@callaways / leave me alone challenge 

/ when r u gonna beat the francie kidnapping allegations 

/ finally beat the no promo allegations 

[2] FEIGNED NONCHALANCE WELCOMES HIM LIKE AN OPEN BREEZE. A NATURAL ENOUGH TRANSITION, ONE ROLL OF THE SHOULDERS AND A SIGH THAT SIGNALS NOTHING BUT THE CASUAL. IN A SLIGHT MOTION HE LOOKS INTO CALLAWAY’S EYES. ❝but you knew that. that’s what you like about her, i think—all that trouble she brings along with her.❞ he smiles with almost satisfaction. planting the seeds of doubt and waiting to watch the roots grow so deep they couldn’t be ignored has always been an honor, a talent he’d know to never pass up. ❝she’s… tricky. she’ll pull a switch, anything. she’d do anything to keep you on your toes.❞ his words were anything but fabrication, and the expression he gives bears the phrase: DON’T SHOOT THE MESSENGER. YOU’D BE SORRY IF YOU DID. it’s callaway’s choice whether or not to heed the warning, but he would be in for a surprise with her either way. PART OF HIM WANTS TO BE PRESENT FOR THAT CONVERSATION, TO HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF SEEING THE SCALES FALL FROM HIS EYES (AND REALIZE MY WORDS WERE MORE THAN A THROWAWAY LINE).
            
            ❝you know, she enjoys the company. someone there for her to string along. keep her bed warm. BUT YOU KNEW THAT TOO. SHE DOESN’T CARE, CLARK. IF SHE DID, YOU WOULD KNOW.❞ his play of disinterest nears its expiration. croft and callaway were an unlikely pair to be sure, but the question of what brought them together had stewed and stewed in his thoughts since the news broke, the question of if he was the common variable. insight or hindrance, he can’t much tell. NEVERTHELESS, HE SMELLS A SCHEME.
            
            ❝HOW THE HELL DID YOU FIND HER ANYWAY? SHE COME TO YOU, OR THE OTHER WAY AROUND?❞

[@callaways] ❝OH, COME ON. COME ON… DON’T KID ME.❞ A TILT OF HIS HEAD REVEALS ALL: DISBELIEF, RIDICULE, SCORN—FORMING A DRY, ELABORATE COCKTAIL MIX HE DOWNS WITH A GLASS OF BOURBON IN HAND THAT SOAKS INTO THE SKIN. HE STUDIES THE EMPTY GLASS, FINDS IT ALL TOO DISTASTEFUL (AMERICAN MADE, DISTINCTLY) AND FEELS AN URGE TO THROW IT TO THE GROUND, WIPE HIS HANDS CLEAN OF THE ACT, AND PROCEED AS THOUGH HE HADN’T SAID A WORD. IT’S NOTHING MORE THAN A FLEETING FANTASY, TOO UNPROFESSIONAL FOR A MAN OF HIS CALIBER. SO A SUBSTITUTED GRIN SUFFICES, FOLLOWED BY AN EXHALE OF A LAUGH, FOLLOWED BY A SHAKE OF HIS HEAD. 
            
            CLARK CALLAWAY COULDN’T RECOGNIZE A THREAT IF IT WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. HE’D GREET A PREDATOR WITH OPEN ARMS AND A WIDE SMILE. IT’S THE KIND OF OBLIVION THAT CHAINS A MAN WHILE HE’S THROWN PAST THE REEF, A SICK SORRY END THAT COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED HAD HE JUST SEEN WHAT LAY AHEAD OF HIM. IF CALLAWAY WERE SMART, HE’D HAVE SOMEONE IN HIS CORNER TO HELP STEER OFF ANY UNWANTED CONSEQUENCE. BUT HE ONLY HAD HER. 
            
            MONTEZ KNEW MORE THAN ANYONE, LARA CROFT IS A WEAPON BRANDISHED, A PARTICULAR KIND OF WOMAN MARKED WITH PARTICULAR WANT TO INSPIRE TROUBLE. A TRAIL OF GUNPOWDER IGNITING AT ANY GIVEN CHANCE, AN ILL PATTERNED DESTRUCTION ALL IN THE NAME OF A LITTLE FUN. IT RELIEVES HIM TO KNOW HE WOULD NEVER HAVE HER IN HIS SIGHTS AGAIN, BUT UPON HEARING RECENT NEWS THE THREAT TAILS ITS WAY INTO HIS SPHERE OF ATTENTION. HIS MIND BECOMES ONE, THINKING ONLY OF THE POTENTIALS, AND SUDDENLY THE GLASS FEELS HEAVY IN HIS HAND. THE WEIGHT OF HIS CONTEMPT MATERIALIZES. 
            
            ❝CROFT’LL KILL YOU SO MUCH AS KISS YOU.❞

EXT. ALLEYWAY—NIGHT 
            
            THE DARKEST HOUR BRINGS IN A CHILL THAT RUSTLES THE PAPERS PINNED TO THE WALLS OF THIS UNEXPLORED LABYRINTH. THE SOUND OF LIGHT RAIN’S IMITATION FOLLOWS, WATER DRIPPING FROM THE PIPES AND INTO THE PUDDLE THAT LIES BENEATH. FOG CREEPS IN LIKE A SILENT PHANTOM, CREATING A DENSE LAYER THAT ENTERS THE OPEN SPACE AND FILLS IT WITH ITS MASS. IT IS ALL A STRANGE BLUR TO THOSE WHO HAVE NOT LEARNED TO ADJUST THEIR EYES TO PERCIEVE THE BIZARRE, BUT EVEN THE SHARPEST OF THEM COULD NOT HELP BUT NARROW AT WHAT EMERGES FROM THE THICK GREY. 
            
            IT IS AN OUTLINE OF A MAN THAT IS RID OF ALL CONTENTS AND DISTINGUISHING FEATURES, A LIGHT EATING SHADOW THAT ABSORBS WHAT SURROUNDS IT. THE MIND ROAMS INTO THE EXPANSE OF THE UNKNOWN AND HE MUST BE THE FIRST ONE TO SEE AT ITS GATES. HE IS BOTH STAGNANT AND SILENT AND THOUGH HIS EYES ARE NOT THERE HIS STARE CAN ONLY BE IMAGINED.
            
            ❝ WE’RE IN THE COMPANY OF KILLERS.❞ A DISEMBODIED VOICE EXITS THE VOID AS HE REMAINS THE DARKNESS. THE MEANING OF HIS WORDS ARE LEFT FOR INTERPRETATION, THOUGH THEIR TRUE MEANING BELONGS TO HIS OWN UNDERSTANDING. 
            
            THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF KILLERS. ONE WHO CARRIES THE GUN AND ONE WHO PUTS HIMSELF AT ITS END. BOTH HAVE UNIMAGINABLE WAYS OF MURDERING THE SELF TO PRESERVE THEIR ENIGMA. HIS OWN ENTERS THE MIND, ASKS THE QUESTION.  
            
            HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN BEFORE? 
            

*   /   No wake up!

@idolwmn / don’t ever talk to me again!!!!!!

/ waiting for the user to change to idolman 

/ IS THIS A DRILL ? TELL ME THIS ISNT A DRILL

@melandor / OHMYFGFGFG THANK YOU THIS IS CRAZY COMING FROM YOU!!!!

[PART 3/3] 
            
            HE QUICKLY DISMISSES HIM AND TURNS BACK TO MONTEZ. ❝ he doesn’t even have a daughter. ❞ the whisper flies out of the side of his mouth as he signals for a passing server to bring him a drink.
            
            THERE’S A PAUSE IN BETWEEN HIS NEXT WORDS, A SERIOUSNESS THAT CAUSES A CHANGE IN HIS EXPRESSION. ❝ all you need to do is trust your gut. i say, go BIG ken. ALL OR NOTHING…❞ BE A MAN, HE NEARLY ADDS. 
            
            THE SERVER COMES BACK AND AFTER HE NODS AT HER IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT, HE RETURNS TO HIS OLD WAY. SERIOUSNESS LASTS FOR SO LONG UNTIL IT BECOMES  UNCOMFORTABLE AND HE HATES BEING UNCOMFORTABLE. 
            
            ❝ AND IF THIS ENTIRE THING GOES TO HELL, HEY, A COUPLE GRAND OUTTA MY POCKET WON’T LEAVE TOO BIG OF A DENT RIGHT? ❞ he downs his drink, fast enough to raise concern. ❝ call it a friendly reimbursement. ❞ he pats him twice on the back before signaling for another. 
            
            

[PART 2/3] 
            
            ❝ LOOK HERE, KENNARD, /KEN/? can i call you ken? LOOK KEN, i think you’ve gotta good thing going on here, ❞ his elbow is placed against the table as he leans in closer ❝ all we need to do is-❞
            
            “HEY THAT’S HIM. THAT’S HIM- LOOK, RIGHT THERE. THAT’S CLARK, CLARK CALLAWAY!” an outsider pushes his way from behind, bumping shoulders with the high class until he reaches them. 
            
            CALLAWAY IS INTERRUPTED, HIS HAND STILL FROZEN IN THE SAME GESTURING POSITION. he closes his eyes and breathes out slowly (KEEP YOUR COMPOSURE) 
            
            “CALLAWAY, CAN I GET A QUICK PICTURE?” 
            
            ❝ UH, WELL… I’M KINDA IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING BUT I’LL- I’LL GET BACK TO YOU IN A SEC. ❞ a glance towards montez, another chuckle giving away nerves on the rise. 
            
            “IT’S FOR MY DAUGHTER, HER BIRTHDAY’S COMING UP. IT’LL BE QUICK… ACTUALLY A VIDEO’S FINE BY ME.” after sliding his hand into his right coat pocket, he pulls out a phone and holds it at an uncomfortably close proximity. “CAN YOU DO THE THING- THE THING YOU DO WITH THE- /YOU KNOW/.” 
            
            ❝ OH… YEAH SURE, UM-❞ he clears his throat, and as if he were an actor who had just been delivered the cue “ACTION” he proceeds. ❝ EVERYDAY’S A GOOD DAY WHEN /YOU’RE/ WATCHING CALLAWAY. ❞ he points at the camera and does what he knows how to do best- LAUGH. 
            
            “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” 
            
            ❝ UH HUH, YOU GOT IT! HAVE A GREAT REST OF THE NIGHT SIR. TAKE CARE. ❞

THIS GAME IS A MEASURE OF A MAN’S WILLINGNESS TO SUCCEED: YOU EITHER KILL OR GET KILLED / YOU EITHER WIN OR LOSE. HE PITIES THE MAN WITH A LOSING HAND, THE MAN WHO DOESN’T KNOW  HOW OR WHEN TO QUIT. he knows how it feels to be at that other end of the table, the other end of the game, where everyone‘s small eyes burn bigger holes into the act. they can see through it, THROUGH YOU. STILL, YOU TRY NOT TO SHOW IT / YOU WERE TAUGHT NOT TO SHOW IT. 
            
            IT IS THE RELIGION OF BOYHOOD, THAT WHICH FATHER’S PREACH TO THEIR SONS AND FROM THERE THEY LEARN HOW TO PRAY TO THEIR GOD. he remembers the words of his own father, spoken from the head of the dinner table as the bread was taken out of his sister’s hands and passed on to only boy of the house. 
            
            “PRIDE IS WHAT TURNS BOYS INTO MEN, PRIDE IS WHAT MEN USE TO KILL OTHER MEN.” (ARE YOU A KILLER, MONTEZ?) 
            
            ❝ PRIDE’S NOT THE ONLY THING THAT’S GONNA KILL ‘EM. ❞ (YOU ARE) he nudges montez’s shoulder in an effort to ease the pressure, as if it were shared / as if it were his own. even when the stakes are high and no one else is smiling, there is always him to look towards. 
            
            COMEDY IS AN ACT THAT HAS YET TO BE SEEN THROUGH AND EXISTS TO WARD OFF THE UNCOMFORTABLE. the raise of the bet is not spoken of immediately, though the shockwaves brought on by it still travel through him. his glance towards montez leads to a light chuckle, then a shake of his head as he looks across the table for a second time. 
            
            THE PLAYFUL GRIN TUGGING AT THE SIDE OF HIS MOUTH LOWERS. he can almost see each individual bead of sweat form against the man’s hairline, hear the rapid beat of his pulse through the hushed chatter of a crowd set on fire. ❝ POOR GUY NEVER STOOD A CHANCE. ❞ there’s pity in his mumble, enough to draw out a sigh. though long winded, it is abruptly followed by his continuation. 

@outcrimd / ahh ty ty!!! your account is amazing