Buzzing filled Officer Fiddle's head as he leaned back into an adjustable chair.
Dull tingling sensations inched along his shoulder blade. The initial intense sharpness had faded quickly. Now the tracing on his skin was almost pleasant. What was decidedly less delightful was the conversations around him.
"The outliner is best for contours and detailing. Words as well."
The tattooist, a wisplike bro by the name of Bahri, slouched over the officer. In hand was a vibrating, silver tool he was using to prod Fiddle's arm. In a feat of multitasking, he was also giving a rundown of the business.
Listening intently was the cadet tag along. She hovered around the artist, sparkling with glee. Happy to have someone showing interest, the inker had been rattling off industry facts for the last ten minutes. Piper read from his Scroll in a corner while tuning them out.
"You have to make sure not to press too hard, otherwise you will raise the dermis. That will happen regardless, but we try to minimize the possibility. If you are not careful you can cause excessive scarring."
The quartet were the only people in The Parlor, a small inking spot on the edge of the industrial district. Everyone else had been shooed out by the proprietor ahead of time. A fuchsia curtain cordoned them off for added confidentiality.
"Now, if the customer wants color or texture, we can then come back with a shader. I tend to direct people towards the darker tones. Requires fewer repeat appointments to maintain. The extra money isn't bad, but I don't-"
"Cut the chatter Barry."
He gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry Laurel. It's not often someone asks about my profession."
"She didn't ask at all."
Cadet Janus had not spoken a word during the entirety of their travels. Fiddle suspected she was incapable of speech. How the academy had passed her into the field with this blatant handicap was a head scratcher.
Waves of tokenism were prevalent these days. She must have been part of a quota. Another attempt at 'diverse engagement,' or whatever the new buzzword was.
While the sixteen-year veteran usually sneered at such attempts, he was starting to come around on Janus. The cadet took to the less savory aspects of the job easily enough. Occasionally the right thing happened for the wrong reason.
Barry's tool came to a stop. "All done. Go check it."
The officer marched over to a set of reflective glass on opposite walls. Standing between them allowed an unrestricted view of the artwork. A pair of crossed swords popped on his deltoid as he flexed.
His touch-up had gone well. The formerly faded lines regained their coloring. He had considered a few additions, such as a third blade styled off the one they had lifted.
But he decided against the idea. Having a tattoo similar to a repurposed weapon was asking for trouble. Maybe he would in a few years. Once they knew there would not be any blowback.
"Works for me."
"Good." Barry came up beside him, Janus glued to his side. "Let's get you wrapped up."
An application of protective jelly with a large bandage later, and Fiddle was fit to travel. He rolled his short sleeve down to hide the gauze. Then he gingerly slipped on his jacket.
"You should avoid tight clothing."
"I'll wear a tank top when I'm off duty."
Traditionalists in the department frowned on inking. Fiddle agreed in general, preferring not to have any markings. However, the clique demanded a show of allegiance. Tattoos were the easiest way.
"You know the other guidelines, right?"
"Like the back of my hand."
The artist rattled them off regardless. "Remove the bandage within three hours. Apply a light amount of ointment over the next few days. Avoid direct sunlight. Drink plenty of water. If you feel an excessive need to scratch, try moisturizing."
"Got it." Fiddle spoke to his partner. "Do you need a refresh too?"
"Mine's fine." Attention never wavered from the device.
He then eyed the last person in their group. "What about you, rookie?"
She tilted her head. Piper stuffed away his Scroll to join the rest of the standing group. He also looked skeptically at Fiddle.
"You want to bring her in?"
"Bossman said we should vet the newbies."
"True."
She certainly passed the visual test. He would not mind mentoring her directly. First, they needed to determine her support.
The most senior officer took her by the waist. Her face twitched in disgust. He ignored that reflex and guided her over to the chair. Despite her dainty appearance, she was quite the handful beneath the official getup.
"Want to be part of our little group? We can guarantee you are hired."
Cadets were never promised full time positions out of the gate. They were acting on a probationary basis and could be let go for any reason. Union protections only kicked in during the second year.
The retention rate was in the thirties. Even lower these days with fewer officers retiring. As such, a job was a juicy carrot to dangle for the freshmen.
This did not sway her. She tried to step away. He caught her arm briefly but let go as soon as his point was made.
If the carrot did not work, there was also the stick.
"Walk out that door without a tat, and your career will be a short one." She did not try to escape. Neither did she crawl into the seat. The offer was being weighed. He tried to browbeat her into submission. "Think long and hard about this now."
"Hey man." Barry, who had been watching, stepped in. "If she doesn't want one, you can't just force her to-"
"You're not paid for your opinions." Piper cut him off before Fiddle could.
The tattooist reluctantly backed down. They could shut him down for any reason. He knew that and wisely held himself in check.
"What's it going to be, cadet?"
Janus took a long hard look at the hydraulic chair. Another was taken at the nervous tattoo artist. Lastly, she twirled back to Fiddle. Decision made, she reached behind her back.
Then there was the sound of shattering glass.
VII. Beat Down
"Oh, fiddlesticks." A balding man in a red apron grumbled.
The shopkeeper lifted his foot. Cubes of glass stuck to the bottom of his sandals. He set aside his push broom to pick the shards out.
In hindsight, he should have changed into more appropriate gear. Thicker shoes would have made quick work of the pointed fragments. He did not dwell on this oversight. Mistakes were bound to happen.
The front of 'From Dust Till Dawn' had been blown out, leaving debris scattered all over the outside pavement. What he had stepped on were leftovers from the attempted theft of his merchandise. With the police and their crime scene tape gone, he had begun the clean-up.
Getting the place up and running was a priority. Each day closed was costly for the small business owner. If he were prudent, everything could be ready by the beginning of next week.
A glazer would be coming around the next morning to give an estimate on a new window. Before doing so, the area needed to be made safe. They could not be expected to stand in a heap of glass while measuring.
Leaning on the empty sill, careful to avoid any serrated remainders, he picked at a stubborn nub. It had already burrowed deep into the tatami underside of the shoe. Pulling it out was exceptionally difficult for the senior citizen.
He let out a frustrated sigh. This had been an emotionally taxing few days. In his long life, he had never experienced such bad circumstances.
When Roman Torchwick had entered his store, the owner had been as accommodating as possible. Being brutalized was not worth any amount of lien. Instead of taking the money, the thief had set his helpers on taking every smidge of Dust that they could carry.
That they were after Dust should not have been surprising. There had been a number of raids focused on the gems. He just never thought he would be on the other end of one. His neighborhood was considered safe.
Stealing the Dust was both good and bad. Good, in so far as Dust was covered by insurance. Bad, in that it would take months to sort out a claim with his agency. Plenty of time would be wasted while pulling together receipts and inventory documents to serve as proof for reimbursement.
There was no fighting the hostile takeover. Again, Shopkeep was willing to lose out in the short term. A simple robbery would not lead to the end of the world.
Things took a turn when another customer became involved. A girl in a red cape, who had been perusing weapon magazines, confronted the robbers. The young gal actually hurtled one of them out the window he was currently cleaning.
In the end, most of the thieves were captured. Torchwick had managed to escape. But, in his haste, the Dust was left behind.
Shopkeep was happy with the result. He had come out unharmed, the merchandise was recovered, and, relatively speaking, the store was in good shape. All he bemoaned was the state of the city.
Vale was changing. And not for the better. Between the robberies and news of those killings in that apartment complex, nowhere felt safe.
His mother had immigrated from Mistral to get away from this kind of crime. She had told stories about the everyday cruelties of their homeland. How the citizens were like flies stuck in a web, wrapped up and ready to be sucked dry by the local gangs.
For a long while, he did not know what to make of those family tales. Now he did. No longer did he wonder if she had been exaggerating.
After minutes of jiggling, the shard came loose. He flicked it back with the others. Straightening out the hunch in his back, he leaned back further. His hand brushed a tin can filled with nails. The reminder dampened his mood further.
Even after sweeping, his job was not done. The hole needed to be boarded up to protect the interior from the elements. Overcast dimming skies foretold of an approaching storm.
All this together meant he was working late again.
Break time was over. He needed to get his chores done. Sitting around was not going to solve anything.
Picking up the broom, he began brushing along the concrete. With several rapid pushes, the glass bunched and bounced toward a pan on the far end. His focus was so preoccupied with the task that he was alarmed when the scraps landed on a pair of steel-tipped boots.
Elderly, squinted eyes traced up. And up. And up.
A giant in a gray trench coat stood facing the store. Built like a diesel truck, they towered over the feebler man. Their head was covered by a thick hood. Bulging arms were likewise hidden.
"Sir?" Shopkeep asked before second guessing. "Ma'am?"
Neither got a reaction. The stranger continued their vigil.
"Sorry for the mess. I wasn't paying attention."
"You weren't." A distinctly masculine voice accused.
Distant thunder boomed. The owner fought down the urge to jump. There was unmistakable anger in the other person's voice. Disgruntled customers were common enough. Not knowing their background, he did not take such rudeness personally.
"I apologize again." He tried to move the conversation along. "Are you in need of Dust? Is that why you are here?"
"Yes."
Modern life required a steady supply of Dust. The wondrous crystals were used in everything, from cars and Bullheads to home heaters. The richest company on Remnant made its fortune in mining the commodity. Lien, the world's common currency, was as underwritten by the substance as it was by the four kingdoms.
From Dust Till Dawn specialized in combat related Dust. Given the size of the unknown person, they were likely a huntsman. Shopkeep did not like to disappoint Vale's protectors, but they were not going to find what they wanted here.
"Unfortunately, we are closed."
"To me?"
"To everyone." He clarified. "There is another supplier around the block."
"It has to come from here."
The older man was befuddled. "Why's that?"
"So we can finish the job."
Lightning streaked across the sky followed by another boom. The flash illuminated the figure opening up their coat. What looked like the end of a chainsaw pushed out. A rumbly engine was the prelude to a burst of activity from the implement.
What was truly scary was not the destructive tool. It was instead the white mask now fully visible under the hood. Adorning the full length of his face was a grim visage marked in crimson.
Backpedaling, Shopkeep tried to get away. He kept his eyes glued on the hulking monster. This kept him blind to what was behind him.
His back collided with another demon. This one was female with cerulean hair. Her mask showed a person's jawline. It was set in a firm scowl. Shopkeep hopped back in fright towards the storefront.
Both monsters circled around. He was trapped.
Thinking he could escape through the back door, he made a turn to the empty window. Waiting inside were more white masks. Fifteen or so. A shove from behind sent him flying into their arms.
He was swarmed. Someone kneed him in the gut as the rest dragged him by the shirt deeper into the store. They scratched and clawed, tearing up his clothing.
"Stop! Take whatever you want and go!"
A fist struck Shopkeep in the back of the head. His vision went black for a moment. Then his stretched shirt collar was grabbed to tug him upwards.
The giant was back, holding him nose to nose. "We intend to."
Shopkeep's legs fluttered around in a panic. The chainsaw wielder appeared unfazed by the shifting weight, easily holding him up with a single arm. His other hand was busy giving out directions.
From the corners of his vision, Shopkeep saw people fan out. Multiple crashes reverberated. Pungent aromas suggested that one or more containment vessels had cracked. This increased the likelihood of an accident.
The monsters either did not know or cared. They were too preoccupied with carrying the Dust towards the same back door Shopkeep wanted to use. There must have been a transport in the alleyway.
"Is there any more?" The titan snarled.
"This is all I have!"
"Then you are useless to us." Shopkeep was tossed aside.
Pain lanced his hip as he collided with the ground. Five evil masks surrounded the fallen old-timer. Glee was in their eyes as they sized him up like a piece of meat.
"What should we do with him?" One of the group asked their leader.
"Whatever you wish."
That was exactly what they wanted to hear. Shopkeep only had a few moments to brace himself before the monsters pounced. Instead of claws and teeth, it was alloy and rubber that came to visit horrific violence upon his person.
/ / /
Over in an unlit alleyway, a boy in a high neck sweater idled by the wall of a brick building. He bent down on one knee to examine his feet. To an outside observer, he appeared to be tying his shoes.
In actuality, an envelope was discreetly pulled out. Similar to one that had been delivered earlier that day, it was sealed with the initials of a certain gentleman thief. The letter was shoved inside a notch in the mortar until only a corner was shown.
Before any surprises could introduce themselves, Jaune briskly walked away. An exit emptied him out into the streets. Faint drops of water began to fall.
Vagabonds scavenging for their next meal looked his way. His hands tucked into his pockets to hide his intentions. They soon went back to their hunt. An unknown risk was not one worth taking.
Roman Torchwick floated after the teen. His disciple was unpolished, but he took instruction well enough. Madam Amour's demonstration of power had proven quite motivational in that regard.
Their encounter was a learning experience for the spirit as well. The cabaret owner's Semblance appeared to require contact and only affected the subject's biology. Being composed entirely of Aura, Roman was unaffected. Thus, he was able to observe undisturbed.
The spectral thief found that he could exert limited control whenever Jaune was in an altered state. This had first been learned through the sleep experiments. Now he had confirmation.
Already the knowledge was paying dividends. During the cozy get-together with the madam, Roman had filtered out damaging information by stopping the vocal cords from vibrating. This had been done slickly enough so that neither participant noticed.
He also had been able to subtly move fingers and toes around, familiarizing himself with their operation. It seemed to get easier with each successful waggle. Like a newborn learning how to crawl.
Not wanting to press his luck, Roman had refrained from any major movements. He did not want Jaune to cotton on to the attempts. Keeping him oblivious was paramount.
There was no telling where these discoveries would lead. In two days he had gotten this far. Who was to say what would happen in two months?
"So, when will we hear back?" Jaune asked as they reached an empty stretch of sidewalk.
"We'll check again in a few days. The letter needs to wind its way up through the grunts first."
"Is this really the easiest way?"
"Not the easiest. The safest."
Direct contact with the Division was inadvisable. There was an outstanding warrant for Roman. To keep up pretenses, even dirty cops were expected to arrest a wanted criminal, and their associates, on sight. The thief was obligated to not let that happen.
Setting a meeting beforehand would make sure no one was surprised. They could find a neutral location to ensure that neither side would be forced to do anything rash. Since they were seeking an audience with the head honcho, that was even more important.
Everyone needed plausible deniability. It was why the letter had not contained any details or other requests. Those had to be made in person.
Rather, the note contained one word. 'Kingsnake.'
Calling out the commander in chief of police rot was high risk/high reward. The top cop could make the search for Cinder simpler. Or they could make life much more difficult.
"I hope so."
"Still a bit gun-shy?" When the teen nodded, Roman added. "Don't. We don't have time for that. Tomorrow you have a date with Junior."
"Yay…" Came out with diminished exuberance.
That would not do. Jaune needed to be humbled, not timid. Balanced enough to listen to advice but not so far under thumb that he was indecisive. Luckily, Roman had prepared a peace offering to get him out of this rut.
"Also tomorrow, you will get a combat lesson."
The young man perked up. "Really?"
"You have held up your end of our bargain so far. Only fair I do the same."
Roman had to keep from bursting a gut at the giddy expression on the boy's face. He knew that enthusiasm was not going to last. After receiving his first lesson in the school of hard knocks, he might just decide he wanted nothing to do with being a huntsman after all.
They eventually reached the docks. Streetlamps switched on throughout the district, fighting the nighttime downpour. The two-story shack was right where they had left it. As Jaune approached the side, he paused to pick out an outlier on the scene.
"Has that always been there?"
Parked a stone's throw from the door, next to a dry-docked fishing boat, was a vehicle. A blue tarp had been drawn over so that only the wheels were visible. The sight was not terribly strange. Plenty of people did so in this area to protect the paint from the salty breeze.
What was unusual was how close the car was to their hideout. The shack was supposed to be abandoned. The duo made a quick detour to check it out. Jaune lifted the thin weather resistant material to give them both a better look.
Underneath was a tan four-door sedan. The vehicle was the type that people on a budget bought. It was also the kind that law enforcement would buy to try and blend into traffic.
Trying not to freak out his fleshy partner, Roman looked around. Rain was coming down in a sustained drizzle. The road was lacking in other people. That did not mean they were not out there, though.
Feeling exposed, in more ways than one, he calmly pushed for them to move on. "Forget about that for now. Let's get inside."
Letting the tarp fall back in place, Jaune returned to the shack entrance. Giving the stuck handle a jiggle, he pressed until the door pushed inward. The lights were already on inside.
Upstairs, they found Neo sitting at the table. The woman did not look up as they came closer. Once again she was working on Hush. Beside her was a satchel bag and a cardboard box.
It was this second container that drew Jaune's attention. "You found it!?"
She reared back as he rushed over. Her blade was ready for stabbing. He ignored this threat at his own peril, opting instead to grip the sword handle poking out the top of the box.
Pulling the weapon free, jumbling the other items inside, he unsheathed the blade. A long stream of air sputtered out of his mouth. Roman stepped into Jaune as he expressed his gratitude.
"Thanks Neo! You're amazing! I owe you. Really."
Her gaze instantly averted back to her maintenance. She never took praise well. Before Jaune could make her more uncomfortable, Roman spoke through him in a lower octave.
"Never mind that. Unwrap our other goodies."
He was trying to mimic his old voice as much as possible. Mostly to help distinguish who was talking. Also, he was tired of the squeaky cadence. Neo's surprised expression let him know he was pretty close.
The teen did as instructed, not questioning the vocal change up. It was possible the differentiation worked for him as well. Hearing himself say things without any control had to be disconcerting.
Since the box was already open, they started there. Jaune pulled out object after object and laid them on the tabletop. Not much of interest was within. A few valuables and some nick-nacks. All of them had come from the penthouse.
Frankly, Roman was confused by Neo's selection. No one was going to stop Cinder with a gold encrusted snow globe. Unless she stood really still.
He supposed the items could be pawned off for spare change if they ran low on funds. Unless they lost access to their savings, that would not be a problem. Still, it never hurt to be prepared.
There was one interesting article buried near the bottom. A red wig styled similarly to Roman's original hair. Jaune lifted it by the frontal swoop, quizzically.
"Oh. That. See, I singed my hair while taking the payroll at a fireworks factory. A couple of sparklers went off in my face." He explained to his amused audience. "Had to wear that little number for a few months to hide the damage from the tabloids."
Those vultures were vicious. Roman refused to be mocked by the unwashed masses. He got enough of that from his not-so-gentle companion, who was currently having a voiceless larf at the memory.
Putting aside the hair piece, they moved on to the satchel. This had Roman rubbing his non-corporeal hands together. Their bug-out bag was certain to have the right wares.
Unzipping the leather, Jaune began to pull more out. Already there was a marked increase in the immediate value. Lots of identification materials were inside, including passports, a birth certificate, and proof of residency from all four kingdoms.
Several IDs were worthless. Photos on the front depicted Roman's former body rocking black-dyed hair and a mustache. It would not pass scrutiny. Jaune had too much of a baby face. Luckily, several of them did not feature images.
All were under the same name. An old pseudonym Roman had used for years. Jaune wondered aloud about the alias while reading it off.
"Alejandro Del Gordo?"
"I can't walk into a bank and say my name is Roman Torchwick, can I?"
The thief had tried that once before. It did not go very well. For him nor the pair of huntsmen who had chased him.
Accepting the answer, Jaune continued digging. More documents were laid out along with some lien. Not as much as would be in their accounts, but a little spending money was never terrible. And now they did not need to sell the snow globe!
The first shocking object pulled was a brown leather wallet. Opening it up revealed a golden emblem. Both the teen and the spirit leaned in.
"Is that…?"
"A police badge. That's odd. I don't remember packing anything like that away."
The polished shield reflected Jaune's astonishment. Reaching into the bag again produced another badge. This one was not as well maintained. Smudges sullied the surface.
"Where did they come from then?"
Roman had a feeling he knew. "Say, Neo. You didn't happen to have a run in with any police officers earlier, did you?"
Her grin was on the extreme side of vicious. Roman kept himself from sighing. That could make things more complicated for them with their partners on the force. Hopefully she covered her tracks.
"Guess that explains the car..." He muttered.
"It does?" Jaune asked in confusion. "Where did it come from? Who does it belong to?"
The second question was easier to answer. "Us. Now."
"I don't have a driver's permit!"
"That's okay. Neither of us do."
That was one form of identification they had not bothered with. Few places outside of the major cities recognized the licenses, making them useless across kingdoms. Also, driving without a permit was the least illegal thing they were going to be up to.
This did not sit well with the wannabe knight. No doubt he was starting to connect the dots. Those dots happened to spell out 'panic.'
"Guys. This is seriously freaking me out. Where did the badges and the car come from?" Neo held four fingers up to his face, wiggling them for emphasis. Jaune took a step back from her before speaking to Roman. "What's that mean?"
"Rule four. Sometimes it's better not to know."
When it came to Neopolitan, that particular rule got invoked often. Everyone was better off when they let her do as she wanted. Roman had learned that long ago.
"I… I think you're right."
"Course I am. Now, what else is in there?"
Jaune reached back into the bag to bring out a much heavier item. It was a gleaming cylinder about twice the size of his hand, with a pointed tip. A finger grip above the tapered end made the object resemble a novelty fountain pen.
He rotated it about in his palms trying to learn more. His roaming finger must have found a switch, because suddenly the object began to buzz. The sudden vibrations caused him to fumble the object onto the table. There it began hammering into the wood, leaving a dark line.
The mute thief reached over to calmly switch the instrument off. She then returned to fiddling with Hush. Jaune just stared at her before finally finding his words.
"What was that?!"
"Rule four."
"But-"
"Rule. Four."
/ / /
Buzzing filled Officer Fiddle's head as he regained consciousness.
There was a bright light drilling into his skull. Combined with the ringing in his ears, he had to fight off a rising nausea. Crossing his arm over his brow shaded his sensitive eyes. The temporary relief gave him space to acclimate.
It took a few minutes to realize he was hiding from ceiling fluorescents. Even more minutes passed before he figured out he was still at the Parlor, in the tattoo chair. The hydraulics had been depressed to tilt the seat all the way back.
He was all out of sorts. Leagues worse than any hangover. When he tried to sit up, his gut felt like it was on fire.
Fiddle laid back down. The room needed to stop spinning before he would try again. Eventually, he inched his way onto the floor. Using the depressed chair as a crutch to prop himself up, the cop surveyed the enclosed area.
The studio was messed up. Tools were scattered along the floor, papers tossed about carelessly, and most of the vanity mirrors were cracked. The usually tidy tattooist would not have left his station in such a condition. On which, Barry was nowhere to be seen.
Fiddle was not alone, however. Another man lay face down on the floor. Carried by rickety feet, he shimmied over to them before croaking down at his partner.
"Hardi. Wake up."
Red coloring flowed onto the tile from Piper's face. There was light movement to his chest, so Fiddle knew he was alive. Impatient, he gave a rough kick to the downed man's arm.
A shooting pain went through his stomach again. Abdominal muscles contracted and bulged under the surface. The pain was similar to stitches he used to get as a long-distance runner in his primary school days.
Piper stirred to life. An attempt at a push-up failed halfway, causing him to flip onto his back. Blood was leaking from his already off-center nose.
"What happened?" He moaned.
Vignettes rolled through Fiddle's brain of talking to their cadet. Trying to convince her to join their fraternal order. Then something changed.
She changed. Her appearance morphed to be small, pink, and lots of brown. He remembered registering shock at the transformation. That startled feeling became fear when she pulled a long cane out of nowhere.
And then he was waking up in a trashed room.
"We got ambushed."
There was no other way to describe the event. The mechanics behind what happened were a mystery. Its results were not.
After Piper picked himself up, they both limped over to the front window. The 'closed' sign was out. That and the privacy curtain that separated the work area from the rest of the studio meant that no one witnessed the beat down.
"Have you seen Barry?"
"No. Coward must have run for it."
Outside had changed dramatically. When they had entered the Parlor, dusk had been approaching. Now it was dark and rainy outside. There was another glaring difference.
"Our car's gone." Piper pointed out lamely.
Their parking spot was empty. Fiddle doubted they had been hauled away by the city. Tow trucks did not take vehicles that swiftly outside downtown. That left little doubt where it had gone.
"Janus." Fiddle growled before stomping his foot.
Another cramp rippled through his gut. This time it was nearly unbearable. Touching around his solar plexus forced out a hiss. The pain was skin deep.
Concerned, he stumbled over to a mostly intact mirror. There, he pulled up his shirt. What he saw underneath brought his rage to new heights.
On his stomach was a new tattoo. A long message scrawled across his belly in three stacked lines. Written in dark blue ink, the large lettering was charitably impressionistic. For the less forgiving, such as the fuming Piper, it was brutish and jagged.
The message read: 'I am a Greedy Little Piggy. Oink Oink.'
Author Notes: Happy May Day!
Boy howdy, it is difficult to write for characters that do not have full names (Trifa). Or worse, are only referred to by their job title (Shopkeep). Not helping is that I absolutely refuse to use fan nicknames (Banesaw).
I do not care if I am being unreasonable. I am putting my foot down. There are already too many dumb names in this show (Goodwitch, Shay D. Mann, etc.) You can't make me use any more of them! xD