FIC: Howl (1/?)
Sep. 9th, 2010 12:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Howl
Author:nilchance and beanside
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairing: Clay/Aisha; ultimately also Cougar/Jensen and Clay/Aisha/Cougar/Jensen
Warning: Violence. Also psychological and physical abuse, suicidal ideation, and a character being falsely identified as dead.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Andy Diggle and to Jock. No profit made, no lawsuit preferred.
Summary: Werewolf fic. Three years have gone by since Jensen died; Cougar is not all right. When he goes in with Clay and Aisha to kill some vampires, they find someone unexpected.
Cougar dreams of Chechnya, the mission with the black dogs. The brutal cold still haunts him, deep in his marrow where it can’t be extracted. There is no peace in that winter.
At the time, there had been a mad rush to get distance from the village with its feral inhabitants. There had been no time to stop and inspect the bite on Jensen’s thigh. It had barely broken skin, or so Clay tells him now in his attempts to be comforting. Cougar doesn’t know how deep it was or not, the finer details lost to him in his grief. He remembers at the time that Jensen had been complaining that he’d been bitten by a dog, dogs fucking liked him, and that Cougar had assumed that meant he would be fine. When Jensen grew quiet, that was when Cougar knew to worry.
Sometimes, Cougar draws comfort from the memory of Jensen’s bitching. Even knowing how it ends (the bandage soaked with blood and infection, the weapon-fired heat of Jensen’s fever, the first seizure and the last) it’s good to hear Jensen’s voice. One day he won’t remember it as it was, and then…
He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.
But this isn’t memory, despite the cold, despite the Chechen winter around him. There’s no hustle of the unit around him, no crackle of brush beneath their feet. There’s no one but the two of them, him and a ghost, with the muffling silence of snow coming down.
Jensen stands with his back to Cougar. No pack, no gear, only jeans and the ridiculous pink shirt that he didn‘t wear in Chechnya. The shirt is filthy with wear. It’s coated with dirt and rust-colored stains. The bare skin of his arms and feet look too vulnerable. No fur, no, Cougar didn’t see Jensen’s wolf, and that loss is bitter to him, too.
When they were infected, months later, they had figured that truth out: if they’d had better intelligence, if they had been closer to the full moon, Jensen might have lived. A last twist of grief’s knife, saved for months after they got Jensen’s death notice.
The cold is leeching out Cougar’s heat, murdering him by degrees, but he unbuttons his jacket. The cold strikes him in the chest, the belly, the throat. His gloves slow him, so he takes them off, too. He’ll take off his boots, he’ll give Jensen whatever he has.
Jensen’s back is turned like judgment, but then, doesn’t Cougar deserve to be judged?
When Cougar touches Jensen to wrap the coat around him, Jensen flinches out of his unnatural stillness and nearly topples on his face. His breath steams the brittle air. This is not the dream with the corpse, the cracking stiffness of rigor, and so Cougar is unafraid to push him into the coat. One arm at a time, as one would dress a child. He feels Jensen trembling as he reaches around him to zip the coat up.
It’s not going to be enough to save Jensen from this cold. Not barefoot as he is, the skin on his ears going pink from the beginnings of frostbite. But fuck it, without a coat, Cougar’s not going to survive either. They’ll go together this time.
Jensen shudders in a deep breath, and leans back into Cougar’s body.
Wet warmth spills down Cougar’s hand, where he holds the zipper. He knows what it is before he sees, he knows the scent of it. His wolf knows, and it feels hunger before Cougar’s horror can quell it.
When Cougar pulls back, blood coats his fingers. He grabs Jensen by the shoulders to turn him around, leaving a bright footprint of blood. Maybe he can stop it this time, maybe it can be different, maybe--
Jensen’s throat is savaged open. Cougar knows with the logic of dreams that if he looked, he’d find that the bite is the same span as his own jaw. Blood spills down Cougar’s coat as Jensen’s mouth shapes ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Clay is gentle when he wakes Cougar from nightmares, mostly. Aisha is not. Aisha sits out of reach of a punch and pokes him with objects. It’s a bottle of water, this time.
Cougar grunts to show her he’s awake, and swipes the bottle. He drinks, and he orients himself.
He’s on the mattress in the back of the VW bus, a battered old thing Pooch dubbed the Mystery Machine. The mattress smells like pack, like hundreds of nights he’s spent piled together with Aisha and Clay. Like dog, from wet fur and shifting. Like blood, from stitching each other together after another fight.
He thinks of the blood pouring down Jensen’s chest and reflexively looks at his hand. It’s clean.
Aisha has her eye on him. She doesn’t ask him about the dreams, probably because he never answers Clay, but she watches him afterward like she hears him ticking. He ignores her, and mechanically drinks the rest of the water. There’s no pleasure in it, despite the sticky heat of the bus; it’s what he does before a hunt, or when they tell him.
The bus has stopped rocking with the motion of the road. Outside, Cougar can hear Clay sharpening stakes. He glances at the windows and sees the first trickle of dawn.
He reaches under the mattress and retrieves his rosary. The beads are stained now, down to the grain, the vampires’ blood and his own. He wraps the beaded loop around his wrist twice, covering the dogtags tattooed where his pulse beats.
The crucifix, his abuelita’s, saved his life more than once. A year ago, he might have thanked God. Now there’s no more religious awe in it than in gunpowder. It works as a weapon, with no more or no less value than that.
God may have let Jensen die, but not any god Cougar wanted to worship.
The bus is silent. He misses Jensen. He wonders sometimes what Aisha would have thought of him, or vice versa. She is a hard woman to like, with hard standards, and yet she is one of Cougar’s people. She is Clay’s woman, as crazy as any of them. She is, if Cougar’s honest, more his alpha than Clay.
“Hey,” she says, snapping his attention back, and tosses him another bottle of water. “Be Catholic for me.”
She is also not without her rough affection.
Cougar nods and uncaps the bottle, dipping the crucifix inside. His prayers are curt, not the flowering poetry he learned on rickety wooden pews as a child. “Burn these creatures,“ he tells the water, and it will. It won’t for Aisha or Clay, but for him…
He isn’t unaware of the irony, holy water made by a lapsed Catholic, monsters killing monsters. Fuck it. The other monsters started it.
Clay swings open the doors at the back of the bus. His shadow falls over them as they look up, two heavy bags of stakes slung across his shoulders. His expression is deceptively worn, cat-eyed, but it’s only Clay rising to the killing edge.
One of the bags is for Cougar, the other for Clay. Aisha prefers to use her knife, a narrow sleek thing she apparently made for vampire-hunting with her father, but then she’s been doing this for much longer. She’s allowed her idiosyncrasy. She will have analyzed this location with Clay, discussed the why and how; Cougar doesn’t care so much about it. They’ve been doing this long enough for him to know his role. He’s their weapon.
Approach the hive. Pick off the human servants with the rifle to assure a cleaner entry. Penetrate the hive with Clay and Aisha. Kill vampires. Exit.
Later, call home to Pooch and Jensen's niece and ask if she’s finished her English homework. Diana prefers math, like her uncle, and complains bitterly about being forced to read a book about rabbits.
Clay raises his eyebrows. Makes an ‘after you, ladies’ gesture at the brush they must cross to get to the hive.
Aisha clambers out. Clay tries to give Cougar a hand up; Cougar knocks it out of the way as he goes past. That is how they operate.
They go hunting.
****
The hive is in Texas, outside of San Antonio. It’s close enough to a city to allow for easy transport of new victims. The territory around the hive is flat for miles, allowing sentries to catch any intrusions. But there is brush, as with most of the hill country, and this is the land where Cougar grew up. He is used to it, from childhood maneuvers and from hiding from his abuelita’s wrath.
They will end this fight quickly.
They walk together through acres of the hive’s territory, under cover of cypress trees, following the thin drought-ridden trickle of a creek. It covers them until they approach the edge of the flat plains.
Clay looks to Cougar, as this is his area of expertise. Cougar gestures for them to split up, the directions for Aisha and Clay to go. Clay indicates his ear, the sign for Cougar to keep in contact, and thumps Cougar’s shoulder with his closed fist. Then he is gone.
Aisha gives Cougar a smile that curves like her knife. He nods to her, and they part.
Cougar goes to his knees beside the creek, and scrapes up the mud with the side of his hand. Beneath the water, so he won’t leave gouges of disturbed earth to be discovered. The mud is cool from the water as he smears it across his face, his neck, his hands. It does not smell pleasant.
When that is done, he begins his approach, the sniper’s belly-crawl that he learned years ago. It is slow, painstakingly slow, and the rising sun beats against the back of his neck. He drags himself across the parched earth, each breath shallow enough not to stir dust.
Time passes. He finds a clump of higher grasses suitable for a blind. He tears the grass out and adds it to the mud until he is unrecognizable.
In training, they were expected to creep from one side of the course to the other without being caught; Cougar was the only one stupid or skilled enough to come up on his instructors, unseen, and tap them to let them know they’d been found. Cougar was not popular with his superiors.
He draws his rifle and is lining up his shots of the guards when he hears someone coming.
Cougs. Clay’s thoughts are as clear as if he whispered in Cougar’s ear.
The rustle of footsteps are too loud and too sloppy to be scouts. They smell human, and most of them young. It’s not the first time a vampire has thrown children at them; Cougar eases his rifle down to the grass and unholsters his tranq gun.
After a tense moment, they break cover. There’s a man with them, carrying a gun and a toddler. The child is skinny and smells sick. The man is Wade.
Cougar stays still, his finger on the trigger. Wade is an enemy, but the way he holds the child-- it reminds Cougar too much of the way Jensen would hold his niece. Protective.
The toddler tenses suddenly, an unnatural motion for such a small child, and looks towards Cougar’s blind. Her eyes are amber, werewolf eyes, and she quivers as she catches Cougar’s scent.
Figuring he only has seconds before she puts Wade on alert, Cougar stands. He brings the gun with him.
Wade snaps to attention, humming with sudden danger like a livewire. His arm closes tighter around the toddler for a moment, then relaxes; without taking his eyes off Cougar, he starts to lower the girl to the ground so she’s not in the way of the shot.
It would be very gratifying to shoot him.
“Go,” Cougar says. He doesn‘t put his gun away. There is mercy, and there‘s foolishness. “Take them with you.”
Warily, slowly, Wade straightens back up with the girl in his arms. She clings, burrowing her face against him.
“Max is in there,” Wade says. Then, gaze skidding off Cougar‘s like oil against water, he adds, “The door’s open.”
Wade’s hand drifts to the girl’s hair, which he pets clumsily. The girl watches Cougar with feral eyes. There are a dozen words in Cougar’s throat (help us clean this mess you made and I won‘t give you to Aisha) but in the end he only says in Spanish, “If harm comes to those children, I will find you.”
“You won’t see me again,” Wade replies in English, with his bored flat voice. Then he turns his head and gestures at the children hidden in the brush, as if they’re just another group of mercenaries.
Yes. Cougar will be checking on them after this hive is cleared. But for the next few hours, they are safer with Wade.
The bedraggled children follow Wade out, like ducklings. After a moment of watching them go, Cougar continues on his way. The rope of power that connects him to Clay lies like a sleeping snake; he pokes it awake and gets a scent-impression of Clay kneeling in the shadow of a cypress.
Boss, he thinks at Clay. We found Max.
There’s a moment of silence in his head, a spike of Aisha’s vicious joy as Clay tells her; it’s followed by the ripple of Clay’s distress, quickly buried. Cougar knows that they’re not going to stop long enough to call Pooch in as back-up, or to go get better weaponry.
The door is open, Wade said. They might not get another chance like this one, better armed by circumstance than they could ever be otherwise.
Then we finish this, Clay tells them, and Cougar feels him smile.
Author:
nilchance and beansideRating: NC-17 overall
Pairing: Clay/Aisha; ultimately also Cougar/Jensen and Clay/Aisha/Cougar/Jensen
Warning: Violence. Also psychological and physical abuse, suicidal ideation, and a character being falsely identified as dead.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Andy Diggle and to Jock. No profit made, no lawsuit preferred.
Summary: Werewolf fic. Three years have gone by since Jensen died; Cougar is not all right. When he goes in with Clay and Aisha to kill some vampires, they find someone unexpected.
Cougar dreams of Chechnya, the mission with the black dogs. The brutal cold still haunts him, deep in his marrow where it can’t be extracted. There is no peace in that winter.
At the time, there had been a mad rush to get distance from the village with its feral inhabitants. There had been no time to stop and inspect the bite on Jensen’s thigh. It had barely broken skin, or so Clay tells him now in his attempts to be comforting. Cougar doesn’t know how deep it was or not, the finer details lost to him in his grief. He remembers at the time that Jensen had been complaining that he’d been bitten by a dog, dogs fucking liked him, and that Cougar had assumed that meant he would be fine. When Jensen grew quiet, that was when Cougar knew to worry.
Sometimes, Cougar draws comfort from the memory of Jensen’s bitching. Even knowing how it ends (the bandage soaked with blood and infection, the weapon-fired heat of Jensen’s fever, the first seizure and the last) it’s good to hear Jensen’s voice. One day he won’t remember it as it was, and then…
He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.
But this isn’t memory, despite the cold, despite the Chechen winter around him. There’s no hustle of the unit around him, no crackle of brush beneath their feet. There’s no one but the two of them, him and a ghost, with the muffling silence of snow coming down.
Jensen stands with his back to Cougar. No pack, no gear, only jeans and the ridiculous pink shirt that he didn‘t wear in Chechnya. The shirt is filthy with wear. It’s coated with dirt and rust-colored stains. The bare skin of his arms and feet look too vulnerable. No fur, no, Cougar didn’t see Jensen’s wolf, and that loss is bitter to him, too.
When they were infected, months later, they had figured that truth out: if they’d had better intelligence, if they had been closer to the full moon, Jensen might have lived. A last twist of grief’s knife, saved for months after they got Jensen’s death notice.
The cold is leeching out Cougar’s heat, murdering him by degrees, but he unbuttons his jacket. The cold strikes him in the chest, the belly, the throat. His gloves slow him, so he takes them off, too. He’ll take off his boots, he’ll give Jensen whatever he has.
Jensen’s back is turned like judgment, but then, doesn’t Cougar deserve to be judged?
When Cougar touches Jensen to wrap the coat around him, Jensen flinches out of his unnatural stillness and nearly topples on his face. His breath steams the brittle air. This is not the dream with the corpse, the cracking stiffness of rigor, and so Cougar is unafraid to push him into the coat. One arm at a time, as one would dress a child. He feels Jensen trembling as he reaches around him to zip the coat up.
It’s not going to be enough to save Jensen from this cold. Not barefoot as he is, the skin on his ears going pink from the beginnings of frostbite. But fuck it, without a coat, Cougar’s not going to survive either. They’ll go together this time.
Jensen shudders in a deep breath, and leans back into Cougar’s body.
Wet warmth spills down Cougar’s hand, where he holds the zipper. He knows what it is before he sees, he knows the scent of it. His wolf knows, and it feels hunger before Cougar’s horror can quell it.
When Cougar pulls back, blood coats his fingers. He grabs Jensen by the shoulders to turn him around, leaving a bright footprint of blood. Maybe he can stop it this time, maybe it can be different, maybe--
Jensen’s throat is savaged open. Cougar knows with the logic of dreams that if he looked, he’d find that the bite is the same span as his own jaw. Blood spills down Cougar’s coat as Jensen’s mouth shapes ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Clay is gentle when he wakes Cougar from nightmares, mostly. Aisha is not. Aisha sits out of reach of a punch and pokes him with objects. It’s a bottle of water, this time.
Cougar grunts to show her he’s awake, and swipes the bottle. He drinks, and he orients himself.
He’s on the mattress in the back of the VW bus, a battered old thing Pooch dubbed the Mystery Machine. The mattress smells like pack, like hundreds of nights he’s spent piled together with Aisha and Clay. Like dog, from wet fur and shifting. Like blood, from stitching each other together after another fight.
He thinks of the blood pouring down Jensen’s chest and reflexively looks at his hand. It’s clean.
Aisha has her eye on him. She doesn’t ask him about the dreams, probably because he never answers Clay, but she watches him afterward like she hears him ticking. He ignores her, and mechanically drinks the rest of the water. There’s no pleasure in it, despite the sticky heat of the bus; it’s what he does before a hunt, or when they tell him.
The bus has stopped rocking with the motion of the road. Outside, Cougar can hear Clay sharpening stakes. He glances at the windows and sees the first trickle of dawn.
He reaches under the mattress and retrieves his rosary. The beads are stained now, down to the grain, the vampires’ blood and his own. He wraps the beaded loop around his wrist twice, covering the dogtags tattooed where his pulse beats.
The crucifix, his abuelita’s, saved his life more than once. A year ago, he might have thanked God. Now there’s no more religious awe in it than in gunpowder. It works as a weapon, with no more or no less value than that.
God may have let Jensen die, but not any god Cougar wanted to worship.
The bus is silent. He misses Jensen. He wonders sometimes what Aisha would have thought of him, or vice versa. She is a hard woman to like, with hard standards, and yet she is one of Cougar’s people. She is Clay’s woman, as crazy as any of them. She is, if Cougar’s honest, more his alpha than Clay.
“Hey,” she says, snapping his attention back, and tosses him another bottle of water. “Be Catholic for me.”
She is also not without her rough affection.
Cougar nods and uncaps the bottle, dipping the crucifix inside. His prayers are curt, not the flowering poetry he learned on rickety wooden pews as a child. “Burn these creatures,“ he tells the water, and it will. It won’t for Aisha or Clay, but for him…
He isn’t unaware of the irony, holy water made by a lapsed Catholic, monsters killing monsters. Fuck it. The other monsters started it.
Clay swings open the doors at the back of the bus. His shadow falls over them as they look up, two heavy bags of stakes slung across his shoulders. His expression is deceptively worn, cat-eyed, but it’s only Clay rising to the killing edge.
One of the bags is for Cougar, the other for Clay. Aisha prefers to use her knife, a narrow sleek thing she apparently made for vampire-hunting with her father, but then she’s been doing this for much longer. She’s allowed her idiosyncrasy. She will have analyzed this location with Clay, discussed the why and how; Cougar doesn’t care so much about it. They’ve been doing this long enough for him to know his role. He’s their weapon.
Approach the hive. Pick off the human servants with the rifle to assure a cleaner entry. Penetrate the hive with Clay and Aisha. Kill vampires. Exit.
Later, call home to Pooch and Jensen's niece and ask if she’s finished her English homework. Diana prefers math, like her uncle, and complains bitterly about being forced to read a book about rabbits.
Clay raises his eyebrows. Makes an ‘after you, ladies’ gesture at the brush they must cross to get to the hive.
Aisha clambers out. Clay tries to give Cougar a hand up; Cougar knocks it out of the way as he goes past. That is how they operate.
They go hunting.
****
The hive is in Texas, outside of San Antonio. It’s close enough to a city to allow for easy transport of new victims. The territory around the hive is flat for miles, allowing sentries to catch any intrusions. But there is brush, as with most of the hill country, and this is the land where Cougar grew up. He is used to it, from childhood maneuvers and from hiding from his abuelita’s wrath.
They will end this fight quickly.
They walk together through acres of the hive’s territory, under cover of cypress trees, following the thin drought-ridden trickle of a creek. It covers them until they approach the edge of the flat plains.
Clay looks to Cougar, as this is his area of expertise. Cougar gestures for them to split up, the directions for Aisha and Clay to go. Clay indicates his ear, the sign for Cougar to keep in contact, and thumps Cougar’s shoulder with his closed fist. Then he is gone.
Aisha gives Cougar a smile that curves like her knife. He nods to her, and they part.
Cougar goes to his knees beside the creek, and scrapes up the mud with the side of his hand. Beneath the water, so he won’t leave gouges of disturbed earth to be discovered. The mud is cool from the water as he smears it across his face, his neck, his hands. It does not smell pleasant.
When that is done, he begins his approach, the sniper’s belly-crawl that he learned years ago. It is slow, painstakingly slow, and the rising sun beats against the back of his neck. He drags himself across the parched earth, each breath shallow enough not to stir dust.
Time passes. He finds a clump of higher grasses suitable for a blind. He tears the grass out and adds it to the mud until he is unrecognizable.
In training, they were expected to creep from one side of the course to the other without being caught; Cougar was the only one stupid or skilled enough to come up on his instructors, unseen, and tap them to let them know they’d been found. Cougar was not popular with his superiors.
He draws his rifle and is lining up his shots of the guards when he hears someone coming.
Cougs. Clay’s thoughts are as clear as if he whispered in Cougar’s ear.
The rustle of footsteps are too loud and too sloppy to be scouts. They smell human, and most of them young. It’s not the first time a vampire has thrown children at them; Cougar eases his rifle down to the grass and unholsters his tranq gun.
After a tense moment, they break cover. There’s a man with them, carrying a gun and a toddler. The child is skinny and smells sick. The man is Wade.
Cougar stays still, his finger on the trigger. Wade is an enemy, but the way he holds the child-- it reminds Cougar too much of the way Jensen would hold his niece. Protective.
The toddler tenses suddenly, an unnatural motion for such a small child, and looks towards Cougar’s blind. Her eyes are amber, werewolf eyes, and she quivers as she catches Cougar’s scent.
Figuring he only has seconds before she puts Wade on alert, Cougar stands. He brings the gun with him.
Wade snaps to attention, humming with sudden danger like a livewire. His arm closes tighter around the toddler for a moment, then relaxes; without taking his eyes off Cougar, he starts to lower the girl to the ground so she’s not in the way of the shot.
It would be very gratifying to shoot him.
“Go,” Cougar says. He doesn‘t put his gun away. There is mercy, and there‘s foolishness. “Take them with you.”
Warily, slowly, Wade straightens back up with the girl in his arms. She clings, burrowing her face against him.
“Max is in there,” Wade says. Then, gaze skidding off Cougar‘s like oil against water, he adds, “The door’s open.”
Wade’s hand drifts to the girl’s hair, which he pets clumsily. The girl watches Cougar with feral eyes. There are a dozen words in Cougar’s throat (help us clean this mess you made and I won‘t give you to Aisha) but in the end he only says in Spanish, “If harm comes to those children, I will find you.”
“You won’t see me again,” Wade replies in English, with his bored flat voice. Then he turns his head and gestures at the children hidden in the brush, as if they’re just another group of mercenaries.
Yes. Cougar will be checking on them after this hive is cleared. But for the next few hours, they are safer with Wade.
The bedraggled children follow Wade out, like ducklings. After a moment of watching them go, Cougar continues on his way. The rope of power that connects him to Clay lies like a sleeping snake; he pokes it awake and gets a scent-impression of Clay kneeling in the shadow of a cypress.
Boss, he thinks at Clay. We found Max.
There’s a moment of silence in his head, a spike of Aisha’s vicious joy as Clay tells her; it’s followed by the ripple of Clay’s distress, quickly buried. Cougar knows that they’re not going to stop long enough to call Pooch in as back-up, or to go get better weaponry.
The door is open, Wade said. They might not get another chance like this one, better armed by circumstance than they could ever be otherwise.
Then we finish this, Clay tells them, and Cougar feels him smile.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 06:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 03:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 08:00 pm (UTC)This is such a great start!
He isn’t unaware of the irony, holy water made by a lapsed Catholic, monsters killing monsters. Fuck it. The other monsters started it.
OH YES MORE PLEASE.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 06:36 pm (UTC)Made some icons
Looking forward to much more!
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Date: 2010-09-09 06:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 07:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-09 08:26 pm (UTC)Thoroughly intrigued and can't wait to read more!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-13 04:29 pm (UTC)(Icon loff.)
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Date: 2010-09-09 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-10 04:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-10 12:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-10 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-10 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-10 05:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-10 06:54 pm (UTC)