

@warparadox

[ text >> Matty ]: i

[ text >> Matty ]: how do you know that

[ text >> Matty ]: nevermind dont answer that dont ever speak of it again

[ text >> @chvmeleonisms ]: beckett...

[ text >> Beckett ]: im going to kill you

[ text >> Beckett ]: what the fuck did you do

[ text >> @thesccrned ]: wait shit im a part of this????

[ text >> matty ]: that was not part of the original plan

[ text >> matty ]: i want to laugh at you