my blood, low chaos + clean hands au fic (in which the loyalists all live thanks to corvo, whether they like it or not)
Martin wakes in Coldridge, in a cell that drips water like ice, and the drips are rhythmic enough to lull him back into a drugged sleep. He doesn’t know he’s in Coldridge yet. He doesn’t know he’s been arrested for everything under the sun that can’t reach his little jail cell, and in his deep, dreamless sleep, he doesn’t know that he’s not dead like he should be.
When he wakes fully and finds out, the ice-cold water that drips on his face feels warmer than the chill that runs through his entire body.
And then there’s the rage.
"You’re a coward! And a monster!"
The King walked in any weather - Alexandre Benois, 1898
So I’ve decided Steve totally wore that unbelievably tight shirt as a way of getting Sam’s attention.
He spots Sam while they’re both running, but he can’t think of how to start a conversation that won’t be awkward.
He mentions it to Natasha during one of her insistent and almost always bizarrely-timed attempts to improve his love life.
“There’s a guy on my jogging route,” he admits, ducking bullets or punches or both.
“You should talk to him,” Natasha says as she drops another mercenary.
Steve dodges a knife swing and knocks the guy unconscious. “I don’t even know his name.”
“That’s what the talking’s for.”
“We’re always both running, isn’t there some kind of etiquette about not interrupting?”
“Depends,” she says, snatching a rifle from the guy aiming at her and smoothly dismantling it into three pieces before hitting him over the head with one of them. She drops the pieces on his prone form with a shrug and looks at Steve. “Just how desperate are you?”
Steve pauses for a millisecond. “What am I gonna say?”
He only ever passes by the guy, and they both keep to their own bit of path; it’s not like he needs to yell ‘watch out’.
She smirks as they walk to their extraction point. “You’ll think of something. And if that fails then just a wear a smaller size of whatever you usually go running in.”
He makes a face. “Really?”
“You have assets, Rogers, it’s just good sense to use them to their full effect.”
The chopper’s close enough Steve can hear the rotors whumping. “Fine, but if it doesn’t work you can’t try and fix me up for a month.”
She smirks again but doesn’t say anything, which means she’s planning something.
When he wakes up the next morning, the shirt’s sitting neatly folded on his bedside table. He’s given up asking Natasha not to pick the locks.
The note placed on top reads “Desperate times…”
Even if he can’t think of anything better in the moment than ‘on your left’, it only takes a few repetitions to get a response, and he’s only a little worried about the shirt cutting off the circulation in his arms.
The guy’s name is Sam.
It’s all worth it.
Girls pose by a jail that recalls the witch trials of 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts. Photo taken in 1945.
I recently learned that the water in Salem was contaminated with the fungus from which LSD is derived and a legitimate theory for the whole thing is that everyone in the town was tripping balls
We did a whole massive thing on this in history. I believe the fungus in question is called Ergot and it’s terrifying. It makes your muscles spasm so when they had seizures that was the reason, not because they were possessed. One woman had to be strapped to her bed, she was seizing so bad. And, like ‘theybuildbuildings’ said, it had the same effects as LSD; as soon as you touch it, let alone consume it, it messes with your entire system. The worst thing is, you practically always had a bad trip. Many complained about bugs crawling under their skin or monsters emerging from the shadows to scratch and bite at them until they were screaming. It was a horrendous thing and the worst part is, Ergot is still around. It grows on crops and, if your wheat isn’t properly treated, it can be eaten and you’ll most likely experience the same as the women of Salem.
M.I.A. for the Fader (2008)
The Reluctant Fundamentalist (dir. Mira Nair, 2012)
Sebastian Stan photographed by Nigel Perry