#2019 me would fucking have a heart attack and collapse no kidding

[ilys00ga]

back in my days, they wouldn't even show their bare foreheads to the public. the bt21 stickers were on a 24/7 shift.

[mynumberfivethings]

I Heard A Rumor...

They land back in 2019, which is a relief, of course, until it’s not. 

“What the fuck even is the Sparrow Academy?” Diego grouses. “Lame ass bird fucks.” he chucks one of his knives across the cramped motel room they’re currently occupying and watches it get lodged firmly into the tacky wallpaper. 

Allison grabs the second knife Diego’s about to fling out of his hand and glares  daggers at her brother. “We’re staying here for free, because I rumored the motel staff into not noticing we exist, so maybe don’t wreck the place?” 

Luther nods in agreement. “Allison’s right, we need to be as inconspicuous as possible right now.” 

Diego rolls his eyes. “Whatever. So Five, now what?” the siblings all go to turn to Five for the answers they’re so desperately seeking, only to be met with the sight of the pseudo thirteen year old laid curled up on one of the beds, sound asleep. 

Luther frowns. “How in the hell can he seriously sleep at a time like this?” 

Allison leans over Fives still form and not so gently shakes his shoulder, jarring him awake. She feels a little guilt upon seeing the initially panicked look on his face as he comes to awareness once again, but damn it, she just wants to see her kid again, is that too much to ask? 

“We need to figure out a way to get back to our timeline.” she tells him, arms folded over her chest.

Five scratches the sleep from his eyes, unaware he’d even passed out in the first place, wincing as he sits up fully on the mattress. “This is our timeline.” he informs all of them, his voice coming out scratchy and thin. God, he’s exhausted. And practically everything aches. 

“What do you mean?” Klaus shakes his head. “In our timeline Ben is very much dead-not some weird emo douche who flocks with a crew of birds-so please do explain how the actual hell this makes any sense.” 

Five sighs, “We changed the linear time of events and the order in which they were supposed to originally occur when we were in the sixties and now this is, for all intents and purposes, our timeline.” 

“Screw that. We need to reestablish our actual timeline.” Allison counters. “I’m not staying in this weird alternate bullshit dimension any longer than we have to-we still have the suitcase, right? Let’s go back to the sixties and fix what we broke. Easy.” 

Five looks at her like she’s lost her mind. Which, she very well may have, he thinks briefly. “Look, I know you want to see Claire again, but you need to consider-”

“No.” Allison interrupts angrily, tears starting to fill her eyes. “You don’t understand at all. How the hell could you? You haven’t had anyone for years, but me? I’ve had people, people I care about-which might be a foreign concept to someone like you, but-” 

“Right,” Five cuts her off in turn, unwilling to linger on the sting her words have caused. “I just need time to-” 

“Time? Haven’t you had enough of that, already?” Suddenly the room is engulfed in complete and utter darkness and the Hargreeves go into high alert, trying to figure out where the hell that voice is coming from. 

Could it be one of the Sparrow Academy heroes? Could they have followed them to the outskirts of town? 

“Show yourself, you coward!” Diego shouts, knives at the ready to attack their intruder. 

A flash of thunder illuminates the room for only a split second before the lights come back on and the Hargreeves find themselves frozen in place, unable to move even a muscle, try as they might. 

Save for one: Five. 

“What the hell...” he mutters, as he watches his siblings struggle to try and move from their positions. 

“Now, Allison.” that same disturbing voice commands. 

Allisons eyes go wide as her mouth begins to move without her permission and out come the words, “I heard a rumor you killed your brothers and sisters.” 

They watch with dawning horror as Fives eyes roll to the back of his head and turn an off shade of blue before he seamlessly plucks Diegos knife from where it was embedded in the wall earlier and faces his family, where they stand, helpless. 

“Shit!” Diego curses, trying in vain to move even a single digit. 

Vanya tries to conjure her own powers but finds that she can’t for some reason. “Five...” she calls out, knowing it’s futile. 

Five blinks over to Klaus first, who yelps in surprise, he barely has time to beg Five to reconsider when Five brings the knife down-

There’s boisterous screaming and panicked yelling and general chaos and Klaus is so sure this is it, that Five has plunged the knife straight into his heart and done away with him, until he opens his eyes and realizes nothing is protruding out of him...

Instead, Five has thrust the knife into his own leg. He’s breathing hard, his trembling fingers still hovering over the hilt of the weapon. 

The disembodied voice booms, “Allison!” 

And Allison curses, but she can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “I heard a rumor you stabbed me in the jugular.” 

Fives eyes go pale blue for a second time and without even flinching he takes the knife out of his upper thigh and blinks so that he’s facing Allison this time. 

They can all see him struggling, perspiring, fighting against the rumor as he brandishes the knife in one hand, raising it up above his head slowly. 

Allison tries to let out another rumor, a contradicting rumor, perhaps, the way she had done when Five had been in front of Klaus, but again, the words get stuck in her throat. 

Whatever being is in the room is in total control of her powers... 

Allison feels something collide with her neck but it’s not the sharp sting of a knife she’s expecting. It’s Five’s forearm against her, protecting her from his own attack as he shoves the knife directly into his flesh. He’s panting now, with the force that it’s taken him not to obey her mind control. 

“Kill them.” the voice demands angrily. 

“Fuck you.” Five bites out through clenched teeth. 

As if those were the magic words, the voice departs and the Hargreeves can feel their limbs and move about once again, the tense atmosphere dissipating. 

“Holy shit!” Klaus gasps out, “What the fuck, Jesus!” 

Five grunts as he removes the knife from his forearm and wields it threateningly. “Allison,” he practically begs, his voice strained. “Unrumor me. Now.” 

Allison is more than happy to comply, hurriedly saying, “I heard a rumor you didn’t want us dead.” 

The knife clatters as it hits the floor and Five collapses next to it a second later, exhausted and hurting something awful. 

“Shit,” Diego grabs a bunch of hand towels from the bathroom and kneels down. “We gotta stop the bleeding.” He presses two towels against the stab wound on Fives forearm and Vanya grabs the rest to press against the one on his thigh. 

Five tenses up beneath them, his face scrunching up in pain. “Fuck!” 

“I saw a first aid kit in the lobby by the front desk, I’ll go get it!” Allison calls out, already halfway out the door in her haste. 

“Should we move him to the bed?” Luther asks, hovering over his siblings, concern and anxiety eating away at him. 

Diego curses. The hand towels are drenched in blood already. They need to stop the bleeding and soon, or else. “Elevate his leg.” he orders, letting Luther help Vanya try to stem the bleeding there. “Klaus, go get more towels from one of the maids if you can.” Klaus scurries to obey while the others continue to put pressure on Fives multiple injuries. 

Klaus and Allison arrive back at the motel room almost simultaneously, one with a stack of clean towels in their arms and the other with a giant red box in hand. 

With the extra towels and the supplies from the medical kit, they’re somehow able to stop the bleeding long enough to move Five up to the bed. Luther’s extremely gentle as he transfers him from one spot to the other. 

When it’s time to stitch him up, Vanya and Klaus volunteer to do it. Five is too exhausted, both mentally and physically to pretend to be stoic about any of this. He throws his good arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the light. 

“What do you guys think that was?” Luther asks the room at large, when the silence stretches on too long. 

Klaus doesn’t look up from where he’s threading his needle on Fives thigh, replying dryly. “Yet another person place or thing that wants us dead?” 

Diego scoffs. “It’s gotta be one of those Sparrow fuckheads. Who the hell else? I bet it was that goddamn cube-I still can’t believe dad adopted a fucking cube-Christ.” 

“Whatever it was, it was in control of my powers.” Allison frowns deeply. “When I tried to unrumor Five nothing came out-even when I tried rumoring one of you into being able to move again, so that at least we would stand a fighting chance against our little serial killer over here, nothing.” 

Vanya nods, “Same here. I tried to use my powers but it was like there was some kind of a block or something? Like when I was still taking those prescription pills.” She looks at Fives pale face-what she can see of it, from underneath his forearm-and risks the question, “Five, how did you manage not to....you know...?” As someone who’s had first hand experience being unwillingly rumored by their sister, she knows it’s not something one can easily brush off. 

Quite frankly, it’s a miracle they’re all still breathing... 

“Yeah, I thought for sure we were dead.” Diego walks over and playfully ruffles the top of Fives messy hair. “Good job not making yourself an only child.” he jokes, freezing entirely when in response to his teasing Five lets out what can only be described as a faint whimper. 

“Five?” 

“I almost killed everyone.” Five struggles to get the full sentence out, his breath hitching. “Fuck.” he curses, unable to stifle a sob. It’s a pathetically sad little noise, but it brings the rest of his siblings to his side immediately. 

“Hey,” Allison kneels down beside the bed and places a careful hand on his knee. She feels him flinch underneath her. “You resisted my rumor-twice. Do you know how rare that is? You saved us.” 

Five scrubs his face with the sleeve of his white button up shirt and finally uncovers his eyes. They’re red and puffy from crying, eyelashes wet with his tears. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” he admits brokenly. “I can’t lose you guys again.” 

“Shit Five,” Diego leans down and briefly touches their foreheads together, the palm of his hand cupping Fives head. “You’re not alone, we’re right here. Not going anywhere.” 

Vanya nods determinedly. “That’s right. You’re stuck with us.” 

Luther towers over the group with a faint but genuine smile. “You know, I always figured you loved us, but I guess I didn’t realize the extent until today.” 

Five sniffles, wiping away more tears he can’t seem to stop from coming. “I would trade you all up for a decent cup of coffee.” he lies, feeling more exposed than he has in literal years. 

Klaus smirks. “Nuh uh, no take backs, Fivey. You loooooove us.” 

Five rolls his eyes but it doesn’t have quite the same effect it normally would, considering the fact that he is still very much crying. 

Allison clears her throat, squeezes his knee again, this time to get his attention, and says, “And we love you. I’d ask if you know that, but honestly I think the answer would make me too sad.” she sighs. “Five, I’m really sorry about what I said before-I was taking all my frustrations out on you and I spoke carelessly, without thinking.” 

Five shakes his head, overwhelmed. “It’s ok.” 

“It’s not.” Allison insists. “Five, I don’t know if anyone’s said this yet, but I think it’s long overdue. I’m so happy to see you again. I missed you, you know. A ton.” 

Five didn’t think he was childish enough to still need to hear such silly sentimental things. He’s not the type, he’s tried to convince himself. It’s not as though he was expecting some big tearful family reunion upon his arrival, after all. So he wasn’t crushed or anything when his return was met with little more than perhaps confused contemptment. He had things to do, apocalypses to stop and all that jazz. 

That’s what he told himself, of course. 

But it doesn’t ring very true now, not when he can’t help but let out another sob. 

He’s too old for this, he thinks, as Diego pulls him gently to his side and Allison grabs hold of his hand. 

He doesn’t need them to love him back, he thinks, as Klaus finishes taping up his wound with a tenderness only reserved for those he loves, as Vanya wraps gauze around his forearm with care. 

He’s been fine all this time, he thinks, even as Luther says, “Good to have you back, Five.” 

It’s good to be back, he thinks, turning his head so that it’s buried against Diego’s shoulder when he lets out another sob. 

.

[stxn-the-mxn]

Attack || 2019!Richie Tozier X Reader

Request: I'm feeling trash and sad so can you write an adult richie X reader comforting her whilst having an anxiety attack? Heartbeat/heart fluffy please 😭💕- Anon

A/N: I don’t really know how anxiety attacks work, so I tried my best. Apologies if this is really off.

***

You slammed open the motel door, your breathing unsteady and ragged. Bev and Ben were in the foyer and looked at you weirdly as you rushed right past them. Bill called after you, but it was all just quiet buzzing to you.

The world around you was caving in. The stairs felt like they were never-ending, and you were sure you could pass out at any time. You hadn’t had an anxiety attack, at least not a proper once, since… well, not since you left Derry.

That fucking thing had been the cause of your anxiety since it stole you away and made you… well, float. Float with all those other kids. Jesus, you didn’t even want to think about it. 

You fumbled for the first door handle you could find, not caring who was behind that door, but hoping it was a certain Trashmouth. The door was locked, but you kept hitting the handle as if hoping that it would magically open.

Your palms were sweating, and your legs were about to give way. The door was your only support.

Eventually, the door did swing open, Richie stepping back as your figure collapsed onto his. You didn’t need to say anything. Richie knew what was happening. He’d dealt with this exact situation a thousand times before.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

***

1989

Richie spun around in his desk chair, having not much to do. Since last summer, he hadn’t had much to do. The Losers didn’t hang out as much as they used to. Sure, he always hung out with Eddie, Stan, sometimes Bill and you, but everyone else had grown distant.

A hammering on his window caused him to cease his chair spinning. He looked up to see you, eyes darting wildly as you waited for him to open the window. He sensed your anxiety and panic, immediately swinging the window open.

You practically fell in, Richie thankfully being there to help you out.

“Woah, woah, woah, Y/N/N, you okay?”

“I-I saw IT. Again.” 

Richie knew what that meant. Since that day in the sewers, you’d been suffering through horrendous nightmares. He didn’t know what the nightmares were, you didn’t like to talk about them, which wasn’t a good sign. You talked to him about everything, so having you keep secrets was alien to him.

He hated it, seeing you like this. You were always so strong, and never let anything break you. And yet here you were, broken.

The same thing happened each day, for years. At around 9 pm, you’d show up at his house, come through the window and stay with him that night. Eventually, you ended up just always staying at Richie’s house.

Your parents were never home, and his parents didn’t care, so it all worked out quite well. But even with him by your side, the nightmares never ceased. Even as you grew up, left Derry, and lived out the next 27 years, each night was plagued with terrors. 

***

2016

“Fuck, Rich, I can’t do this. I can’t stay in this godforsaken town.” 

Rich had a ghostly grip on your waist, not sure if you wanted space or affection.

“Shit, I’ve seen us all die. I’ve been seeing us all die for 27 years! I can’t do it anymore. I saw Stan in that fucking bathtub a-and I know who’s next!”

Your words stopped making sense, just a splutter of things that sort of formed sentences. Richie didn’t try to figure out what you were saying, instead choosing to pull you closer to him.

“Baby, we can’t leave. It’s not an option anymore, I’m sorry.”

He hated everything right now. You were in pain, and he knew that leaving this town would be the only thing to help that pain, and that was the one thing they couldn’t do.

He swore he had ever held you so tightly. How the fuck did he deal with this situation? He used to just say they were nightmares, and that they weren’t real. But now they were real. 

It might have been a bad time to pull out a joke, but he was Richie Tozier, and that’s what he did best.

“But, hey, when we do defeat IT and we leave this fucking town, I’ll get that ring I promised you back in high school.”

“Are you proposing to me, Tozier?”

“Maybe I am, Almost-Tozier, maybe I am.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 27 Mar 2020 (Mar-a-Lago Virus, plutes cash in on stimulus, postal voting vs USPS collapse, "civility" and the Confederate playbook, Bojo has covid, reasonable covid food-safety advice, SF cocktail delivery, flu pandemic photos, free hi-rez covid stock art, Warren campaign frees its software)

Today's links

The US is now the epicenter of the pandemic: Trump has murdered millions.

Plutes cash in on stimulus: $170B for real-estate tycoons.

States prep for postal voting: But the GOP has all but murdered the USPS.

"Civility" and the Confederate playbook: The right's call for "civility" has a long, dishonorable history.

Boris Johnson has coronavirus: He greenlit national pox-parties, now he has it.

Reasonable covid food-safety advice: Sanitize your hands and your cart, practice social distancing, and…you're done.

San Francisco cocktail delivery: Courtesy of the DNA Lounge.

Flu pandemic photos: Mask-slackers beware!

Free hi-rez covid stock art: Make your pandemic more visually varied.

Warren campaign frees its software: Free, open and universal campaigning tools.

This day in history: 2005, 2010, 2015, 2019

Colophon: Recent publications, upcoming appearances, current writing projects, current reading

The US is now the epicenter of the pandemic (permalink)

The US is now the epicenter of the global coronavirus pandemic, henceforth known as the Mar-a-Lago Virus. It has the highest number of infections of any country in the world.

https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/map.html

There have "only" been 1,000 US deaths so far. The "only" is there because there are so many more to come, when the vast number of incubating cases start manifesting symptoms and begin to die.

Trump wants the country to go back to work by Easter, because in his version of the Trolley Problem, the most important thing is saving the trolley.

https://www.theverge.com/2020/3/25/21193670/trump-easter-coronavirus-isolation-relax-rules-economy-social-distancing

We had so much warning. But the president said it wasn't anything to worry about.

Now, a lot of people are going to die.

Most of the dead will be old – from the demographic most likely to have voted for Trump (which isn't to imply that only Trump voters will die, or that they deserve to die – only that Trump chose to put his base at risk).

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/24/grandparents-optional-party/#turkey-shoot

Many will have contracted their infections by deliberately seeking out crowded public places as the pandemic started spreading, because Fox News told them that doing so was a way to own the libs.

Fox News viewers – who skew elderly, even by the standards of TV watchers – are also disproportionately at risk from coronavirus. Fox News is now a suicide cult.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/19/gb-whatsapp/#fox-cult

But so many people will die because of this. Old people. Young people. People with disabilities. People who just had very bad luck. Kids.

And that's before you get to all the people who have car wrecks or heart attacks or slip-and-falls and can't get treatment in overloaded hospitals.

When Hoover fucked up by giving in to plutes and crashed the economy, he got tent cities, or "Hoovervilles."

Trump's fuckup will end with mass graves. Trump Mausoleums? Mar-a-Plague-Pits?

We will get through this. But Trump will have murdered so many of us before it's over.

https://www.theverge.com/2020/3/26/21196267/coronavirus-usa-cases-covid-19-pandemic-china-number-positive-trump

Plutes cash in on stimulus (permalink)

The stimulus package that the GOP Senate passed has the largest-ever giveaway for real-estate plutes in US tax history: $170 billion in tax-cuts over 10 years for couples with more than $500K in annual capital gains.

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/26/business/coronavirus-real-estate-investors-stimulus.html

The President who will sign the bill into law is a real-estate investor who stands to make a fortune from it. His inner circle is packed with similarly situated rentiers.

It's the second-biggest giveaway in the stimulus package, and it will also give windfalls to wealthy oil and gas investors.

The House is expected to vote on it today.

(Image: Rich Brooks, CC BY, modified)

States prep for postal voting (permalink)

States are scrambling to prepare for a postal ballot-based election next November.

https://www.pewtrusts.org/en/research-and-analysis/blogs/stateline/2020/03/23/states-begin-prep-for-mail-in-voting-in-presidential-election

Postal ballots tend to benefit Democrats, whose voters are disproportionately unable to get off work to vote, and who are more likely to live in regions where GOP statehouses have closed polling places, adding long drives and long queues for in-person voting.

That's why Red States often have state laws that prohibit unrestricted postal voting, insisting that voters must provide a "good reason" for their desire to exercise their franchise to a bureaucrat who gets to decide whether or not they can participate in elections.

Of course, if Trump throws hundreds of thousands – or millions – of (disproportionately GOP-voting) seniors into the coronavirus volcano to appease the market-gods, the survivors may be gunshy about voting in person, even if they continue as fully paid-up Trump cultists.

There are serious challenges to reorienting towards a largely postal election, including mobilizing printing resources during a lockdown.

But even more challenging is the post office itself, which is on the verge of collapse.

https://www.politico.com/news/2020/03/23/coronavirus-postal-service-june-145683

The USPS is a miracle of self-funding resilience, a universal, small-d democratic institution that serves the whole nation. But its existence is a thorn in the side of shareholders UPS and Fedex, who donate lavishly to Congressjerks who fuck with the post office.

Requiring the post office to fund pension liabilities for workers who aren't born yet is transparent fuckery. Combine that with a sharp decline in mail usage during the lockdown and the service is now on the brink.

That would be bad news, and not just for elections. The USPS is key to America's emergency preparedness, and has been since the Cold War, when it was projected to serve as a survivor-counting/corpse-hauling service after nuclear armageddon.

It's the only institution that could deliver covid meds to every household in America in a single day.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/25/national-emergency-library/#going-postal

"Civility" and the Confederate playbook (permalink)

You may have heard conservatives insist that the reason they stick up for eugenicists and other cryptofascists is that they're standing up for "civility" against the "social justice mobs."

This rhetoric isn't new: it's literally the same thing that slavery apologists said in the runup to, and aftermath of, the Civil War: "we're not in favor of slavery, we're just opposed to the shaming and social exclusion of slavery advocates.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2019/08/29/conservatives-say-weve-abandoned-reason-civility-old-south-said-that-too/

When we learn about the antebellum slavery debate, we hear about slavery's defenders – but the mainstream debate over slavery wasn't about its merits, it was about the incivility of abolitionists, and how that compromised the free speech of enslavers.

Slavery advocates were cast as a disfavored minority, shouted down by mobs who refused to hear them out. But discrimination against slavers was a funny kind of discrimination: half the millionaires in America were slavers in a single southern town.

Likewise, the right-wing figures who today claim that they are censored and cast out by the intolerant left are millionaires who fill arenas and appear regularly on Fox News, the most popular cable network in America.

They publish books with Big Five publishers and go on multicity tours. They're courted by "progressive" news outlets as paid on-air commentators to provide "balance." If that's discrimination, sign me up.

John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated Lincoln, professed love of Black people, and claimed he was animated by anger at the suppression of honest debate on racial politics, unable to share "my thoughts or sentiments" about slavery in polite society.

Slavers cast anti-slavery rhetoric as "orthodoxy" and cast themselves as realists who were willing to speak truth to power.

Does that sound familiar?

The abolition movement – including Lincoln – focused on these slavery apologists, understanding that they provided the cover for the continuation of slavery.

Lincoln insisted that Douglas go beyond lamenting the angry rhetoric of abolitionists and instead describe what he stood for – beyond his support of slavers' right to "choose how they wanted to live."

He demanded that Douglas go beyond his campaign speeches against "mob rule" and state plainly whether he wanted an America with or without slavery.

In her Washington Post op-ed, Eve Fairbanks suggests that we do the same for the "reasonable right" – pin them down. Sure, you don't like "cancel culture," but what do you stand for? What kind of world do you want?

(Image: Anthony Crider, CC BY)

Boris Johnson has coronavirus (permalink)

UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson has coronavirus.

https://twitter.com/borisjohnson/status/1243496858095411200

Under Johnson's leadership, the UK pursued a month-long plan to turn the nation into a giant pox-party, hoping to attain quick "herd immunity."

He was following a promising strategy devised for less-lethal, less-contagious flus, which was manifestly unsuited to coronavirus, as experts argued at the time. As a result, infections now rage out of control in the UK.

https://www.reddit.com/r/Coronavirus/comments/fnl0n6/im_a_critical_care_doctor_working_in_a_uk_high/#fla1iq6

During the planning of this "herd immunity" strategy, Johnson's chief advisor Dominic Cummings acknowledged that it would likely murder elderly people: "if that means some pensioners die, too bad."

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/24/grandparents-optional-party/#death-panels

After Johnson tested positive for coronavirus, Cummings was seen fleeing Number 10 Downing Street at a dead run.

https://uk.news.yahoo.com/dominic-cummings-seen-running-no-114514496.html

(Image: Think London, CC-BY, modified)

Reasonable covid food-safety advice (permalink)

There's a viral (ugh) video going around in which an MD in scrubs (at home!) shows you what you should do when you come back from the grocery store. It's frankly terrifying. It's also wrong.

As Don Schaffner, a food microbiologist, notes in his thread, not only is this advice wrong, it could make you very sick — either because you ate the soap that you washed your food in, or because you left your groceries on your stoop for 3 days.

https://twitter.com/bugcounter/status/1243319180851580929

There's no evidence that washing your food with soap will kill coronavirus, and even less evidence that you can get the virus from eating. There is, however, millennias' worth of evidence that you can die from food poisoning.

Schaffner's advice for groceries boils down to: wash your hands before and after grocery shopping. Wipe down the cart handle. Shop efficiently. Keep your distance from other shoppers.

You know, common sense.

(Image: Lyza, CC BY-SA, modified)

San Francisco cocktail delivery (permalink)

Hey, San Francisco! Craving a cocktail? The DNA Lounge will deliver a mason jar's worth (~3 servings) of Black Manhattan (w/Slow and Low honey & orange infused rye), Sazerac, brown sugar margarita (w/a little orange) or lavender lemonade gin cooler.

https://www.dnalounge.com/backstage/log/2020/03/26.html

The DNA is a San Francisco institution, one that runs on a shoestring and is continuing to pay its employees, even as other SF venues (snapped up by predatory corporate behemoths) shut down.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/22/preppers-are-larpers/#help-dna

They've also got a bunch of livestream events coming up, including a benefit for the Gay Gaming Professionals, a Death Guild set, and Hubba Hubba Revue's Burlesquerpiece Theatre.

Flu pandemic photos (permalink)

During the 1918 flu pandemic, California went on lockdown. The governor ordered statewide shutdowns, and "mask slackers" who refused to wear masks faced arrest.

https://quod.lib.umich.edu/f/flu/0030flu.0009.300/1

The California Sun has rounded up an amazing set of images of California life during the 1918 flu from libraries, museums, and other sources," in gorgeous hi-rez.

Free hi-rez covid stock art (permalink)

If this image seems familiar, that's because it's one of the only open-licensed images of the novel coronavirus, courtesy of the CDC. It's been used millions of times in just a few weeks.

https://tinyurl.com/u457y2d

An effects house called Covert has stepped in to fill the visual gap with a collection of gorgeous,crazy hi-rez covid renders: "No licensing, royalties or any credit is required for their use."

https://wearecovert.com/free-covid-19-animations-renders-images/

Warren campaign frees its software (permalink)

Elizabeth Warren's campaign has released seven of its sophisticated campaigning tools as free/open software.

https://medium.com/@teamwarren/open-source-tools-from-the-warren-for-president-tech-team-f1f27d2c7551

The Warren campaign had a large cohort of software developers and created a suite of outstanding tools, as well as making improvements to standard tools, including improvements to the texting tool Spoke that reduces the cost of using it by ~97%!

https://www.wired.com/story/elizabeth-warren-campaign-open-source-tech/

The projects are hosted on Github:

https://github.com/Elizabeth-Warren/

This isn't just an opportunity for campaigns, but also for small shops that provide integration and support to them. Obviously election campaigning is in a mess at the moment, but this is seismic.

This day in history (permalink)

#15yrsago Nepali media crackdown thwarted by bloggers https://web.archive.org/web/20050328204722/http://insn.org/

#10yrsago LibDem MPs won't fight for debate on Digital Economy Bill https://www.openrightsgroup.org/blog/2010/lib-dems-tories-and-labour-pledge-to-ram-disconnection-through

#5yrsago Top homeland security Congressjerk only just heard about crypto, and he doesn't like it https://www.techdirt.com/articles/20150327/07312030462/congressional-rep-john-carter-discovers-encryption-worries-it-may-one-day-be-used-computers-to-protect-your-data.shtml

#5yrsago NSA-proof passwords https://theintercept.com/2015/03/26/passphrases-can-memorize-attackers-cant-guess/

#5yrsago Welfare encourages entrepreneurship https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/03/welfare-makes-america-more-entrepreneurial/388598/

#5yrsago Here's the TSA's stupid, secret list of behavioral terrorism tells https://theintercept.com/2015/03/27/revealed-tsas-closely-held-behavior-checklist-spot-terrorists/

#5yrsago San Francisco Sheriff's Deputy ring accused of pit-fighting inmates https://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/S-F-jail-inmates-forced-to-fight-Adachi-says-6161221.php

#1yrago Elizabeth Warren's latest campaign plank is a national Right-to-Repair law for farm equipment https://medium.com/@teamwarren/leveling-the-playing-field-for-americas-family-farmers-823d1994f067

#1yrago Mystery solved: why has a beach in France been blighted by washed-up parts for toy Garfield phones for more than 30 years? https://www.lemonde.fr/big-browser/article/2019/03/27/l-affaire-des-echouages-de-telephones-garfield-en-bretagne-enfin-resolue_5442290_4832693.html

#1yrago McDonald's will drop opposition to increases in the federal minimum wage https://www.politico.com/story/2019/03/26/mcdonalds-lobbying-minimum-wage-1238284

#1yrago Front-line programmers default to insecure practices unless they are instructed to do otherwise https://net.cs.uni-bonn.de/fileadmin/user_upload/naiakshi/Naiakshina_Password_Study.pdf

#1yrago Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez schools Republicans on the true costs and beneficiaries of the Green New Deal https://twitter.com/briantylercohen/status/1110700996282343424?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/), Slate Star Codex (https://slatestarcodex.com/), Kottke (https://kottke.org), Advertising Pics (https://advertisingpics.tumblr.com/), Fipi Lele.

Currently writing: I'm getting geared up to start work my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: Data – the new oil, or potential for a toxic oil spill? https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/23/data-the-new-oil-or-potential-for-a-toxic-oil-spill/

Upcoming appearances:

Quarantine Book Club, April 1, 3PM Pacific https://www.eventbrite.com/e/quarantine-book-club-cory-doctorow-tickets-100931360416

Museums and the Web, April 2, 12PM-3PM Pacific https://mw20.museweb.net/

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020. https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250757531

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a new introduction by Edward Snowden: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250774583

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When live gives you SARS, you make sarsaparilla -Joey "Accordion Guy" DeVilla

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

Boku no Hero Academia - i think i might’ve finally figured out what these powers are for

This was my last patreon drabble of 2019, but it was probably my favorite! This was for a request from one of my Patrons that asked for a Present Mic story where he was descended from Danny Phantom and, well, I had some fun with it I suppose. Enjoy and remember to check out my Patreon for more great work like this! 

Summary:  Shouta has seen a lot in his time as a pro hero, but he could honestly say that he had never seen his best friend phase through falling rocks as if he could become intangible. One thing is for sure, however, and that’s the fact that Yamada Hizashi has some explaining to do.

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia, minor Danny Phantom

Characters: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic

Rating: Teen Audiences

Word Count: 2,235

              Check out my writing commission information here!        Pledge to my Patreon to get exclusive content like this drabble!

                                                          ⁂

Aizawa Shouta had seen many strange things within his life. As a licensed pro hero who had been working in the field for a decade, and one who had been teaching for a number of years, it was impossible not to see some strange sights, but the act he had just witnessed was not one that he could even begin to process, let alone believe. No matter how many times he blinked, though, his closest friend stood in front of him with the same guilty expression and nervous smile. 

“You know, Shou-chan-” Shou-chan. Childhood nickname. Hizashi was terrified of his wrath. Good. “-I think this is the longest I’ve ever seen you speechless. I mean, quiet, sure, but speechless is way different! Don’t- Don’t you think?” Hizashi’s nervous smile was soon accompanied by a shuffling of his feet, his entire body twitching from nerves from atop the pile of rubble that he should have been buried under if his body hadn’t simply phased through it. “It’s really not that-” 

“Hizashi.” Shouta’s voice hadn’t felt that loud, but Hizashi’s mouth snapped shut as if he had just been screamed at. Shouta had a feeling it had to do with the fact that he almost never called Hizashi by his first name when they were in the middle of hero work and still in the field, which they had been before half a building had collapsed on Hizashi and he hadn’t even been bruised. “What the fuck-”

“It’s not what you think I promise!” Hizashi’s movements were spastic and wide, the man waving his hands about as if trying to wave off Shouta’s overwhelming confusion. “It’s a quirk thing- Okay, maybe not so much a quirk thing as a family thing, but I promise it’s not like I kept it from you on purpose, I mean, I only really discovered about this when I went to visit America not long after we graduated, remember? When I went to go visit family and was gone for about a year? I brought you back all that candy- Well, candy and that t-shirt. Hey, did you ever-”

Shouta sighed as Hizashi lost himself to his anxious ramblings, no doubt convinced that if he stopped talking Shouta would already be yelling at him. He wasn’t completely wrong, but Shouta wasn’t sure if he had the strength to yell when he was still recovering from the fact his friend had almost died under a collapsing building and instead was… fine. 

Shaking off some of the dust and debris that covered his suit and waiting for it to settle before slipping his goggles off, Shouta tapped the earpiece still hooked around his ear, “Eraserhead and Present Mic checking in. No major injuries to report and all villains in this area confirmed already captured or neutralized. We’re leaving.” 

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, were you even cleared by a medic? Where are you guys you disappeared as soon as the building came down- Hey! You can’t leave until we talk to the police-!”

“I’ll take care of it later,” Shouta muttered, slipping the earpiece out and tossing it towards one of the piles of rubble before stumbling his way over another and sliding into Hizashi’s space, slapping a hand over his mouth and cutting him off mid-ramble. The man had to have ramped himself up into a decent attack if he hadn’t even noticed that Shouta had reported in for them. 

Waiting until the muffled words stopped, Shouta gave a single nod and removed his hand, waiting for a moment longer to make sure the silence kept. “Okay.” Okay. Hizashi was alive. That… that was honestly the only important part. Everything else could wait. “Okay. Your apartment is closer. We’re going to clean up, get something to eat, and then you can explain calmly and logically.” Pausing for a moment, Shouta tilted his head as he lightly tapped Hizashi’s chest with the back of his hand. “And I’m not angry. Confused and annoyed you’ve never told me you could do that, but not angry.” 

Just as Shouta had hoped all of the tension seemed to drain out of Hizashi’s shoulders, his anxieties and fears no longer hidden as he gave a small smile with a nod to match, voice quiet and calm when he spoke again, “Want me to order our usual?” 

“You’re paying,” Shouta grinned, brushing past Hizashi and taking a moment to place their location before heading towards where the front door should be if it were still standing. Hizashi’s steps easily echoed his own and Shouta let himself release some of his own worries. Hizashi was alive and that was all that mattered. 

That didn’t mean that Shouta wasn’t ready for an interrogation a few hours later.

The two of them were drowning in old, oversized pajamas after each had taken over the shower for just under an hour a piece, half a dozen takeout containers had been spread out around them, and a show that Hizashi typically liked played in the background on a soft volume. It was the perfect place for an interrogation and Shouta didn’t hold back as he said a short, simple, “Explain.”

Hizashi didn’t rush to explain or ramble, instead chewing on a crab rangoon thoughtfully before swallowing and lowering his chopsticks. “Well… I suppose I should start by explaining my quirk.” 

“I already know your quirk,” Shouta frowned, not liking the smile Hizashi gave him. It was as amused as it was apologetic. “It’s not Voice?” 

“It… is in a way,” Hizashi settled on, scarfing down another two bites of food quickly. The normalcy of it, Hizashi eating as if it was his last meal and making pained little noises because he didn’t know how to wait until his food was cooled off, was enough to drain away the last of Shouta’s fear at almost losing one of his closest and longest friends. “My quirk is registered as Voice because that’s what we thought it was. I mean, you know the story. Born with my quirk, blew out my parents’ hearing, yada yada yada, right?” 

Shouta nodded, eyes flicking by habit up to Hizashi’s hearing aids. The fact he still had them on even when he was home showed he really was serious about explaining what had happened to Shouta. 

“Right! So, we just assumed it was a voice quirk, registered it like that, and then carried on. I didn’t know that Voice wasn’t my actual quirk until I was in America and discovered the other half of my family - and my family history. Didn’t you ever wonder about the fact that neither of my parents have voice quirks?” 

“I guess I just assumed your quirk was one of the few that mutated into what it is now,” Shouta said, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. “If it’s not Voice then what is your quirk?” 

“No idea,” Hizashi laughed, loud and bright and just a touch unsettled. “Best as we can all figure it’s a mutation quirk with multiple facets. I mean… you’re not an idiot. Your quirk blocks the quirk factor, right? And every time you’ve used your quirk on me…” 

“You can’t speak,” Shouta finished easily before freezing, the realization fully hitting him. “You can’t speak. If it were just a voice-enhancement quirk-”

“Then I would just speak at a normal volume,” Hizashi finished, grinning again. “My family, the family line I come from in America, is sort of… well, weird. I mean weird in a way that quirks emerged in their family back in 2004-”

“What?” Shouta wasn’t one to shout or raise his voice often, but that was- That was impossible information. Oh, yes, there were always stories and myths and legends and even movies and comics, but quirks as the world knew them hadn’t existed until over half a century into the 21st century. 

Hizashi seemed to find his shock funny, laughing before he managed to get control of himself with a half-hearted apology. “Sorry, sorry, but that was my exact reaction when I found out myself. The one who had a quirk first wasn’t born with it, though. His parents were scientists and they were experimenting with radiation and nasty stuff like that. There was a lab accident and that’s how he got his quirk, but it changed his genetics, so when he had kids…”

“It passed down like quirks are now.” Shouta sat back for a moment, leaning against the arm of the couch they were both twisted and crammed on to be able to face each other. “And I imagine they only became stronger as other quirks were introduced to your family?” 

“Seems to be the popular theory,” Hizashi nodded, pausing for a moment. “Oh, yeah, I say theory and stuff because we don’t know, but my family over there are still scientists. My cousin, Daniel, he studies quirks. His work is actually crazy renowned over there, I think.” 

Giving Hizashi a few minutes to focus on his food, Shouta chewed through a few bites of his own as he thought over what Hizashi had told him. It made sense, he supposed, but it still didn’t explain how he had gone intangible. “But the building today…” 

“Oh- Right! So, okay, the kid had a lab accident and everything his genetics went crazy and gave him his quirk. Well, his original quirk was crazy powerful even by today’s standards, and I guess it was somewhere between a mutation and a transformation quirk? He had an ability like what Voice can do, but he could also become invisible, intangible, had cryokinesis, and had the ability to access another form where all of his abilities were amplified. Oh, he could fly, too.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Shouta muttered, hiding his smile at Hizashi’s loud laugh behind a quick bite of food, frowning when he noticed his container was empty. Hizashi was reaching him another one before Shouta could ask even as he continued his explanation.

“Yeah, so, I mean, he was like crazy powerful. He kind of became his town hero keeping everyone safe, but the town and everyone kept it all pretty hushed up since this was way before the quirk evolution.” 

“Great. Being an overpowered hero runs in your genes,” Shouta commented, relaxing at the sound of Hizashi’s bright, happy laughter. “So, what you did today… that was intangibility. Have you always been able to do that?” 

Hizashi was shaking his head at once, which Shouta was relieved by. “No way! Do you think I wouldn’t do that all the time just to find the remote if I could!” Well… that part sounded true enough, Shouta supposed. “No, no, my quirk mostly revolves around Voice, which was the kid’s most powerful attack, I guess, but the intangibility thing is something I can only do when I’m basically in a life and death situation. We think it might be something to do with adrenaline?” 

It made sense. Hizashi had been about to be buried and the only thing that had saved him was that ability. If things were even slightly different… 

Shouta was knocked out of his thoughts before they could begin, Hizashi kicking him lightly with a frown and a quiet, “Stop that. I’m okay.” 

“Right.” Hizashi was okay. That was a thought he could focus on. “And you didn’t find this out until you were in America?” 

“Yup! They had their fun putting me through a bunch of tests, too,” Hizashi muttered, tone turning bitter towards the end. It was dramatic enough to have Shouta’s mood lightening back up. “But so far we figure I have Voice, I can do the intangibility thing when I’m in some serious danger, and we think I might be able to do the invisibility thing, but I’ve never noticed if I ever did manage that. Oh! There’s also my eyes.” 

“Your eyes? That’s a part of your quirk, too?” Shouta supposed he couldn’t be too surprised. He didn’t know many, even with specific quirks, that had eyes as bright as Hizashi’s. The green was vibrant enough that a lot of times they almost seemed to, well, glow. 

“Kind of. It’s more like a recessive trait, I think,” Hizashi waved off, as if all this information wasn’t changing Shouta’s entire world view. “But, yeah. I didn’t really know all of this until I was nineteen, and by the time I came back we were both super getting focused on our hero careers, and, like… I’ve never really focused on how my quirk is different, I guess. I’ve only been able to do that trick twice before today and the last time I did it was, jeez… six or seven years ago?” 

Ah, well, Shouta supposed he would have been much the same in Hizashi’s situation. Why bother telling him so much information when, ultimately, it didn’t change anything between them. 

“Huh. Guess that makes sense,” Shouta settled on, shifting on the couch to lean up against Hizashi’s side, looking at the television and relaxing at the familiar smells and sounds of Hizashi’s apartment. “You’re paying for takeout next time, too.”

“Aw, what! No fair! I paid this time!” The dramatic whining and laughing had everything slotting back into place as naturally as ever, Shouta tucking away everything that he had learned with a small smile. 

Maybe next time Hizashi took a vacation to America he would tag along. The Fenton family sounded interesting. 

[gumnut-logic]

Flying True

Title: Flying True

(formerly ‘True’)

Author: Gumnut

2 – 8 Aug 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: It was the core philosophy of International Rescue. And he broke it.

Word count: 5571

Spoilers & warnings: Angst, injury, blood, some language

Timeline: Standalone

Author’s note: Nutty’s Fandomversary Fic Nine – Prompt: Scott and ‘stay gold’ for @lightning1999 thank you for all your wonderful support :D

This one was stubborn and I had to fight like crazy. Many thanks to both @scribbles97 and @vegetacide for their patience and reading. This ‘ficlet’ took an entire week to write ::glares at it:: There is an optional epilogue that I might post later, but for the moment this is the entirety of the fic. I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

He cradled his brother.

Virgil was limp beneath his hands, barely breathing, blood dribbling down his cheek, the remains of the bubbling cough that had sent him under.

“John, tell me the GDF are coming.” His own voice was harsh in his ears.

“They’re not coming.”

“Please, John.”

“Trust me, I have tried.” His brother’s voice was filled with the same desperation in his own.

“We need evac and the bastard is still here. Can’t they-“

“Scott! He’s done his homework, you’re now in a no-fly zone. Aunt Val has them on the ground, but it is going to be over an hour.”

“They can’t-“ I can’t, I can’t...

The warmth seeping out between his fingers was determined, pulsing with Virgil’s heart. God, please, no.

“There is no rescue, Commander Tracy.” The ‘commander’ came out as snarl. “Not unless you would like to invite another of your brothers to this little party?”

There were two snarls and a forceful expletive over the comm line.

“Or perhaps a sister? A grandmother would be interesting. Then there is that little mastermind of yours. I’d be very interested in meeting him.”

“No...nothing.” It was rasped and little more than a whisper.

“Virg, stay still.” His brother’s eyes were fluttering, desperately trying to open.

“Don...don’t let him.”

“He won’t, I promise.”

“And what exactly do you think you can stop me from doing?”

Scott didn’t answer. The presence of his brother was the only thing stopping him from planting a fist in the bastard’s face.

That and the gun that had already shot Virgil in the chest.

The call had come in just after the sun had disappeared over the horizon on Tracy Island. Tourist fallen in an abandoned gas mine in the middle of the Australian Outback.

It was pure chance that Scott had chosen to go with Virgil. It had been a rare night with just the two of them on the Island and they had been looking forward to a little alcohol and brotherly bonding. Didn’t happen often.

Didn’t happen tonight.

It was obviously a Thunderbird Two call out, but Scott, used to it but no less annoyed, was determined to spend the evening with his brother. Thunderbird One followed her sister off the Island and the sun rose in the west.

As per usual, Scott hit ground before Virgil, but had to wait for the green behemoth because she held the equipment needed. A jeep sat abandoned not far off. Scans of the hole in the ground revealed the single life sign John had reported.

Part of the mine had caved in.

The job required heavy lifting and Virgil donned his suit and down he went. Twenty minutes later, Scott was assisting a shaken tourist to his feet as Virgil climbed out of the hole in the ground.

The man stared up at Scott and a smirk curled his lips. “Him, I expected. You, not so much. But then that is fortunate, because you might be worth just that little bit more.” And the ‘victim’ pulled a gun and shot Virgil point blank.

Scott would never forget the surprise on his gentle brother’s face, the shock, quickly followed by the pain.

And his suited body falling back over the lip of the mine.

The suit.

The exo-suit.

Apparently, the bastard hadn’t counted on that piece of hardware either.

Virgil was rigged for cave and mine rescue. His left arm came up and his built-in grapple gun fired. The target, his own ‘bird. The grapple thunked and instead of plummeting into the abyss, his falling body pivoted on one foot and was dragged past his attacker, coming to rest in a heap beside Scott.

God.

He didn’t hesitate, fumbling at his brother’s suit, turning him over.

The neat hole in his uniform was ringed in a fast spreading halo of red.

“Shit, that hurts.” More breath than anything else.

“Stay still.” Virg, oh god. Ribcage. His paramedic training came to the fore. Pressure, elevate, prevent air getting into the lung cavity...

“I wouldn’t bother. He is going to die. And if he doesn’t, well, I’ll make sure he does.” The gun came up again.

“No, oh god, no, don’t!” He threw himself across his brother. Please, no. How had this happened so quickly? A night of brotherly chat and now they were lying in the dust of a godawful desert with some asshole trying to kill them.

“Hmm.” The gun was casually waved through the air above them. “Maybe you are right. He could be useful.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Want? Money. Simple as that. You have it, I want it. All I need is one of you and the rest will pay. Hell, the world will pay for one of the Tracy brothers. God awful saviours of humanity.”

Scott didn’t think it was possible to get angrier. Apparently, it was. “You lured us here with a fake rescue in order to kidnap and hold one of us for ransom.”

“You’ve got it in one. You are billionaires, after all. A couple billion should be enough for the eldest Tracy, shouldn’t it.” The gun gestured in Virgil’s direction. “If he lives, an extra few million wouldn’t hurt.”

Virgil shuddered under his hands and attempted to pull himself out of his exo-suit. His fingers brushed the buttons that released his uniform and the frame slipped off his body. A groan and he had one arm out before the gunman started waving the weapon around again. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Ne-need to breathe.” It ended in a gasp and then Virgil was coughing.

Scott reacted, ignoring the threat and pulling off his brother’s helmet, attempting to free him from the suit’s framework.

Blood dribbled out the corner of Virgil’s mouth as his eyes rolled up in his head and his body fell limp.

“Virgil!”

Elevate, pressure, prevent air from getting into the lung cavity...

He gently lifted his brother into his arms, propping him up and rolling him onto his side, his head resting against Scott’s chest.

Check breathing, pulse...c’mon, Virgil, don’t do this...

“Is he dead yet?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hoo, the role model of a generation has a tongue on him after all.” The bastard crouched down and sat back on his heels. “Oh, if you think the GDF will be coming to save your asses, think again.” The man held up a control device and pressed a button. The ground rumbled and shook. The plain around them cracked in places, soil collapsing in on itself. A haze drifted across the ground. “Ah, the wonderful fragrance of hydromethane in the evening.” The man smirked. “You’re not going anywhere in those rockets of yours and no one is flying in.” The smirk became a grin. “This abandoned mine network has just enough left to create a lovely cloud of flammable gas for your entertainment. Now, tell that Eye in the Sky brother of yours that they can have you back in mostly one piece if they transfer the money to an account number I will give you shortly.”

So followed a negotiation with Thunderbird Five that sported more expletives than he had ever heard from his quiet brother. Two other brothers were looped into the conversation on delay. Gordon and Alan were on Mars chasing up that professor who had discovered the underground rivers of Mars and then promptly got himself stuck in one. Kayo’s colourful expressions were launched from the far side of the Arctic circle. She was caught up with the Chaos Crew, but dropped everything immediately and was tearing across the planet as they spoke.

She wasn’t going to get there fast enough.

And neither was the GDF.

“John, tell me you can get an ident on this guy.”

“I’ve been trying. Could be a holographic mask for all the result I’m getting. Eos is hacking the GDF intelligence division as we speak.”

Shit. “Be careful.”

“We will do what we need to do, Scott.”

He closed his eyes for just a moment.

The earth rumbled under him and suddenly everything was shaking. Metres to his left the soil collapsed and a crack opened up, gaping to the sky.

The gunman clambered to his feet. The smell of hydromethane increased. Scott coughed and Virgil’s breathing staggered. Hell.

“We’ve got to move.”

Their assailant didn’t answer. He stood staring at the crack, puzzlement on his face.

The earth gave a deep-seated groan and shook again, more cracks appearing.

A blink and the dirt beneath the man’s feet collapsed, taking him with it.

Scott froze for a split second before tightening his hold on Virgil and scrambling backwards as the newly formed crack tracked its way towards the two brothers. The abandoned exo-suit half slipped into the crevice.

The movement aggravated Virgil, the younger man coughing weakly into Scott’s chest, crimson splattering on the blue of his uniform. “Sc-t.”

“Hell, Virg, sorry. Need to get you onto Two.” The gun was gone. They were free. It was the only fact registering on his mind.

“Help!”

Scott wasn’t game to leave Virgil out here so he could grab a stretcher. The ground was still groaning. Moving him was going to be unsafe, but he couldn’t leave his brother out here with the very ground falling around them.

But he could drag him.

“Help me! Please!”

Easing his brother into a secure grip, hands under his arms, he relied on Virgil’s tough uniform to take the brunt of the abrasion and carefully began dragging his brother towards Two.

“God, please help me! I’m bleeding!”

Virgil groaned as they moved, his head falling against Scott’s arm. “Sc-t needs help.”

“It’s okay, Virgil, we’re nearly there.”

“Please help me!”

“Needs help.” Virgil attempted to sit up. “Sc-t needs help.” His brother’s voice was little more than a rasp. Blood bubbled on his lips. “Need to h-lp.”

“Stay still!”

“Needs help. Got-ta h-lp.” His hand came up and hit his comms. “J-hn, situation.”

“Virgil!” He stopped, crouched down and gathered his brother in his arms, the man was likely suffering hypoxia. A quick check of his vitals had no good news.

“Scott, I’m reading surface instability for at least a kilometre radius.” There were unspoken questions in John’s words. “You need to get out of there.”

“John.” His voice was a harsh rasp almost as bad as Virgil’s. “The bastard fell in a hole.” He leveraged Virgil gently and began dragging him again. His brother was restless, muttering about help and rescue.

“God, please don’t leave me!”

The nerve...Scott killed the thought as Virgil responded to the voice in the distance, again struggling to sit up. He held him firm, finally reaching down to activate his brother’s holographic interface on his left arm, commanding the ship to lower its hatch.

It did so with the familiar clunk and hiss.

He dragged his brother aboard.

“Please don’t!” It was faint now and once the hatch was swallowed by TB2 it was shut out.

The only sound remaining was Virgil’s bubbling breath.

“Sc-t, need t-sve.”

“C’mon, bro, let’s get you safe.”

“Safe, need to safe.” Virgil’s eyes were barely open, his body limp in Scott’s hands.

He gently lay his brother on his side and pulled down the gurney. Activating its hoverjets and disengaging it from the wall, he lowered it to the deck and manhandled his brother on to its padded surface. A gentle motion and he redocked it.

Alarms started screeching immediately.

Oxygen, elevate, stop the bleeding, manage the air intake, watch for tension pneumothorax, get him to a hospital...

Get him to a hospital.

Thunderbird Two has something her sister did not.

She had wheels.

His brother continued to mumble, his head moving in aggravation. Scott secured him to the bed and primed the monitors to alert him to any changes.

Two steps and he was in his brother’s pilot’s chair. Flipping switches, he brought the giant cargo plane to life and rigged her for extended taxi.

She wasn’t built for this. Taxiing on a runway, yes. Across rock strewn desert sand? Not so much. She didn’t have a great deal of clearance and Virgil would likely kick his ass for the damage this little trip was going to cause, but there was no choice.

Choice.

His heart hardened.

As if reading that heart, his brother moaned. “S-tuation, need to h-lp Scott, need to help.” The words faded into a bubbling cough.

Scott engaged the engines and TB2 turned her back on the danger zone. A shift in the controls and his brother’s big green bird made her escape.

-o-o-o-

It took forever.

A forever punctuated by struggling breath and mumbled words that faded to unconsciousness. But as soon as the hydromethane concentration dropped below the explosive mark, Scott engaged VTOL, lifting the great ship off the abrasive desert floor. Enough clearance and the Thunderbird breathed her name as he kicked in her rear thrusters. She shot forward as if elated to be free from the godawful ground. Course allocation and their ETA shrunk from hours to minutes as they targeted the Western Australian city of Perth and her medical facilities.

Minutes.

And he was requesting landing clearance from Australian Air Control.

Minutes.

Two’s great landing feet sunk into the turf of the elegant gardens in front of Royal Perth Hospital.

Minutes.

Moving his terrifyingly still brother from his cockpit to the hands of medical staff.

Minutes.

Thunderbird Shadow landing beside her sister. Kayo darting out of her ‘bird, worried eyes catching his. Her gloved hand on his cheek as they turned to follow their brother into the massive hospital building.

Hours.

Plastic chairs. The inevitable media shitstorm. Police. Colonel Casey. Questions.

John appearing at his shoulder, fire in his eyes.

And finally, sudden quiet as his brother corralled him into an empty room and shut the world out.

Quiet except for the blood pressure roaring in his ears.

The soles of his uniform footwear peeled off the linoleum as he paced.

Back and forth.

“He is still in surgery.” The sentence said more than it said.

“I know.” John stood quietly to one side. Kayo was off organising security for their brother, terrorising hospital staff in the process.

“He just shot him.” Simple words, so much pain. “For money. The bastard just wanted money.”

Back and forth.

“He didn’t have to shoot him. Why did he shoot him? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, he won’t be doing it again. Our lawyers will see he pays.”

“Scott-“

“God, what if Virgil doesn’t fully recover? What if he can’t...” No, Virg would be okay. He had to be. “I’ll show the bastard exactly what that money can do.”

Quiet. “Scott, he’s dead.”

It took a moment for John’s words to register. “What?”

“Virgil’s assailant died shortly after you left. The hole he fell into collapsed, he was buried and suffocated. The GDF are on recovery. It is going to take a while for the gas to dissipate. We won’t be able to retrieve Thunderbird One until at least the day after - woah, Scott!”

His legs were suddenly jello and unable to support him. His heart was in his throat and breathing was impossible. His brother’s hands caught him, dragging him across the room to a chair. His butt hit plastic and a pair of turquoise eyes filled his vision.

“Scott, you with me?” Cool, ever calm, John’s voice was a balm.

Blink.

“I ignored him. I could have saved him.”

“You had to get Virgil out. You did everything you could.”

He shook his head and the world spun just that little off kilter. “No, no, I didn’t. I heard him. He needed saving. But I...didn’t.”

Those turquoise eyes flinched. “You did what you had to do.”

Voice raw. “He hurt Virgil.” A swallow. “I hated him. Dad-“

No, Dad would have saved him anyway. Everyone deserved to be rescued. That was the core philosophy of International Rescue. That was what Dad believed. That was what Scott believed.

Had believed.

“John, what have I done?”

“What you had to do.”

“I left a man to die.”

“Virgil rescued him, Scott. The guy shot him. You have every right to refuse him. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have injured you as well? He broke up the gas field. He created the situation that endangered both of you as well as himself. You have no obligation to save such a person, especially when another’s life is at risk as well as yours.”

The words were logical, but they just didn’t equate to the hole in his gut where his belief used to lie. He had been tested, sorely tested, and had failed to fly true to the mission.

He had failed.

His head dropped into his hands.

-o-o-o-

His usually bigger than life brother was so small against the white sheets. Face half hidden by an essential oxygen mask, Virgil was pale as a ghost and just as silent.

Scott sat beside his bed and simply stared at him. John sat next to him, worry emanating from the astronaut in waves.

Scott hadn’t spoken an unnecessary word to John in the last hour. The taste of failure was raw and bitter in his throat and it strangled any words that tried to escape.

Virgil had made it through surgery and his doctors were optimistic for a full recovery. It would be slow and his brother would be out of action for weeks, but he would recover.

He would.

Scott reached out a hand and caught his brother’s limp fingers. He brushed across familiar calluses and the cut on his palm where a screwdriver had slipped last week. Virgil had sworn a blue streak over that and scared the crap out of Gordon who had been in the hangar with him at the time.

How many people had that hand saved? How many times had it been offered in help?

Virgil wouldn’t hurt a soul. Hell, the man stepped over ant trails and released insects caught in the house. He was a gentle man who only wanted to help.

That was why it hurt so much. Why Scott had turned his back on their assailant, and on everything he believed.

Not everyone was worth saving.

He closed his eyes.

“Scott?” John was ever so hesitant.

“What would you have done?”

“Exactly what you did.”

He opened his eyes and turned to face John. “Why? Because he is our brother? Because he is Virgil?”

“Scott, I would have done it for anyone, especially a brother. That man forfeited his rights by breaching yours and Virgil’s. You did the right thing.” John grabbed his arm as if to transmit the intensity in his eyes through touch. “If you didn’t, Virgil could have died and that...is not acceptable.”

Not acceptable.

“Dad-“

“Is not here. Did not experience the situation. And...” An indrawn breath. “...He would have done exactly the same thing.”

Scott stared at his brother, part of him desperate to believe, part of him horrified that his father might breach the golden rule.

“And what would Virgil have done?” Perhaps that is what he feared the most. The derision in his brother’s eyes. The loss of faith, of trust.

“V-Virgil, would k-kick y’r ass.” It was raspy and broken, but so Virgil, Scott’s heart lurched. Damp eyelashes let out a glimpse of brown aimed directly at their eldest brother. The oxygen mask fogged as Virgil struggled to concentrate. “J-hn? Wh-t happened?”

“Hey, Virgil.” John answered when Scott’s voice stuck in his throat. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” A slow blink, heavy with medication and sleep. “Wass wrong w- him? Whys he upset?”

“You were injured. Of course, Scott is upset. You know what he is like.”

“I-diot. N-t your fault, Stupid. K-ick y-r ass.”

Okay. So that was familiar, if less subtle than usual.

“Saved me. Always s-saves m-me.” Those eyelids drooped, but his brother was fighting the medication.

Scott realised he still had his brother’s hand in his and squeezed gently. “Rest, Virgil. You can kick my ass later.”

“Will ki- y-r ass. Stup-d. Al-ways blmes yurs-lf.” His words reduced to unintelligible syllables, Virgil’s eyes slipped closed and he drifted off again.

“I find it very interesting that the first thing Virgil thinks of upon regaining consciousness is all about kicking your ass.”

Scott didn’t pick up the jibe. He stared at his unconscious brother. His fingers traced gentle circles on his limp hand

If there was forgiveness, it would be in his brother’s eyes.

-o-o-o-

Time passed as it always does. Virgil grew stronger and was eventually moved out onto the ward. A private room was necessary for security and Kayo hovered like an eagle seeking prey. Virgil was better but still weak. His voice was little more than a rasp and there was pain and medication and the occasional loopy. Gordon held back his sense of humour, but there was some filming that he would no doubt be killed for later when Virgil discovered it.

Scott straightened his spine and focussed on his brother and the necessities of IR management. It worked as a distraction.

Until the day the police came to question Virgil on the incident.

Scott hauled in their lawyer from New Zealand, Jack Dunning. The short, balding, dumpy little man was a long term family attorney and had seen them through many an...incident.

They sent two police, a man and a woman. The woman was very professional. The man, however, appeared somewhat starstruck and Scott had the feeling he had jumped at the chance to meet either an IR operative or a Tracy brother, probably both.

“The victim has been identified as Mr Victor Gomez.” The woman waited for a reaction.

Virgil, sitting up in bed, oxygen cannula under his nose and bags under his eyes, frowned. “Gomez? Wasn’t he one of the thieves who stole FAB1 last year? I thought he was in jail.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “He was, but he had a good lawyer.”

“What?” Scott felt the heat rise to his face. “The man blew up a diamond exchange!”

“The justice system is far from perfect, Mr Tracy. A fact I am sure you are well aware of.” her expression was firm, but kindly and said far more than the words she spoke.

Scott’s lips thinned.

“Mr Virgil Tracy.” The male police officer definitely had stars in his eyes and definitely for Virgil. Scott took a step closer to the bed.

The officer blinked and took a step back.

Virgil whacked Scott on the leg and shot him a glare before turning his attention fully on the officer. “Yes, sir?”

Great, that boosted the guys confidence. Virgil was so damned polite all the time.

His leg was whacked again. “Scott, for goodness sake, sit down.”

It was Scott’s turn to glare at his brother, but he sat down slowly on the chair beside the bed.

“Mr Virgil Tracy, could you relay the events of the incident in question as clearly as you remember, starting from your arrival at the scene.”

Scott bit his lip as Virgil’s still raspy voice spoke of the rescue that led up to the shooting.

“I hauled the victim to the surface. Scott helped him out of the hole and I followed.” Virgil swallowed. “I was just pulling myself out of the mine when the man said something to Scott which I didn’t quite hear. He then turned with a gun in his hand and shot me.”

Scott’s fingernails bit into his palms.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember much after that. Just fragments. The man had some demands, money? I’m not sure of the specifics. Scott...” Virgil frowned and wet his lips. “Scott was there. I remember being afraid for him. I was terrified he would be hurt.” He let out a breath, blinking. Virgil straightened his shoulders as if to shake it off. “Breathing was a problem and I...faded a lot. I was pretty useless. Scott manhandled me onto Thunderbird Two and at some point, I faded out completely. Next I remember is waking up in intensive care.”

“So, you don’t remember the altercation between your brother and Mr Gomez?” The woman’s voice was clear and precise.

Jack shot to his feet as Scott sat up straighter in his seat. Virgil’s eyes widened and he paled. “What altercation? There was no altercation. Scott held onto me the entire time.”

“But you don’t remember, do you Mr Tracy.”

Virgil paled even further, his mouth dropping open. His eyes darted towards Scott, seeking his big brother. “I-“

“You do not need to answer that, Virgil.” Jack held out a hand. “No one has been accused here. A video of the events from Thunderbird Two’s cameras has been submitted, Mr Scott Tracy has submitted his version of events as has Mr John Tracy. Mr Virgil Tracy is injured and even I can see you’ve managed to stress the man already. What is your point?”

“What we have, Mr Dunning, is an incident solely reported by one family. A very powerful family at that, who, I am sure, are used to getting their own way on all fronts. I am here to represent the law and give the victim a voice. A voice that is not drowned out by all the technology and skill of International Rescue.” She spat the name, glaring at Scott the entire time.

“What the-?”

“How dare you!” It burst from his brother, harsh and pain-filled. Virgil was shaking. “We save people. I saved him and he shot me. Scott...he wanted money. He could have shot Scott and I couldn’t...How dare you accuse my brother of harming that man. That is what you are saying, isn’t it?” Brown eyes shot daggers at the woman, their depths lit with outrage. “My brother...” A trembling finger shot in the direction of Scott. “My brother has saved so many people. So many, many people. We saved that man and he shot me, he threatened my brother and you think Scott would attack him?!” Virgil swelled in the bed. “Scott has been castigating himself because he was unable to save the guy. I’ve been lying here watching him beat himself up, and you have the nerve to accuse him of actually causing the man’s death. Do you have any id-ea who you are talking about? This is the c-commander of International Rescue. The man doesn’t have an immoral cell in his b-body.” A shaky breath. “G-get out!” That trembling hand waved at the police, shunting them towards the door. “Get-t out!” A cough and Virgil was hunching over in pain as his lungs attempted to turn themselves inside out.

“Shit, Virg!” Scott was reaching for his brother. Jack was yelling at the police woman. Nurses came running.

And there followed a tense few minutes where his brother tore himself apart attempting to breathe. His hand caught Scott’s and proceeded to crush every bone in it as he struggled to regain control. By the time medication relaxed him enough to calm him, he was almost transparent against the sheets.

Still he rasped out words. “Dare th-y. S-ve Scott, H-ve to save Sc-t.”

“Virgil. Virgil! It’s okay. I’m okay.” He gripped his brother’s hand in both of his own, but Virgil had fallen into a drugged haze and could no longer hear him.

“Virg, c’mon, rest.” He reached out and combed his fingers through his brother’s hair in a last-ditch effort to calm him.

Virgil sighed almost immediately. “Mom...” Scott continued the gentle administration and eventually the sick man fell into an exhausted doze.

God, Virg. Scott let out a breath and slowly dropped his forehead to the edge of the bed and closed his eyes.

Shit.

“Scott?” A blink. Please, just a moment, please. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Tracy.”

Jack.

He sighed and pushed himself up, glancing at his sleeping brother before ushering the lawyer out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” He rubbed his face.

“Understandable. I just wanted to let you know that they have nothing on you or Virgil. That woman...” He spat the word. “That woman was taking advantage of Virgil’s drugged state to see if she could get any information out of him that could implicate you. Why, I’m not sure, but I am advising you that my law firm will be pressing charges on your behalf. She will never be allowed in a position to do that to anyone else ever again.”

Scott blinked. Jack Dunning was one of the most level headed men he knew. It appeared that he might actually be angry.

“Jack-“

The lawyer raised a hand. “No, Scott. What she did to your brother was inexcusable. Virgil was right.” He reached out and gripped Scott’s arm. “You deserve so much better.” A gentle squeeze and the man let go.

Scott’s eyes were wide.

“Just do me a favour.”

“What?”

“Look after yourself.” And the man turned and left, leaving Scott standing bewildered in the corridor.

-o-o-o-

The next twelve hours were spent in the chair beside Virgil’s bed. About eighty percent of that was an uncomfortable doze that left him with aching muscles and a throbbing headache.

Gordon cornered him at one point and attempted to drag him back to the hotel, but Scott refused. he had to be here when Virgil woke up. They needed to talk.

Of course, Virgil woke while he was asleep. A touch to Scott’s hair and his head shot up to find a pair of brown eyes staring at him.

“Scott?” It was whispered.

“Virgil.” He sat up, ignoring the crick in his neck.

“What are you doing here?” Scott had to lean in to hear what his brother was saying.

A blink. “Where else would I be?”

“In a bed, asleep.” Virgil’s eyes closed slowly, but opened again, the man obviously determined to stay awake. “You look like shit.”

“Pot, kettle, Virg.”

That brown gaze narrowed, focussing. “You did the right thing.”

Scott rubbed his neck. “Oh, I don’t know, my neck may never forgive me.”

Those eyes closed and opened again. “No…leaving him behind. You did the right thing.”

A swallow. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

That prompted a snort. “Really? You’re going to try that while looking like that?”

Virgil almost rolled his eyes. Almost. Instead he turned his head looking around the room. “Where’s John?”

Scott glanced at his watch and frowned. “Probably in bed. Unless Gordon is giving him grief. Why?”

“I need someone to kick your ass.”

“Again? Really? Do I look that bad?”

A frown and it became very obvious that Virgil didn’t remember the last time he had threatened to kick his butt. “You look like shit.”

“This conversation is going in a circle.”

“Scott-“

“Virgil, you need rest-“

“I need you to understand!” His brother’s voice grated out of stressed lungs.

“Virg, for god’s sake, calm down.”

His brother grabbed his hand. “You did what you had to do. Stop beating yourself up for it. Dad would have done the same.” A cough. “I would have done the same!”

Scott stared at him. “The man died because I left him to die.”

“The man died because he was an a-asshole.” His brother swallowed and winced. “We can’t save everyone.” Virgil’s eyes squeezed shut and his hand tightened around Scott’s. The bruises on his hand from the last time his brother had grabbed him made themselves known and he flinched just a little.

Virgil’s eyes shot open and he frowned, staring down at his hand. He let go. “Did I do that?”

Scott grabbed his brother’s hand back. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters.” He tried again to let his brother’s hand go, but Scott wouldn’t let him, wrapping both hands around his brother’s.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is you getting better so you can climb out of that bed and kick my ass yourself.”

“It’s all about your ass.” His brother let out a sigh and his eyes closed again. This time he spoke without opening them, each word painfully enunciated. “If you had been shot, I would have done the same. I may have even done more. He wanted money and was willing to trade lives to get it.” His eyes opened and caught Scott’s. “I would have saved him if I could, but if it comes to a simple equation of my brother or the man who shot him...the answer will always be my brother.” A slow blink. “I can’t lose you, Scott. It will always be you.”

It took Scott a moment to remember his brother was still heavily medicated, still only half-awake. “Virgil-“

“Scott, stop beating yourself up. You did nothing wrong. Go to bed so I can get some sleep.” Another slow blink. “Y-you snore.”

It was the last two words that did it more than anything his brother had said before. Two simple words so his brother it hurt.

A gentle squeeze of his hand. “Okay, Virg. You get some sleep.”

“Planning on it.” His eyes closed, eyelashes brushing ever so pale cheeks. “Go to bed.”

He didn’t move immediately, content to watch his brother slip into slumber again. Virgil’s breathing evened out and his hand fell limp in Scott’s fingers.

God, it had been close.

His brother or the man who shot him.

A simple equation.

Scott bit his lip.

Virgil was right.

The answer would always be his brother.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[artificialqueens]

Overpowered Part 3 (Branjie)-athena2

A/N: Thank you all for the great feedback on Chapter 2! This chapter is a little angsty, but I hope you like it! Any feedback you have would be amazing, it really means a lot to me. ***This chapter has a mild panic attack, implied abuse, and discussion of medication.*** I also made some Brooke and Vanessa moodboards for this fic! Find them on my tumblr @buffywhovianpotterlock.

I’m surprised you’re still functioning.

We made the drugs that made you.

Precious little Frost.

She throws the weighted blanket off with a sigh, Vanessa following. “Can’t sleep either?”

Brooke shakes her head.

“I want to read it now.” She’s been tossing and turning since she told Vanessa she was ready, and she’s ready now. She has to know. She digs through her dresser.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. You’ll do it with me? Please?”

Brooke can lift a car over her head, but nothing could ever be heavier than this folder.

“Of course.” They drop down at the kitchen table.

Brooke has been picturing this moment since she asked Nina for advice, the older woman’s voice filling her head.

The file might give you some closure. But, given what happened last time, it’s likely it could cause another flashback. We could look at it here, or you can do it on your own if you’d like, but be aware you might respond negatively.

It’s what she figured Nina would say, an answer that wasn’t really an answer.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay? Promise?” Vanessa asks, grabbing her hand.

“Promise.”

Her free hand flips the folder open. The vaguely familiar words burn her eyes as she wades through medical terms of the injuries from the plane crash last March. A broken leg, broken arm, 3 broken ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding, and several cuts to her body. Does she feel the pain from those broken bones now, or is she imagining it? She touches the thick white scar on her chest absently.

She suddenly remembers a drainage tube between her ribs (she has a small scar there too) and the long scar down her chest, and white tabs stuck to her skin, connected to monitors that beeped piercingly, and pain like someone had carved her chest open and pieced it together with Scotch tape. Then the doctor put something in her IV, and it all went black.

“You good?”

Brooke jumps. She’d forgotten Vanessa was there. “Yeah. So far it’s just what happened after the crash.”

Subject name removed from flight list. No survivors. Flight list not released, subject will be presumed dead if any inquiries. Subject’s public records here (pgs 2-8), scrubbed from databases.

She turns the page. Scans of her birth certificate and driver’s license. She’s Canadian? A fight between her and Vanjie runs through her head, Vanjie grinning and teasing her for saying “soar-y”.

Newspaper clippings. Maybe there’s something about her before, or her family— she hits two obituaries. Her parents. She can’t read the rest. She just can’t.

Brooke should feel something, she knows she should. But she can’t remember. Nothing at all, not even a flash. It’s just an empty space inside her where she knows the memories should be.

She moves on hastily. Hytes New Co-Director of Toronto Ballet Company. She remembers the feeling of her feet in ballet shoes, but co-director?

The clippings are ghosts of her old life and she can’t take the haunting anymore. Brooke moves to lists of dates, starting when they took her and continuing until this summer. Her dosages, her exams, her training, her missions. The first rows cover her progress healing and responding to the drugs. Drugs that the two men she met hours ago had made for her and countless others. Her stomach twists painfully and she jumps ahead.

5/30/2018: Subject at healthy weight, physically approved to begin training. 10% accuracy with ice blasts.

Brooke remembers the row of bright red targets. His voice thunders in her ears. “You have until October to get half those targets.” It’s a command.

8/13/2018: Subject having nightmares, inquiring about old life. Subject sedated, given 100mg dosage in IV overnight. Had no memory of asking questions after waking.

She skips over training logs, punishments, and medical data. It’s like reading about someone else. She has vague images of the events, but they’re getting stronger and clearer as she reads.

 10/1/2018: Subject achieved 65% target accuracy, no punishment required.

“Maybe that’s enough.”

“I’m f-fine.”

11/19/2018: Training complete. 100% accuracy, blast strength increased. Dosage (10mg) steady and effective. Subject compliant and approved for field missions.

It’s all here. Labs she’d broken into. Weapons and technology she’d stolen. Every injury, every new drug sample. Records of fights with Black Diamond, with Shuga Rush, with–her heart skips a beat–Vanjie.

And the last one. The very last one before Vanessa saved her and took her away from them.

7/7/2019: Vitals steady. Subject compliant. Dosage to remain doubled until further notice.

“Brooke?” She can hardly hear Vanessa.

“These are all the bad things I did. ”

“Baby, no. Those things weren’t you.”

She shakes her head, heart straining her chest.

“You want to make us proud on your first mission, don’t you?”

She nods.

“Remember, if you fail, that’s bad. You know what happens when you’re bad.”

“I won’t fail, General.”

“Brooke!”

Her lungs are on fire, burning all her air. 5 things she can see.

She sees the kitchen wall across from her but it’s tilted–Vanessa is holding her tightly, stopping her from falling off the chair she’s half-out of. She pulls herself upright, eyes absorbing the wooden table as her breathing slows.

“Are you okay?” Vanessa tenderly brushes sweaty hair off Brooke’s forehead.

“Y-Yeah.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“So do you,” Brooke says quietly. All Vanessa does is take care of her, worry about her, and Brooke knows she hasn’t done enough to help, especially with the vision. Vanessa’s been through bad shit like her and is suffering in ways Brooke can’t imagine, but she’s always so strong, iron forged in fire–

“Less thinking, more sleeping,” Vanessa insists, leading Brooke to bed.

Their bodies intertwine under the blankets, but neither sleeps. —

“Brooke, come here!” Vanessa yells around a mouthful of pumpkin brownie, tapping on the window.

On the street below, a sea of kids in bright colors weave in and out of pumpkins and decorations. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to look at, until-

“Are they…”

Vanessa nods.

Two little girls head down the sidewalk. One wears a red suit with a V on the chest, the other in familiar royal blue, and she can just see the neon F.

“We’re legit heroes now, baby,” Vanessa grins, but her tears mirror Brooke’s own.

Their lips meet and Vanessa tastes like chocolate.

She thinks it’s the first time they’ve both forgotten about the vision. —

There’s been small earthquakes and electrical damage around the city, but no sightings of Quake or Shockwave.

Their nights are spent tackling common criminals beneath an inky sky.

She watches Vanjie scream at robbers and would-be murderers while desperately beating the crap out of them like it’s the only thing reminding her she’s still alive. The only thing keeping her alive.

Vanessa is suffering but Brooke has no idea how to help.

It’s like watching someone drown but being unable to save them.

Vanessa isn’t eating. Her eyes are rimmed with shadows. Her skin is painted purple and blue from all the fighting.

She doesn’t want to talk about it, and Brooke doesn’t want to force her.

Vanessa is close to breaking, and as much as Brooke wants to shatter, she can’t.

Sometimes she can’t even look at Vanessa without wanting to cry because she may never see her again.

Brooke’s heart is made of glass, but she needs to let it ice over before Vanessa burns herself out.

Because even though they have time, Brooke feels like she’s losing Vanessa already. —

It’s probably a stupid idea, but it has A’Keria’s blessing, so there’s hope.

Brooke works while Vanessa showers. She moves chairs and couch cushions and blankets until she has a sturdy blanket fort. She arranges fluffy pillows underneath, lays out the potato-chip cookies she’d made, and gets The Notebook set up.

Brooke is waiting when she emerges from the bathroom in her pajamas. “I have a surprise,” she says, covering Vanessa’s eyes. “Sorry about the cold hands.”

“I’m used to it. And there better not be any haunted house shit in here. Halloween’s over.”

“Nothing scary, I promise.” She removes her hands and watches Vanessa’s eyes get big, Brooke’s heart growing with them.

“Brooke.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “How did you…A’Keria,” she answers herself as she slides under the fort. “Damn. I love you so much. I don’t know how I got this lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Brooke says as she nestles beside her. “So, um, I wanted to ask how you’re doing? Be honest.”

Vanessa shrugs and stares at the cookies. Brooke’s never seen her at such a loss for words. “I…I don’t know. I’m pissed–not at Yvie, it’s not her fault–but at everything, I guess, and I’m confused and sad and really fucking tired of it all, honestly.”

Brooke nods. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But if you want to talk-”

“I know you want to help, but I don’t want to talk. Please.” Her voice gets small and Brooke’s heart aches for her. “I usually love screaming about my problems and feelings and shit, and I know everyone thinks it’ll help to talk about it, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs. “I just want to watch this movie and have you hold me.”

“Of course.” She presses play as Vanessa curls into her side, Brooke’s arms steadying around her, feeling how tense she is.

It didn’t go quite as she planned, but Vanessa falls asleep with a smile on her face, so it wasn’t a total failure. —

“You seem a little distracted. Anything you want to talk about?” Nina’s voice drips with concern and Brooke wants to tell her. She should tell her.

She shrugs, fingers digging into the squeeze ball.

“Anything at all?”

“Meds,” Brooke mumbles, finally bringing them up like she’d told Vanessa she would a month ago.

“Something in particular about them?”

Another shrug.

“Can you give me a little something to go on?” Nina asks gently.

“I think I want to take them,” Brooke says eventually, eyes on her lap.

If Nina is surprised, she hides it well. “Okay. Did something happen that caused you to want them? You seem a little hesitant, and I want to make sure you’re confident and comfortable before I prescribe anything.”

She’s about to shrug again when she can’t keep it quiet anymore. “I…I’m just sick of it! I’m sick of sweating in the grocery store and thinking I’m gonna have a heart attack when I leave the house! I’m sick of the panic attacks and the headaches and not sleeping and I…” The outburst quickly drains her and her next words are a whisper. “I just want to be better.”

Nina is quiet.

“I’m s–I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling.” Nina pauses. “Brooke, I’m so incredibly proud of you. I want to say that first because I think you need to hear it.”

Tears spring in Brooke’s eyes. Nina was proud of her.

“I understand why you’re upset, and why you’re scared. Anyone would be after what you’ve been through. But if you feel ready, I do think medication would help you.”

“But if I…” Her voice trembles as she releases a fear she hasn’t even told Vanessa. “If I take them, doesn’t it mean I’m not good enough? That I’m weak?”

“Oh, Brooke,” Nina says softly, and her eyes look slightly damp. “Not at all. You’re doing so well. There’s absolutely no shame in needing help. Asking for help and taking medication shows how strong you are, how hard you’re working to get better.”

Nina passes her the tissues and Brooke no longer hides her tears. “I’m ready,” she confirms.

Nina smiles. “There’s one more thing I want you to try.”

Brooke raises an eyebrow.

“I want you to try not to apologize when you’re here.”

Nina might as well have asked her to pilot a rocketship.

“I know it’s a lot, and I don’t expect you to do it immediately,” Nina amends at Brooke’s bewildered expression. “It’s just something I want you to try.”

Brooke nods.

“And Happy Thanksgiving!” Nina crows. —

She and Vanessa wake at sunrise.

“Please tell me you don’t play Monopoly on Thanksgiving,” Brooke begs as they season the turkey.

“Oh no, that’s for birthdays only.”

“Thank God.”

“On Thanksgiving and Christmas we do bingo.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Mmm, you haven’t played with Silk. The bitch uses six cards. She used to keep a marker in her pocket and change the numbers. And she has to call out the numbers herself because she doesn’t trust us.”

“So I guess I’ll hide the valuables?”

Vanessa laughs and kisses her cheek.

Brooke knows what she’s thankful for. —

Silk barges in an hour early presenting her sweet potato casserole like it’s made of gold.

“Thank God we got Brooke to make the pies. Last year A’Keria was in her health-food phase and tried to poison us with low-fat nonsense,” Silk grumbles. “I almost wasted away.”

“And she brought that green shit white people love,” Vanessa adds.

“Kale?” Brooke guesses.

“That’s it.”

“She better not mess with my mashed potatoes. Last year she put cauliflower in them. Says you can’t taste the difference. Believe me,” Silk pats her chest proudly, “I can taste it.” —

“Everything good here?” A’Keria checks, glancing at the food covering every inch of counter surface.

“Yeah, I just hope Scarlet and Yvie like it.”

“Girl, you could go on the Food Network,” she declares, pointing to the pie-crust leaves on top of the pumpkin pie. “Everyone’s gonna love it.” A’Keria pats her arm in reassurance and the calm runs through her immediately. Brooke smiles in thanks, and A’Keria winks. —

“A’Keria, these potatoes are so good. What the hell is in them?” Yvie asks and Silk nods with her mouth full of them.

“Just butter and cream.” She pauses, grinning devilishly at Silk. “And cauliflower.”

Silk almost chokes. “You lying hoe!” She grabs a serving spoon and chases A’Keria around the table while the rest of them roar with laughter.

Brooke catches Vanessa’s eye, and she knows they’re thinking the same thing: Please don’t ever let this end. —

After a 2-hour bingo game resulting in 3 ripped cards, 2 spilled cups of coffee, one marker hurled out the window, Yvie flinging whipped cream in Scarlet’s hair, Silk almost swallowing a bingo ball, Brooke launching walnut shells like missiles, and Vanessa’s pumpkin pie fork nearly taking out A’Keria’s eye, everyone heads home.

“Brooke, I almost forgot,” Silk says as she leaves. “That Plastique girl? I found her.” —

She bounces her leg in her and Vanessa’s favorite coffee shop, because Nina had suggested they go somewhere she felt comfortable.

“You okay?” Vanessa asks. Brooke felt fine doing this without Nina, but there’s no way she’s doing it without Vanessa, even though Brooke feels guilty for dragging her along to something about her when they could be focusing on Vanessa.

“Yeah. It’s…she knew me before, you know? Not me now. And I’m not who I used to be. I don’t even know who I used to be.”

“Well, maybe you can’t focus on who you were. Because you are who you are now, and you don’t need to be anyone else. And for the record, I like who you are now a whole lot,” Vanessa bats her eyelashes and Brooke feels warmth spread through her.

Plastique looks exactly like she did in Brooke’s dreams–long black hair and a face so delicate it could be a doll’s.

She bursts into tears when she sees Brooke, touching her arm like she can’t believe she’s real. Which she probably can’t, Brooke realizes. She thought I was dead.

She gives Plastique the Silk-approved story: Brooke survived the plane crash with severe memory loss, met Vanessa, and has been trying to regain her memory. It’s not a total lie, but Brooke still sweats as she tells it, even though Plastique believes it and cries again halfway through.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t look for you. They said no one survived and I never thought…”

“Of course you didn’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Brooke, it’s my fault you were on the plane,” Plastique says suddenly, voice thick.

“What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to be on it, but there was a mix-up and there wasn’t enough seats, so I was gonna take a later flight. You wanted to stay with me, but I told you to go…”

For just a second, Brooke considers how easy it would be. To blame Plastique, to have someone to hate for putting her on that plane and in the lab’s hands. But she can’t. It’s not Plastique’s fault, just like it’s not her fault. Nina always tells her it’s no one’s fault but the lab’s, and it’s never felt as true as it does now.

“No,” Brooke says firmly. “Nina–she’s my psychiatrist–she told me if you wouldn’t blame someone else for something, you shouldn’t blame yourself for it either. It wasn’t your fault, I promise you,” Brooke’s voice is fierce as she grips Plastique’s hand.

Plastique nods, wiping her tears.

Plastique had been an intern at the ballet company that Brooke was co-director of. Brooke had danced professionally with the same company for 6 years. She was leaving on her first tour as co-director when the plane went down.

Vanessa’s eyes silently ask if she remembers any of this. She remembers twirling across a stage, costumes light against her skin. She remembers feeling free.

Plastique pulls out her phone. “Here’s a picture of you when you danced.”

Brooke sees herself on the screen but can’t quite believe it’s her. She’s in white from her tiara to her pointe shoes, lacey costume on her lean body, hair pulled into a bun. She looks confident, so far from the Brooke who flinches at loud noises and stutters when ordering food that they’re hardly the same person.

“I’m loving this short hair on you, girl. You cut it right before the tour. I’m glad you kept it,” Plastique says.

Brooke’s never thought about it. It was short when she woke up at the lab, and they had kept it like that so it wasn’t in the way for her training or their medical exams. She likes it short and A’Keria trims it for her.

They talk for another hour, and Plastique promises to keep in touch.

Brooke is quiet on the way home, her mind buzzing.

“You alright?” Vanessa asks. “That was probably a lot, huh?”

She nods. She doesn’t know if she should miss the Brooke in that picture when she doesn’t really know that person. She doesn’t know if she should try to be more like that Brooke.

She thinks of what Vanessa said. Maybe it’s not about who she was. Maybe she doesn’t need to be anyone else.

Just being herself is enough. —

The last day of November dawns unusually bright.

Brooke stands over the sink with a pill in her hand. She looks out the window and her stomach drops, pill slipping through her fingers.

She feels the urge to run outside, let the flakes melt on her tongue, let the cold steal her breath and freeze her cheeks.

But she doesn’t.

Because it’s the first snowfall of the season, and they’re running out of time.

[hollymartinswrites]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: IT - Stephen King, IT (Movies - Muschietti) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh Characters: Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom, Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough, Mike Hanlon, Original Child Character(s) Additional Tags: Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Domestic, Light Angst, Family Feels, Childhood Trauma, Adoption, Kid Fic, Adopted Children, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Marriage, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Are Parents, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends Summary:

Eddie and Richie embark on the most terrifying experience of all—parenthood.

Or, the author desperately needed a domestic, family fix-it for Richie and Eddie.

Chapter V: Richie and Eddie’s youngest daughter suffers from separation anxiety. Or is it something else?

“No, please, don’t do this to me, baby,” Eddie begged.

He tried to straighten and gently remove the arms that were locked around his neck but toddlers in the midst of hysteria apparently have the strength of twenty men.

“Tess, it’s okay,” Richie insisted over the loud sobs of their youngest daughter as he, too, tried to pry her death grip off of Eddie. “Daddy’s just going to work. He’ll be back later to play with us, I promise.”

He managed to free one hand from Eddie’s neck and, in her brief confusion as to why she was suddenly no longer in control of her hand, gathered Tess up in his arms. Her screams only increased in pitch. She launched a bodily attack this time, kicking and flailing with all her might. She managed to land one solid kick to his stomach, and he nearly doubled over.

“Just go,” he grunted at Eddie. “I’ll distract her.”

“Rich, I—”

“You gotta go to work, just leave, you’re makin’ it worse standing here.”

Eddie frowned as Richie turned, Tess still hysterical in his arms even though he kept telling her all the fun games they could play now. Eddie hated leaving the house like this but he didn’t have any other choice. He turned towards the door and quickly slipped out, locking it behind him before heading towards his car.

He collapsed in the front seat, and winced. He could still hear Tess’s hysterical cries from inside the house. Everything in his heart told him to ignore work and return to his daughter but he knew the parenting books he had obsessively read before adopting their first child were against that. He also knew that if he walked back into that house, he would quite possibly never return to work again.

He started the car, took a deep breath, and drove away.

“This can’t just be a phase.”

Eddie rubbed his forehead, incredibly exhausted. He looked up and watched as Richie haphazardly threw their clean laundry into their dresser. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I mean, separation anxiety is a thing, I get it, but shouldn’t it be for both parents?” Richie continued.

Eddie shrugged.

“Maybe not,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s just because I’m the one who leaves every morning.”

Richie shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

“It should be getting better though,” he sighed. “I mean, you going to work isn’t new for her anymore.”

Eddie rubbed his face.

“We need to find her a therapist,” he said.

“They have therapists for toddlers?”

Eddie nodded. Richie sighed again and sat beside him on the bed, his shoulders slumped. Eddie took his hand into his and ran his thumb along his knuckles.

“I hate this,” Richie mumbled. “I hate seeing her so upset.”

“Me too.”

“She made herself sick once.”

Eddie’s heart fell and he stared at his husband in shock.

“What?” he gasped.

“Like a month ago,” Richie admitted softly. “I thought it was because I gave her French toast for the first time but she kept crying so hard after you left and the next thing I knew, she lost her lunch all over the floor.”

Horror and pain and guilt whirled around inside Eddie.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked breathlessly.

“I told you, I thought it was just regular toddler throw up, but now I think she...I thought she was gonna get sick again today. Fuck!” Richie dropped his head into his hands and yanked at his hair. “I’m such a fucking shit dad.”

“Rich—”

“Our baby’s suffering and all I could think to do is put on Cinderella and rope Lydia into playing dress up to distract her.” Richie sniffed and shook his head. “I’m just like my parents.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My parents didn’t know what to do with me as a kid,” he murmured. “They loved me but they had no idea how to handle a kid with ADHD and anxiety. I mean, it was the 80s, they didn’t have the resources but we fucking do and I’m still fucking up.”

Eddie took Richie into his arms and held him silently for several long minutes until his breathing got under control. He rubbed his back and tried desperately to think of the proper thing to say but he had never had a way with words, not like Bill.

Richie exhaled shakily and straightened. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed again.

“Thank God it’s Friday, right?” he muttered, huffing a laugh. “At least we got a weekend to recoup.”

Eddie brushed Richie’s hair from his forehead and smoothed it gently.

“And we’ll look into a therapist for her,” he said. “We’ll figure it out. I promise, Rich.”

Richie nodded and sighed before resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder. Warmth spread throughout Eddie and for once, he felt like the stronger of the two.

“It’s been getting better,” Richie admitted. “She still cries more often than not but not like before. This week we got two days in a row without a freakout.”

Eddie’s eyelids fluttered. Tess was in his arms, fast asleep, on the living room couch, The Wizard of Oz playing softly on the TV. Though he was speaking quietly, Eddie could still hear Richie as he spoke on the phone in the kitchen. From the relieved happiness in his voice when he answered, Eddie assumed he was speaking to Bev.

“I don’t know,” Richie continued. “It’s clear she has some anxiety issues but hopefully we can nip it in the bud before it gets worse as she gets older. The therapy seems to be helping.”

Eddie glanced down as his daughter peacefully slept, curled up on his chest. He ran his thumb along her arm and smiled gently. She always looked younger and somehow smaller when she slept. Eddie wished, not for the first time, that she could look this calm and serene when she was awake.

“No, it’s still just when Eddie leaves,” Richie said, his voice dropping even lower. Eddie had the distinct feeling that Richie had assumed he had also fallen asleep in front of the TV. “And it’s not just that. Sometimes she gets these looks...like, far-off looks. I can’t explain it.”

Eddie swallowed. He, too, had noticed that particular quirk of their daughter’s, only he called them ‘long-gone looks’ because, for brief moments, it seemed as if Tess had disappeared somewhere deep inside herself. Her eyes would go out of focus, her entire little body would still, and for a moment, she was gone. It had frightened him the first time he had seen it but she would always blink and smile up at him and Eddie would nearly collapse under the overwhelming relief.

“I know, I know, you think I’m crazy,” Richie sighed, “but I worry. It’s more than just being sensitive or anxious, Bev. It’s something else.”

Eddie tightened his grip around his daughter. He had never said it aloud to his husband, but he had been plagued by the same worry.

“I don’t know what to do,” Richie said. “I remember when we first started looking into adoption, I was so fucking...I thought I would be able to handle anything because of the shit we went through as kids but it turns out, I feel really fucking helpless.”

Well, Eddie thought sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve overlooked Richie’s feelings.

“No, they passed out on the couch watching a movie,” Richie continued, huffing a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. I will, I promise. Thanks. Give Ben a big kiss on the mouth for me, okay? With lots of tongue. Love you.”

Eddie froze. He briefly considered shutting his eyes and pretending to be asleep but to his immense relief, Richie merely pushed back his chair at the kitchen table and slowly walked down the hall to their bedroom. Eddie exhaled a breath and turned back to the TV. Dorothy was crying about not being allowed in to the Emerald City. He sighed and closed his eyes, gently rubbing his daughter’s back.

Rainy days had never been his favorite when he was a child. They meant loneliness, isolation, and long days with his mother fretting over him. He always had his worst asthma attacks on rainy days. Those had been dark and dreary days that never seemed to end.

Eddie glanced into the living room. Lydia was sprawled on the couch, munching on apple slices, while Tess played with Barbie dolls on the floor. The Lion King was playing on the TV. Through the windows, he could see the rain falling even harder. He turned back to the cutting board. Rainy days weren’t so bad now.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up.

Just got to the venue. Gonna grab dinner with my agent and the promoter before the show. I’ll call you before I go on.

Eddie swiped his phone open and began typing his reply.

Have a good time and break a leg. All’s quiet here. Lydia asked if she could stay up until you get home tonight but I squashed that.

Richie responded immediately.

Yeah, when I told her I had a show this morning, she told me you already did a show last month. She’s very persuasive.

Eddie smiled and shook his head.

Well, she’s fine now so go live it up down there in AC. But don’t go too crazy.

I’m gonna eat a burger and maybe since I’m feeling wild even drink a soda. Really let loose. I’ll call you later. Love you, babe.

Eddie smirked as he texted that he loved Richie back and put his phone away. He returned to the task of chopping eggplant and making sure it didn’t get too quiet in the living room. He and Richie had quickly learned that there was no sound more terrifying for a parent than silence.

Lydia was still loudly snacking on her apple slices and explaining the movie to her sister. Tess, meanwhile, simply hummed in response. From the music, Eddie could tell they were at the infamous stampede scene. He still didn’t understand how kids could enjoy that movie so much. It seemed so fucking dark. Richie said that because Simba gets adopted by two gay dads, they should let it slide (Eddie hadn’t bothered to ask if they were supposed to be Timon and Pumbaa).

He dropped the chopped eggplant into the pot and began working on the bell peppers when he heard Lydia insist with all the wisdom that comes with being an older sibling, “No, he’s not sleeping, he’s dead.”

“I know,” Tess replied. “But he’ll get up.”

“No, Tess, when someone dies, they stay dead. Mufasa’s not coming back.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Sometimes they come back.”

“Tess, that’s not—”

“Daddy came back.”

The knife slipped and Eddie felt his stomach clench as he watched the blade miss his finger by millimeters. He was suddenly aware that he wasn’t breathing.

“What are you talking about?” Lydia continued. “Daddy’s not dead.”

“I know that,” Tess replied impatiently. “But he did die and he came back.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No, no!”

“Yes, yes!”

“DADDY.”

“Girls, settle down,” he heard himself saying as he walked into the living room.

“Tess says you died,” Lydia said quickly, pointing at her sister, who merely looked puzzled at the fact that this was even an argument.

Eddie turned towards his youngest daughter and swallowed.

“Tess, sweetheart, what makes you say that?” he asked hollowly. “I’m right here. Quite alive.”

“I know but—”

“You shouldn’t lie,” Lydia observed importantly.

“Lydia, please,” Eddie sighed. He crouched down in front of Tess and took one of her hands in his own. “I’m right here. See? Everything’s fine.”

“I know that, Daddy, you’re okay now,” Tess continued.

“You can’t die and come back,” Lydia insisted again.

“Jesus did,” Tess shot back. “Grandma told us.”

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Great, now he and Richie had to have another conversation about setting boundaries with Richie’s family. He was not looking forward to that.

“Tess, sweetheart, what exactly are you talking about? I’m obviously alive and okay.”

“But I saw it, Daddy,” she insisted, a trembling whine in her voice.

“Saw what?”

“You and the monster and Papa. I saw it and I cried lots and lots but then you got better so I wasn’t scared no more.”

The blood rang in Eddie’s ears and he almost missed hearing his eldest daughter haughtily reply, “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

“And it hurt you but Papa made sure you got better and the monster disappeared forever. That’s why you have that boo boo.” Tess tapped him gently on the chest.

Later, Eddie would be amazed at his ability to compartmentalize. All he could think in that breathless moment was, I’m burning the eggplant.

He stood up on shaky legs, smiled (or at least attempted to) at his daughters, and told them to apologize to one another for arguing and finish the movie. He walked, as if in a dream, back into the kitchen, turned off the stove, and suddenly realized that tears were streaming down his face.

You thought you knew fear once, laughed a voice that sounded like a macabre combination of his mother and the clown, but you’re in for quite a ride, Eddie Bear.

“It’s back,” Richie exclaimed as he feverishly paced around their bedroom. “It has to be back. We didn’t kill It.”

“You don’t know that,” Eddie sighed.

“Then why did she say that?” Richie asked, his eyes wild. “It’s back and It followed us here.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, what’s impossible is that a fucking space alien takes the form of a clown and a leper and fucking Paul Bunyan to fuck with us and kill people we love,” Richie insisted, breathless. “That’s fucking impossible but it fucking happened so why would it not happen again?”

“Rich, our scars are gone,” Eddie said, holding out his hand. “It’s gone.”

Richie shook his head. Eddie could tell by the look on his face and his frantic movements that he was on the verge of a panic attack. He took both of Richie’s hands in his and begged him to breathe with him. Richie snatched his hands away.

“We gotta call Mike,” he gasped.

“It’s two in the morning,” Eddie reminded him.

“So what? This is an emergency.” Richie stopped moving and pointed at Eddie. “And you should’ve called me as soon as it happened.”

“And what would you have done?” Eddie snapped. “Tell your manager, sorry, I can’t do the show, you gotta refund all the tickets because my four-year-old said something weird. Come the fuck on.”

“How are you so calm about this?” Richie asked wildly.

“Because it was probably just a dream she had.”

“Bullshit.”

“Think about it logically,” Eddie continued, “dreams are just our brains trying to make sense of the shit we see and experience, right?” Richie stared at him doubtfully. “Tess has seen the scar on my chest. Her little kid brain came up with an explanation for it.”

“An explanation that includes me and a monster and you dying?”

“We’re her parents, of course she’d dream about us,” Eddie replied. “And all kids are afraid of monsters.”

“She said you died and came back.” A tormented look crossed Richie’s face and his eyes were suddenly wet. “You did.”

“Parents die in all Disney movies. So her brain used that to explain the scar.”

Richie hesitated and ran a hand through his wild hair. Eddie noticed more strands of gray.

“I don’t know,” Richie murmured.

“I do,” Eddie said. “It was a dream. Tess had a bad dream. It’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to tell you so you didn’t have a freak out like this in front of her if she ever brought it up again.”

Richie’s shoulders slumped. Eddie bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to make him feel guilty. Richie raised his eyes to meet Eddie’s.

“Are you sure?” he asked hoarsely. “Are you sure she was just talking about a dream?”

Eddie took Richie’s hand again and squeezed it reassuringly.

“I’m sure,” he lied.

Weeks went by, then months. Tess’s separation anxiety seemed to be improving and though she still got that long-gone looks occasionally, she never mentioned anything about death or monsters or people coming back when they shouldn’t have. She still threw tantrums, still favored being held and read to by Eddie, still was an exhausting four-year-old but both Richie and Eddie were more than happy with that.

Perhaps it all had been a phase. Kids could be weird, Eddie figured. He and Richie both knew that to be true. And she was the younger sister. She needed her moments to act out for attention, right? Nothing to fret over. Just typical, run-of-the-mill childhood. Eddie and Richie began to relax and enjoy the ride. Besides, with two clever and rambunctious children under ten, they were far too busy to constantly worry. Like today.

Eddie was packing the cooler with juice, water bottles, and snacks. Richie was searching for his sneakers and Lydia was in the midst of her now daily monologue about the merits of owning a puppy.

“Not now, kiddo, we gotta get going,” Richie said, emptying a duffel bag of old gym clothes onto the floor. No sneakers.

Eddie grimaced from the kitchen.

“You’re cleaning that up later and washing those clothes,” he called. “They stink.”

“We could get a tiny puppy,” Lydia continued. “One that doesn’t get big and slobbery.”

“Lydia, go get your sister and make sure she’s got a jacket on,” Eddie said as he was silently debating which brand of organic fruit snacks to pack.

“And I’d clean up after it, like how I always clean my room.”

“Your room is still a mess from Tuesday,” Richie replied, now on his knees in front of the hall closet. “Go get your sister. Your cousins are all waiting for us at the park.”

“But—”

“Ah-ha! Found them,” Richie exclaimed, waving a pair of old Converses in his hand. “Lyds, Tess, now.”

Lydia sighed dramatically before stomping off down the hall to her sister’s room. Eddie zipped up the cooler and watched Richie tie up his laces.

“You’re wearing those?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What? They’re cool.”

“You know you’re not in high school anymore, right?”

“Forgive me for not wanting to dress like a grandpa.”

Eddie glanced down at his outfit.

“Grandpas don’t dress like this,” he insisted.

“Babe, no one dresses like that.”

Eddie was prevented from flipping Richie off by the arrival of their eldest daughter.

“Tess is being weird,” she stated, an odd look on her face.

“Did you tell her we’re leaving?” Eddie asked before he realized he nearly forgot the allergy pills and went back to the cabinet.

“Yeah, but she’s being weird,” Lydia repeated.

“I’ll get her,” Richie sighed. “Put your jacket on, Lyds.” He went off down the hall to retrieve their daughter.

Eddie rifled through the medicine cabinet, searching for the children’s non-drowsy allergy medicine and wondering if it was overkill to bring ibuprofen, too. He opened the bottle and peered in to see how many pills were left. He never got a chance to really look, however, because he dropped the opened bottle on the floor when he heard his husband scream their youngest daughter’s name in horror.

[boshawsharky]

Made It This Far

This fic contains references to self-harm, mental illness, delusions, and torture. It details a night of Pratt’s life after the end of the game. What happens in this fic is a work of my imagination and by continuing to read, you are consenting to read what could be potentially triggering.

Staci Pratt, T/W, 1,964 words.

This is my first Far Cry fanfic, so if it is inaccurate I apologise.

It’s official: Staci Pratt is an alcoholic.

Growing up with an alcoholic father, he swore he would never be in this position. He remembers his dad yelling at him for waking him up, or his mum trying to push him out of the house to protect them both. He remembers shamefully going to school and seeing his dad passed out on a park bench.

He swore this would never happen. He swore he would never turn out like his dad, yet here he is. Covered in beer cans and bottles, protecting him as if they were blankets. Almost as comforting, too.

His hand reaches to the nearest can and he lifts it to his lips, tilting his head back and keeping his mouth open to collect the few droplets that pour from inside, even if he can barely taste them. Anything helps, especially if it helps him forget Jacob, even if just for a few hours.

He always comes back in the morning, though. He always sits there at the end of his bed, or by the door, or by the sink- wherever it was that he passed out- smirking, looking down his nose, chuckling at him. Sometimes he is so close, Pratt can smell the coffee on his breath.

Fuck, the man is dead. You are going crazy.

He doesn’t understand how all this happened, he could have never expected to be this way. Then again, it was only two days before he was broken that he was joking about taking fuckin’ Nancy instead of Rookie. He didn’t see that happening, or Rookie saving his ass from Jacob.

Loud music pumps from down the road in Fall’s End, presumably from the bar that he sometimes meets Hudson in. They’re celebrating the New Year- that’s coming in a few minutes. Sharky Boshaw had invited everybody to a party in his trailer park- literally everybody, Rookie, Whitehorse, Hudson, everybody. Even Pratt. But Pratt couldn’t bear to go and see their sympathetic faces and the way they inched around him as if he was a bomb waiting to explode.

Well, frankly, he could. It can only take one little thing to trigger him, sometimes even the sight of his own face can do it. The scar across his nose, or if he has a nosebleed it feels like the world is ending.

The man moves and knocks all the cans off of himself, brushing them from his legs with a great clatter. The glass bottles smash on the floor, but the cans just bounce and roll. He pulls himself up and collapses on the sofa, tears threatening his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He thought he was getting better. He thought he wasn’t as weak any more.

You’ll always be weak, Peaches. Always.

He really thought the alcohol would take Jacob away from him. He thought it would help him, make him at least the slightest bit better. Why is it not helping this time?

He can see him stood in the doorway to the living room, judging eyes watching his every move, and that same bloody smirk on his features. Staci catches his eye, and immediately feels all the anger, all the upset, everything he has ever felt, fill him again.

The last full can on the side becomes his tool as he grabs it from its place on the table, throwing it out of the open window with a mighty roar and listening to it explode outside, covering the porch with beer. He feels like a prisoner in his own mind, and he wants out.

He continues to scream as he paces around the room, grabbing at his hair and pulling it before eyeing the phone sitting on the unit by the wall. He stumbles over to it, feeling like a dummy numb with emotions. He feels empty, he feels lost, he feels like he isn’t human.

The crowd down the street erupt into cheers and celebration, which tells him it is now midnight, it is now 2019. He has the phone in hand, but he stares at it. Who is going to answer him now? Fuck, who is he going to ring?

He slams it down with force, letting out another scream. He’s twenty-six, and he can’t even take care of himself. He can’t find the key to free himself from his own mind.

When he was seventeen, he was trying to impress his friends at a skate park. Something went wrong, he snapped his board, it flew up and hit him in the forehead, creating a gash. There was so much blood and he passed out. He thought when he came to two minutes later, he thought that was the worst feeling.

It was stupid, really. Just nine years later, he would be being tortured, he would be ruined, he would be broken.

At least he had his friends there, then. And a family to go home to- well, his mum. When Jacob had him strapped down to that chair, he was alone. He had never felt so isolated yet so exposed in his life.

He thought he would die there. He thought that his corpse would rot there until he was nothing.

That, that was the worst feeling.

And you’ve still not escaped.

He can feel Jacob’s rough hands grabbing one of his wrists, and he pulls it away from him.

“D-don’t touch me… You’re, you’re not real,” Staci whispers, closing his eyes and rubbing his wrist. He can’t calm his racing heart or his choking breaths. He can’t even stop the tears from flowing any more. “You- you can’t con, control me like this...”

But you’re wrong.

“Ple-please,”

Tears are streaming down his face and he uses his hand to numbly wipe them away. He’s choking on his own breathing and everything feels too much, too overwhelming.

Peaches, you’re-

“Shut up!” Pratt roars, picking up the phone from the receiver and dialling Sharky’s number- everyone is at Sharky’s place. Hopefully, someone can help.

“Happy new year!”

It’s Nick Rye’s voice that comes through the phone, drunk and happy.

Happy.

When was the last time Staci was happy?

Don’t do it, Peaches. You think you’re strong, handle this on your own. You can do that, can’t you?

“N-Nick,” Pratt whispers down the phone, praying Nick will hear him.

“Hello?” Nick says, and Pratt can imagine him looking at the phone with confusion on his face. Staci repeats himself. “Staci! How are you?”

“I, I need Ro-Rook,” he can barely make sense of his words as they come out of his mouth, nevermind nick trying to listen over the phone. “Please, Nick,”

“Sure, bud.” Nick’s tone goes soft, the same way that he hates people doing, “ROOKIE!”

Their voice is soft and comforting, like a soft, bright hand reaching through the darkness.

“Staci!” They are cheerful, happy, tipsy. Honestly, Staci would have loved to be there, but he would’ve had a panic attack, or he would have got slaughtered and passed out somewhere he cannot get home from. “Happy new year, dude! You okay?”

“I-I-I need you,” Staci puts his head in his hands as he sinks to the floor, somewhat restricted by the cord. It’s just turned 2019- why do people still insist on corded phones? “I need you, Dep. He’s back...”

“Jacob?” They ask carefully, listening to Pratt’s cry and taking it as an answer. “Fuck- I’ll be there soon. I need to find a designated driver, though- give me twenty minutes and I’m with you,”

You’re weak, Pratt. You’re nothing. When the collapse comes, what then? Who are you fighting for? What is the point in your existence if you can’t protect and serve? I mean- that is your job.

It’s been five minutes since the phone call and Staci is sat on the toilet seat in the bathroom, holding a smashed bottle in hand. He’s not coping well with this. He’s not coping at all.

“S-stop. I know you’re not real,” he can’t tell if it’s the alcohol in his system or the trauma that is making him speak funny, but he hates it. It makes him look even stupider than he feels. “I know you’re made up by m’ mind...”

But you hated me, Peaches. Why would your mind think of me if you hate me?

“Ruined my life...”

Your life is pointless anyway.

Pratt takes a deep breath and pulls his legs to his chest, putting his head back and bringing the sharp glass to his wrists.

The Deputy pulls up outside Pratt’s house, asking Kim Rye- the designated driver- to wait there for them, then makes their way inside.

There is an exploded can outside, and all the porch is wet from what they presume to be beer.

“Staci?” They call when they get inside the house, looking around. The empty living room is covered in beer bottles and cans, and the very phone that Pratt had used to call Deputy is hanging by its cord. They furrow their brows in confusion and head up the stairs, to the muffled sobbing. “Staci-”

“I fucked up, Rook,” he says, washing his arm under the tap of the sink, pinkish water running down the drain.”I-I couldn’t help it, ‘n Jacob was tellin’ me I’m worthless, ‘n-”

Rookie takes Pratt’s arm from under the water and presses a towel to it- for the most part, it has stopped bleeding, but they look sore. “We can fix this,” they say quietly, kneeling down in front of him and looking him in the eyes.

They reach for a med kid under the sink and use the bandages to wrap around his forearm, covering the mess he made.

After a short period of silence, Pratt looks to Dep. “How was Sharky’s party?” He asks, trying to fill the stuffy silence.

Deputy laughs, raising their eyebrows. “It was… Er… Explosive...” He says, shaking his head. “I mean, fun, but… A lot of fire. Lotta fireworks.”

Staci smiles, though it is lacking all emotion.

“I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have called you. I should man up and deal with it- I’m weak and-”

“Shh. I don’t mind.” Dep says, shaking his head. “Honestly. You call me whatever time you need,”

“I’m a fuck up.”

“We’re all fucked up, Pratt. That’s what they do, they play mind games with you.”

Pratt feels all the alcohol from earlier in his stomach, and suddenly, he is throwing up into the sink. When Rook first rescued him, they got back to the Wolf’s Den and ate some actual food. This caused him to be sick because when he was with Jacob, his diet was purely raw meat and rainwater. The good food made him sicker than a dog.

“I owe you my life,” Pratt then says, as Rookie helps him stand and guides him into the bedroom. “You don’t even understand, Dep. We would be nothing without you, and I’m so stupid because you helped me survive literal Hell, and now I’m out of there and I can’t even think right-”

“You need to sleep,” they say, not undressing him but helping him into the bed. “Come on, you’ve had a rough night. You don’t know what you’re saying,”

Staci closes his eyes, feeling worn, feeling defeated, feeling nothing but everything.

“I’ll come over in the morning, okay?” They say, holding his hand for a minute. “Rest. Call me when you wake up.”

“Is he okay?” Kim asks when the Rookie gets back into the car, putting on their seatbelt. Quietly, they nod. “Good. Wanna go back to the party or home?”

“Home, I guess.” They answer quietly.

“You know, you really have saved everyone’s ass. We would be nowhere without you. Pratt, Hudson, Whitehorse- everyone. We all owe you everything and we could never pay you back.”

[ecotone99]

[SF] Not My Reality

RECOVERY DATE 23 May 2019 - Case 015A Mr McFarrow - Age 28

The gaps between reality are all so very thin. I say that as though there is just one reality. But there are many. There are oh so many. Too many to possibly list. With every decision you make, a new reality is created. Simply choosing between apples or pears results in a new reality. One where you chose the pear; one where you chose the apple. Sometimes I barely notice the difference.

Today a friend asked me what I would like to drink. He left the room. I slipped on a wet patch on his tiled kitchen. I came crashing down on my ass. A white flash seemed to surround me just before I hit the floor. I got back up and sat down on the barstool by the kitchen island. He came back into the room.

“There’s your coke”, he said as he placed a glass full of the cold black liquid next to me.

“Oh, thanks.”, I looked down at the drink and felt confused. “I don’t mean to be rude but I thought I asked for lemonade?”, I had 100% asked for lemonade.

“Nope, you 100% asked for a coke, I can go get you a lemonade though if you’ve changed your mind”, he looked as confused as I felt.

“No no. It’s ok”. I was fighting back tears. I had slipped into an alternate reality when I hit the kitchen floor. I did not want to slip. It had just happened. I didn’t want to be able to do this. Some realities were worse than others. I didn’t just fall through realities caused by my actions. I slipped through all of them. I also stayed in some longer than others. I’m documenting this now because I don’t think I’m going to live through this one.

I should start this story somewhere more sensible. I will start at the beginning. That would make sense. I started ‘slipping’ when I was in my early twenties. So about seven years ago now. That was a fucking big slip. I was coming home from work. It was late. I had been working till about two in the morning at a McDonalds. It was shit work and I was feeling shit. It was cold. It was raining. It was dark. I had been walking towards home for about fifteen minutes. My headphones were in. My music was loud. I lived along the main road in a small apartment that was just one of many in the giant block that stood in the city centre. It was two in the morning and usually, there's no one around. I stepped out into the road to cross the street. Something glittered in the corner of my eye. I turned slightly. I felt something hit me and a white light suddenly surrounded my view. I closed my eyes. I don’t know how long they were closed for but when I opened them I was stood in the middle of a park.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there”, A boy no older than ten stood in front of me.

“It’s fine. Um. yeah. No worries” I smiled slightly despite confusion beginning to cloud my mind. The boy still stood there staring at me. He looked down at my feet.

“Could I have my ball back?”, I looked down by my feet and a small white football laid there covered in mud. I bent over slightly and picked it up. I held it for a minute and just stared at it. I looked up and started to take in my surroundings.

“Yeah of course, can you just tell me where I am quick? I went for a walk and I think I’ve gotten lost”, I smiled weakly hoping he wouldn't see how nervous and confused I was.

“You're in Winston Churchill's Memorial Park, I don’t know the area too well but there's a Tesco if you cross the road. One of the adults in there might be able to help a bit more”, his eyes kept switching between looking at me and looking at his ball.

“Um, yeah, thanks, here’s your ball”, I watched the kid scurry off with his ball back to his friends. I remember looking around. It was just the most stereotypical park. Like one straight out a movie. Big open spaces. Green healthy grass for miles. Oak trees were scattered everywhere. I remember walking over to a small plaque that was sticking out of the ground. Golden writing had been printed onto a small bronze rectangle.

“In Memory of our once-great leader Winston Churchill. Born 1874 - Assassinated 1955.”

I remember thinking how wrong that sounded. I was never big on history but I never remembered hearing about Churchill dying by assassination. I think that would’ve been quite a big thing they would’ve told you in school. I started to notice more things that seemed off. There was a lot of police. One on almost every street corner. I noticed them stopping people seemingly at random. I could never make out what they were saying but I could see the little cards people were pulling out and showing them. They would talk for a moment then move on. They stopped mainly caucasian people. I decided to eavesdrop. I walked over to an officer I could see talking to someone. I stood close enough to hear but not close enough to be thought of as suspicious. I pulled out my iPhone and pretended to be on the phone to someone.

“Do you have identification?”, the officer asked in a calm monotone voice. The citizen didn't reply. She simply pulled out her purse and handed over a little white card.

“I see you come from outside of the United Reach. You are due to go home today. You better leave soon, you are dirt on this country.”, the officer spat at her. The derogatory comment didn’t seem to phase her too much. He handed her back the little white card and she walked quickly across the street and away from the eyesight of the officers. I remember feeling confused and was considering asking the officer for help. After seeing how he had treated the woman I really didn’t want to approach him; who knows how he would’ve responded to being told by someone that they had no idea where they were or even what year it was.

“DO NOT MOVE”

A voice had barked from directly behind me. My ear rang slightly from the volume at which he screamed. I turned my neck slightly to see two men marching towards me. Two rifles aimed at me. They wore what looked like heavy black bulletproof armour with large black helmets. There wasn’t an inch of them that wasn’t covered.

“PUT THE PHONE DOWN. WE ARE ARRESTING YOU FOR POSSESSION OF TECHNOLOGY FROM OUTSIDE OF UNITED REACH. WE ARE ARRESTING YOU UNDER LAW 499 PROHIBITING ANY AMERICAN TECHNOLOGY IN THE COUNTRY. WE WILL NOW HANDCUFF YOU AND STRIP YOU OF YOUR RIGHTS”

I could not be arrested. Not here. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t want to die. My heart was going at triple the speed it should’ve been. I couldn’t think clearly. Thoughts were rapidly firing through my mind at an incomprehensible speed. I made a stupid choice. I ran. I began running as fast as I could straight forward. I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I could hear people shouting behind me. I could hear the footsteps of the two armed men getting closer. After chasing me through the streets for about a minute I heard them stop running. I thought I’d lost them. I slowed down. Another stupid choice. I spun on my heel slightly to the sound of a muffled bang. I saw a small circular object spiralling right towards my left eye. I felt something tap my eyeball then the white light encompassed my sight.

I was right back where I was earlier that night. I was just sat in the middle of an empty road. I checked my phone. 23 May 02:05 am. I was back in my reality. Or it was a reality that was close enough to the one I knew. I ran home. I already had a stitch from running from the armoured men but I just ignored it till I got home. I don’t remember much more. I know I woke up in bed the next morning in my pyjamas. I don’t remember putting them on though.

From then on the trips were quite random and not too bad. Sometimes I would slip into a reality where the colour blue was called green and green was called blue. Sometimes there were random ones where motorbikes were more common than cars. There was one where the world was governed by the six smartest people in the world. I liked that one. Everyone would get a free meal on a Saturday night from a restaurant of their choosing. There were also people living on other planets thanks to Elon Musk. That was the best one I think. I had lived there for about a month.

Sometimes they, the slips, would interrupt important moments. I remember I was at a job interview and everything was going great! But then I felt a sort of pain in my chest and I looked down at my chest quickly. When I looked up again the white had surrounded me. When my vision returned I was sat in an abandoned building with a man in construction uniform shouting at me in another language. Then there was another time I was on a date and I dropped a steak knife on my foot. It didn’t actually hit my foot though. Just before it did the white surrounded me. I reappeared in a reality where the only food was a grey slop and the person opposite me was dressed in an orange jumpsuit. They then followed to try and attack me. That lasted for about five minutes. The white surrounded me again and I was back on my date. But my date had left. So had most people in the restaurant.

I’m not sure what happens when I slip. Of course, I’ve never seen. It’s not like I can just watch myself. Before you ask, yes I have attempted cameras. I sat in a room and hooked up a camera to record me the entire time. I did slip within that time but the camera turned itself off ten seconds before I vanished.

But that's talking about the past. I would like to talk about now. I think I slipped too many times. Or reality has become corrupted. I do not know what will happen to this message. I do not know if it will exist after this.

I was in my attic. I lost my footing and fell out of the small entrance hole in the floor and I felt something touch the back of my head then the white surrounded me. Then I was laid on a bed of sand and dirt. I was staring up at the sky. The sky was red. I was boiling. I looked around me. The smell of burning meat filled the air as I saw rubble for as far as I could see. Some buildings were collapsing. Fires were roaring all around me. Despite all of this, there was almost no sound. Only a very quiet sound of tearing. No matter where I looked I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. A white shimmer in the corner of my caught my attention. It looked as if things were disintegrating and where they once existed now played home to just patches of white. The same white that flashes before me when I slip. I went out to touch one. As soon as I came close to it, the edges of the patch rippled slightly before expanding. I may have touched a few. I can’t actually make out much of the land now. It’s mainly white. I seem to be sat on the last remaining island of this reality. I’ve tried to force myself to slip. I really really did try but I can’t get it to work. So I think I’m just going to die here. If I get erased from reality it might be ok, no one will remember me. Or maybe I will just float through the white for eternity, I don’t know. I’ve been writing this to give me something to concentrate on whilst this reality wipes away. It’s nearly over though. I’m just going to send this to a random number. I don’t know who is going to receive this but I am sorry for the confusion it must cause. I’m sat on a 1 metre by one metre square of red dirt. In case anyone does ask, my name is James McFarrow. I didn’t ask for this but at least I’ve had an interesting life. A life that no one will probably ever know about.

​

written by harry titley

https://htstoriesandtales.wordpress.com/

submitted by /u/Stormix1357 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2yvh3BS

[hollymartinswrites]

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: IT - Stephen King, IT (Movies - Muschietti) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh Characters: Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom, Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough, Mike Hanlon, Original Child Character(s) Additional Tags: Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Domestic, Light Angst, Family Feels, Childhood Trauma, Adoption, Kid Fic, Adopted Children, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Marriage, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Are Parents, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends

TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of medical issues (which I based on research, so may be inaccurate) and use of a gay slur

Summary:

Eddie and Richie embark on the most terrifying experience of all—parenthood.

Or, the author desperately needed a domestic, family fix-it for Richie and Eddie.

Chapter VI: Something very odd is happening to Richie and Eddie's daughter. Richie tries to understand what it all means.

Richie Tozier was quite familiar with fear.

It had been a constant companion throughout most of his life, a close friend to his anxiety. He had felt fear all during that fateful summer in ‘89; when he had seen his own face staring up from a missing child poster; when Eddie had broken his arm and couldn’t stop screaming as the clown stalked closer and closer; when he was in college and suddenly gay-bashing was all over the news and he just kept his head down and said nothing; when he had first stepped on stage; when he had finally come out to his family; when Mike had called to bring him back to Derry; when he had confessed his feelings to Eddie in that hospital; and when he and Eddie had finally been told they had been approved for adoption.

But, he discovered, he had only known true terror twice.

Once, when Eddie’s eyes had dimmed as he bled out in his arms in the bowels of Derry.

Second, when he walked into his youngest daughter’s bedroom, and watched her face slacken, her body stiffen unnaturally, and her tiny body collapse onto the floor.

He stared at his bedroom ceiling and tried to make sense of the day but it was all one panic-stricken blur. He vaguely recalled gathering his daughter into his arms, her body impossibly light and limp, and then, seemingly in a blink, he was standing in the ER, Eddie and the doctors both asking him question after question of what happened, what did he see, what had she said, had she eaten anything, did she hit her head on the ground?

The only thing he remembered clearly was the feeling of overwhelming relief when Tess had opened her eyes and, in an extremely puzzled voice, asked why he was crying.

Richie took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, staring at the ceiling.

“Can’t sleep?” Eddie whispered.

Richie shook his head. Eddie reached his arm over Tess, who was sleeping peacefully between them, and rested his hand over Richie’s heart.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, “we’re gonna get through this.”

Richie scrubbed his hand over his face. He swallowed, trying desperately to not give way to tears.

“Rich…”

“How are you so fucking calm about this?” he asked blankly.

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh.

“I’m not,” he replied, glancing down at their sleeping daughter.

Richie took his hand away from his face and gazed at his husband. He had to admit, even in waning blue darkness, he could see the thrumming anxiety under Eddie’s skin. He sighed again.

“What are we gonna do, Eds?”

“We can’t know until we get the EEG results back.”

Richie closed his eyes and tried to push the image of their tiny daughter on the big hospital bed, electrodes attached to her head, out of his mind. Eddie smoothed his hand on his chest in a little circle.

“No matter what, we can’t let them see us freak out, alright?” he whispered.

Richie nodded, turned onto his side, and laid a gentle arm over their daughter, his hand on Eddie’s side. Neither man slept for the rest of the night.

“I had no idea there were so many different kinds of seizures,” Eddie muttered, flipping through the packets of papers the nurse had handed to them in the waiting room.

Richie said nothing, his arms merely tightened around Tess as she sat on his lap, preoccupied with her father’s old, still working Game Boy Color in her hands.

“And it could be from anything,” Eddie continued, turning to another page. “Allergies, a fever, epilepsy, autism. I mean…” he sighed and closed the pamphlet, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He dropped his hand and gazed up at Richie. “Are you okay?”

Richie shook his head, his jaw clenched and his back ramrod straight.

“Rich, we’ll—”

The examination room door opened and the doctor, a pleasant-looking woman with a smile on her face and a tiny stuffed rabbit in her hands, walked in. Eddie smiled in response and shook her hand but Richie didn’t move. He could never remember her name.

“Hi, Tess,” she said happily. “How are you feeling today?”

“Okay,” Tess said quietly, a dubious look on her face.

“Good, I’m happy to hear that,” she said. “You’ve been very brave these last few days. So we have a treat for you.”

She leaned forward and held the stuffed rabbit out to Tess, who looked at it longingly before turning her gaze up to her father.

“Go on, it’s a gift for you,” Eddie said, smiling gently.

Tess grinned and grabbed the rabbit, clutching it to her chest.

“What do you say, Tess?”

“Thank you,” she whispered shyly.

The doctor smiled and straightened.

“And you two,” she said, looking at Richie and Eddie, “how are you doing?”

Richie remained silent as Eddie replied, “We’re getting by.”

“Good, good,” the doctor replied. “I’m sure you both are anxious but I have good news. As far as we can tell, there was no physical reason for her seizure. Nothing in her brain as far as the tests show.”

Richie exhaled a breath and collapsed in on himself, feeling suddenly as if he just ran a marathon. Eddie’s hand on his arm tightened.

“Then why did she have one?” Richie asked.

“As I’m sure you’ve seen, there are a great many reasons why a child may experience a seizure,” the doctor sighed. She glanced down at a chart in her hands. “I understand you’ve had Tess in therapy for anxiety issues?”

Both men nodded. Richie swallowed and felt oddly guilty, as if Tess had inherited his own anxiety disorder.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was related to that,” she explained. “An extreme sort of panic attack. Where there any triggers that day? Perhaps something that put her out of comfort zone?”

“We were just taking the kids to their cousin’s little league game,” Eddie explained. “Nothing too out of the order.”

“But anxiety doesn’t need a reason,” Richie muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eddie gaze at him. The doctor nodded.

“I would keep an eye on her to see if her anxiety triggers another episode like this,” she said.

“Another one?” Richie repeated, stunned. “We’re just supposed to wait around until she has another one?”

“Based on the test results and her history, I doubt she will have another one like that,” she said gently.

“And what if she does? What then?”

“We bring her back to the hospital,” Eddie said softly.

Richie stared at his husband, his eyes wide.

“That’s it?” he asked, hoarsely. “That’s all we can do?”

“If she does have more episodes like this one, then we could look into medication but I really think this was an anomaly,” the doctor continued.

“That’s your guess,” Richie claimed.

“Richie—”

“And you’re just accepting it?” he asked Eddie wildly.

“The tests don’t show anything physical,” Eddie repeated.

Richie sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. After a moment’s silence, the doctor and Eddie began speaking again, discussing plans and ideas and what to do in the future. Richie ignored them. A soft kiss at his chin, and he looked down. Tess was holding the rabbit up, pressing it against his face.

“It’s okay, Papa,” she said.

Tears sprang to his eyes. He smiled at his daughter.

“So that’s it,” Richie sighed, leaning against the porch railing. “Nothing we can do but see if she has another one and what triggered it.”

Mike put his hand on Richie’s shoulder and squeezed it.

“It’s tough,” he said gently, “but the alternative answers are worse.”

Richie shrugged.

“Yeah, I know, but at least they’re answers,” he muttered. “I just hate feeling so fucking helpless.”

“I know,” Mike replied. “But you and Eddie are on top of it. He was telling me before that you got her in therapy.”

“She’s been in it before this all happened,” Richie said. He suddenly itched for a cigarette but it had been years. “We had to update her therapist about all of this and she agreed with the neurologist that it was just like...a fucking panic attack. But I’ve never seen a panic attack quite like that.”

“They must know what they’re talking about.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t see it,” Richie insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I saw her, I’m the only one who really did. And everyone else wants to dismiss it. Even Eddie.”

“You know that’s not true, man.”

Richie frowned and looked down at his shoes. Guilt began to rise in his throat like bile.

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m just fucking...really fucking…”

“Frustrated?” Mike offered.

“To say the fucking least.”

Mike smiled and looped an arm around Richie’s shoulders, squeezing tightly.

“Well, we’re all here for you guys, I promise,” Mike said affectionately. “Anytime you need one of us, you know we’ll be here.”

“I know,” Richie mumbled and ran a hand through his hair. “And thanks for stopping by today. You didn’t have to, you know. You didn’t have to do a layover just to see us.”

Mike shrugged.

“Cheaper seats that way,” he replied. “And I get to see my favorite all-American suburban parents. Win win.”

Richie laughed and shook his head.

“Sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life,” he admitted. “Like I’ll have these weird out of body moments where I look at Lydia and Tess and have to remind myself, oh yeah, these are my kids. I’m a parent now. It’s wild.”

“I can imagine,” Mike laughed. “But you two are doing a good job. They’re great kids.”

Richie shrugged. He fell silent for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Mike waited patiently.

“You know, Tess has those moments, too,” he said quietly. “The doctor said they could be, uh, absence seizures but the EEG results were totally normal. I think they’re something else.”

“You lost me, Rich,” Mike admitted. “But I know nothing about this sort of thing.”

“Remember whenever we saw Pennywise as kids?” Richie continued. “When we were alone and we saw It? And even though it seemed to last forever, sometimes we’d just blink and It’d be gone?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, a frown on his face.

“Have you ever wondered what we looked like from the other end?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, when I was back in Derry and It was taunting me from the Paul Bunyan statue,” Richie explained, a slight tremor in his voice, “the park was full of people. I wasn’t alone. So what did they see when they looked over at me freaking the fuck out? Was I frozen or talking out loud to nothing?”

“Rich,” Mike said slowly, “are you saying that you think It is the reason behind your daughter’s seizure?”

“No, I–fuck,” Richie groaned and began pacing, his hands shaking, “I don’t know what I think. I just...she says things, alright? She told Eddie once that he died and came back and that’s why he has that scar on his chest. When we bought a hammock she said, oh like the one we had when we were little? How the fuck would she know about those things? We never told either of girls anything about Derry. But Tess somehow fucking knows.”

“Okay, wait, calm down, buddy,” Mike said, reaching for Richie’s arm. “Breathe with me.”

Richie hadn’t realized he was panicking. He followed Mike’s breathing for several long moments before his heart stopped racing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking down.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Mike insisted. He took a deep breath. “Listen, I don’t know how Tess knows these things. I mean, couldn’t it be like her imagination or just lucky guesses?”

“You sound like Eddie,” Richie mumbled dejectedly. “I swear, it’s something else.”

“Okay, I believe you,” Mike replied. He frowned, rubbing at his chin. “Hm, I could do some digging around for anything like this. I mean, I don’t necessarily believe in psychics but…”

“And I normally wouldn’t believe in killer clowns from outer space but here we are,” Richie said, grinning gruesomely.

Mike huffed a laugh and nodded.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “Anything’s possible in this crazy world.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” Richie sighed.

The world kept turning.

Richie could barely understand it. Eddie went back to work, Lydia continued her gymnastics and counted down the days for back to school, and Tess was still her high-strung self. They continued her therapy, and Richie kept an extremely close eye on her—to the point that she finally asked one day as he stared at her, “Are you okay, Papa?” God, he was the one turning into Eddie’s mother.

Still, the days turned into weeks and she, luckily never had another episode like that awful one. Richie was grateful; he was quite certain his heart couldn’t handle another one. Eddie was hopeful that perhaps it was all over, that her anxiety was getting under control and maybe, they didn’t have to worry anymore. But he wasn’t the one home all day with the girls, with Tess and her far-off looks and uncanny ability to seem to know what her father was thinking.

But he had promised Eddie he wouldn’t freak out in front of the girls, so Richie kept quiet. Well, as quiet as Richie Tozier could be.

It was nearing the end of August and Lydia was bouncing off the walls ready to start third grade and for her latest loose tooth to finally fall out. She was constantly nudging it with her tongue, showing it off to her sister who had never experienced such a life-changing event. Tess found it alarming.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Lydia explained, “it just feels weird. And then the Tooth Fairy comes and gives you money.”

“Why?” Tess asked.

Lydia shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said, in a rare admittance of uncertainty, “why does she do that, Papa?”

“I think she pays you for the teeth and then sells them at ridiculously inflated prices on the black market,” Richie replied, cutting the crust off his youngest daughter’s sandwich. “It’s all about supply and demand.”

“I think you’re making that up,” Lydia observed wisely.

“I never make things up,” Richie said, placing Tess’s sandwich on the plate in front of her. “The Tooth Fairy has a business to run.”

“So the Tooth Fairy comes to our house?” Tess asked nervously. Richie’s heart clenched. He should’ve know. She also found the Easter Bunny disturbing, but who could really blame her?

“Yeah, but she’s tiny, so she sneaks in,” Lydia answered. “Like Tinkerbell. It’s not a big deal. All fairies are tiny.”

Tess looked doubtful.

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

“It’s true, fairies are tiny, right, Papa?”

Richie nodded, sitting beside his daughters at the table with his own sandwich (and Tess’s discarded crusts).

“But you’re not tiny,” Tess declared, looking straight at her father.

A prickling of discomfort, a very specific one he hadn’t felt in years, stabbed Richie in the chest. He froze and gazed at his daughter, his sandwich in half way up to his suddenly dry mouth.

“Papa’s not a fairy!” Lydia laughed.

“But that boy called you one,” Tess said, confusion evident on her face. “Is that mean? He seemed mean.”

“What boy?” Richie asked hoarsely.

“I don’t know,” Tess shrugged. “He’s bigger and he yells a lot.”

Why the FUCK is she talking about Bowers in the present tense?

“Where did...when...where did you see this?” Richie asked, trying desperately to keep his voice steady.

Tess took a bite of her sandwich before answering.

“I don’t know, I just saw it,” she said.

“It?” Richie repeated, dropping his own sandwich and grasping his daughter’s hand. “Tess, tell me exactly what you saw.”

Both Lydia and Tess exchanged a glance of mild puzzlement. Their Papa was being weird.

“I saw you and the big kid and he called you a fairy,” she said. “And you ran away.”

“Was I...little? I mean, you saw me as a little kid? Like in the photos at Grandma’s house?”

Tess nodded and laughed.

“You looked silly,” she said.

“When was this?”

“Huh?”

“When did you see this?”

Tess shrugged.

“I don’t remember.”

Richie swallowed.

“How often do you see these things?”

“What things?” Tess asked, taking another bite of her sandwich. She seemed rather bored of this conversation.

“Things like...like the boy calling me names or Daddy dying and coming back.”

She furrowed her little brow and scrunched up her face as she thought.

“I don’t know,” she said, “sometimes. Sometimes lots and sometimes never.”

“Are they ever...scary?”

She shrugged.

“Sometimes, but not always.”

Lydia abruptly spat in her hand.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, happily. “My tooth came out!”

She held it up for her sister and father to see. The conversation ended.

“How can she know these things, Eds?” Richie whispered, his face in his hands.

“I...I don’t know,” Eddie admitted softly.

Richie raised his head and gazed, unblinking, at his husband.

“These aren’t lucky guesses. Eddie, you have to be honest with me,” he said, “have you ever told either of the girls anything about It?”

Eddie’s mouth fell open.

“Are you serious right now?” he demanded.

“Yes, just fucking tell me so I’ll stop wondering.”

“I never told them about It and you know I never did,” Eddie hissed. “The fuck kind of father do you think I am?”

“I’m just making sure!” Richie insisted, raising his hands in supplication. “I just...I feel like I’m going crazy trying to figure this out.”

Eddie sighed and sat beside his husband.

“Me too,” he muttered. “Fuck, I should’ve known.”

“Known what?”

“We...I’m too…” Eddie trailed off and sighed. “How could we think everything was behind us? That our kids wouldn’t be affected?”

Richie stared at Eddie, cold fear in the pit of his stomach.

“What are you saying?” he asked, blankly. “Do you regret our kids?”

“No!” Eddie insisted. “No, never that. Sometimes I just…regret that they got stuck with us as parents.”

“Huh,” Richie mumbled. “Sometimes I do, too.”

He wiped at his forehead, wincing when he realized how sweaty it was. His jumped suddenly. His phone was ringing. He hoped it wasn’t his manager demanding another show. He glanced down at his screen and felt a brief flutter of relief. It was Mike. He swiped it open.

“Hey, Mikey,” he greeted, failing miserably at sounding pleasantly happy.

“Hey, Rich, are you okay?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, sure, peachy, just tired,” Richie sighed. “I’m on Tooth Fairy duty tonight.”

“Ah,” Mike said, “Tess?”

“Lydia.”

“And how’s Tess been?”

“Fine, aside from the occasional cryptic mind-reading or whatever the fuck she’s doing.”

“Well, that’s why I wanted to call you,” Mike continued hurriedly. “I’ve been doing some research and I think I found something interesting.”

Richie’s eyes widened as he gripped the phone.

“Just...just fucking tell me it has nothing do with the clown,” he begged.

“No,” Mike promised, “something else. Something...interesting.”