#And it's sickening because they kept messing with the timeline in the past and she is whether subconsciously or fully aware

[justanechoflower-ddlc]

(Maybe this when combined with the drawing you made will give you an idea what it was. Or at least something believable enough for Flowey. Turns out some of the formatting goes away though, so I’ll have to reconstruct the formatting from the copy I made. Also, somehow, it’s an older version. At least the actual text is there, even if which are italics and which are bold isn’t, and the alterations since then were mostly just the author notes, and a line from Yuri, which I can mostly reconstruct.)

>#We’re in agreement about the restarts, then. I haven’t had to restart at all since after the player left, but I wasn’t in the club at all then, so that doesn’t count. But now you can see why I’m trying not to get too close to them knowing, even if I can technically undo any mistakes as long as none of them get to the point where they have console access.

>#I’ve already mentioned how I was a different person in my actual first impressions. Then again, perhaps separating my first observations from my first judgements would still help? I’ll probably try to do literary analysis on the poems, and then “try and work out“ who’d make a poem with that kind of meaning. I actually recognize two of the poems as the same ones from earlier timelines:Amy Likes Spiders and Ghost Under The Light.

>#Also, you got all of them right this time! The meanings of the poems are deeper than that, but I suppose you wouldn’t know that. Except maybe Amy Likes Spiders. I’ll show you how you could have worked that one out.

Monika:Okay, I think I’ve got it! We’ll start with Amy Likes Spiders! Monika:So, this LOOKS like a simple case of the speaker being disgusted by someone liking spiders. But looking closely, there are clear cases of “Amy” actually being helpful, and the speaker clearly just crushing it off because… well, Amy likes spiders! And the narrator saying it doesn’t matter if they keep it private, or has other hobbies. So this poem seems intentionally designed so that we’re not supposed to agree with the speaker. If we were supposed to agree, those lines giving the very reasons why Amy liking spiders doing no harm, and the narrator just brushing them aside, wouldn’t have been a part of the poem!

Monika:So we’re clearly meant to see them as someone needlessly judging a nice person over a completely harmless hobby, even if that hobby is what might be considered “gross” in social circles. Amy even keeps it private, so nobody even has to watch her! And here the speaker is about to tell everyone about it!

*Natsuki is trying not to show she’s glad that Monika gets it. She’s… mostly successful?*

(After all, a clear reaction to an analysis of a poem could give away that it’s YOUR poem.)

Monika:Now, Natsuki has stated multiple times today that the point of this club is that it’s a place where you can act as yourself, and NOT be judged for it. That might even be why she joined in the first place… that is one of the things that were on the banners for the club, after all. So this seems like a moral Natsuki would really want to give. Sayori… probably wouldn’t have wrote this. While she’d certainly also agree with the moral of the poem, she just doesn’t strike as someone who’d make a poem whose sole purpose is how a certain kind of person is really dumb! That’s a Natsuki thing, with those times she used “dummy” today!

Monika:Now, maybe it makes sense for Yuri to write a poem like this? I don’t really think this would be her poem, though, Natsuki is a much better fit, and there’s actually another poem I think has to be Yuri’s. Speaking of, Ghost Under the Light!

Monika:I can’t say I know exactly what this one means. This looks like a case of worrying about the future, but it also looks like a bit more than that. The title is “Ghost Under The Light”, the speaker is living in the past, but taking air from the present, and is the one flickering back when the light flickers. Could the speaker be a ghost themselves? Also, it seems the place has been abandoned for a while, as if it became a ghost town.

Monika:There definitely seems like there’s a deeper meaning to this poem, I just can’t pin it down yet. I’ll have to think about it more later… But I’ve read into it enough to say that this is a Yuri poem! There is NO way that Natsuki could have made this, it just doesn’t fit someone full of energy and with a sort of blunt personality. The wording choice seems to be trying to find out fancier words, which is probably the opposite of how Nastuki does things, from how she’s spoken before. Similarly, Sayori wouldn’t have put this much focus in choosing fancy words, her style is more like… well, I think I’ll share after Buttercup does his guesses. Then we can see if he’s already worked out Sayori’s style!

Monika:But really, this reads like a Yuri poem. She’s the one who decided to be formal when we first stepped foot in the clubroom, after all. That puts Amy Likes Spiders as a Natsuki poem, which leaves Shining Stars as a Sayori poem!

Monika:I’ll get to what I think that one is about once the authors are revealed, and we start giving each other feedback. I know Sayori better than Buttercup does, from my time helping her with ideas for this club, and I’ve used a bit of that to help me interpret the poem. But process of elimination is already enough for me to say this is a Sayori poem. She’s the only one I didn’t already match a poem with!

Monika:And separately, it just doesn’t make sense for a Natsuki poem, there isn’t really a moral that jumps out at you, lines designed specifically to make it clearer, like Amy Likes Spiders does, and we already know how blunt Natsuki can be.

Sayori:Oh, that sounded awesome!

Yuri:That was… an interesting reading. I won’t comment on how well you did with the guessing, since Buttercup still needs to make his guesses. But the fact you found such an insightful interpretation of Amy Likes Spiders shows you’re good with poetry. I’m interested to see what you think of the other two poems…

Natsuki:And you were afraid you’d blunder it! *laughter* Like Yuri, I can’t tell you if your guesses were right or wrong yet. But even if it was all wrong, those have so much thought into them that anyone would have to be a DUMMY to think you did horrible!

*Monika gives the poem copies to Flowey. No, they don’t have notes on them, it’s just the poems.*

Monika:Just in case you need to read them again… Whenever you’re ready, you can start your guessing.

————————

(Well, looks like she did better than she thought. Really, Monika, your odds were much better than you thought they were, you weren’t a literature club president for nothing, after all. Messing up with Sayori wouldn’t be nearly as bad as messing up the others, since Sayori could easily just say she told Monika any details about herself that Monika used that weren’t mentioned in the clubroom. Just don’t let it get to your head or you might somehow mess up with Sayori, or you might try to go for Yuri’s poem and mess that one up.

(Oh, and I found where Yuri explains her poem in-game. Se seems to be interested in making poems that readers can get their own meanings from, as she describes “The Recoon” as a poem everyone can relate to in their own way. She might be a fan of the theory of the Death of the Author, where the main thing that matters to how valid an interpretation is is how well it’s supported by the text, regardless of whether or not that meaning was intentional by the author.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'll start with shining stars. This poem is about someone who has found something important to them! It seems to be falling apart gradually, so the speaker keeps putting her hope into it to keep it going. Unfortunately, doing this becomes more and more difficult as she grows exhausted of trying to keep this important thing going.

This person...

Is Sayori! As the president of the literature club, you must worry about keeping the club going. We were worring earlier about if anyone in the future would be interested joining the club, and though Monika participates in the worry most, it also is your concern if I get to say! That's why I was brought in to ensure the future grades will be interested in joining even when you're in college.

And Monika didn't even bring a poem, even though she probably does have at least one since she technically started the literature club and likes poetry... Oh well, it's her choice to be a scaredy-cat!

The spider poem is obviously Natsuki's considering how blunt she tend to be. Which I came up with this piece of evidence on my own, I am NOT copying from Monika's response! Although I did originally think Natsuki just didnt like some spider girl and not that the poem was trying to make the speaker sound bad on purpose, which makes a lot more sense. So I guess that part I was wrong about.

Building off of that, it makes sense Natsuki would make a poem about not wanting to be judged! One of the first things she talked about was how she brought manga before and was upset for Yuri judging her, thinking they're something like picture books for overgrown babies, but that's not true! Some manga are.... Heehee.... A little too violent for children.

Now for the last one. Ghost in the light has to be Yuri's not only because it's the last option, but also because of her sometimes shy, ghostlike nature and formal style of writing. This poem is about someone who dreads the future and feels comfortable living in the past. It's inevitable to be pushed out into the future which is why the light flickers, and the speaker flickers because it is unhealthy be stubborn to move on. This is why you describe the green-blue light of the future as sickening! Although I don't understand why you would have a problem with-

...

*Flowey stops abruptly. If what he's thinking is true, this could ruin the entire plan.*

(No. Monika doesn't exist In this world. Yuri can't be uneasy with her or Sayori for the power they have because she doesn't know. But what if it's like resets in my world and they still somewhat remember? It'd be impossible to explain to them smoothly without worrying them even more and ruining the entire club's relationship if Yuri is already distasteful of Sayori and Monika! Ah, but who would represent amber...? No one looks too brown-y or orang-y here. Maybe I'm overthinking it?)

Blue... Green... Why those colors specifically? And Amber? Haha, I'd think you'd choose purple to be your comfort color, Yuri! Now, I think what I said so far was a pretty good lead but I don't know your past or worries in detail so you should explain it yourself if it was correctly you that made it. After all, I'm here to learn more about my smart new friends! *Flowey hugs Yuri, smiling sweetly and hoping to make her comfortable enough to confirm or debunk his suspicions.*

[nighttimepixels]

So... I've been seeing wonderful people on here lately making versions of their own HorrorFell Sans and well I'm desperately bi and hooked and wanna know if. there's a HorrorFell Serif....?

You are all criminals I’m supposed to be doing things

I love you all holy shit big same so

below a cut because it got long! CW for bear-trap related injuries.

It’s time to meet Dusk.

=====

They weren’t supposed to turn on the machine again.

The guys weren’t exactly ones for promises, but after the incident, after the girls had managed to prove how unsafe it was, how unstable-

-they weren’t supposed to. They weren’t supposed to, to drag anyone else into this, to mess up even more timelines, it was a standoff, but it was stable in the meantime, or it should have been-

Someday, you’d meet this Sans, and you’d personally kick his coccyx into next Tuesday, you swore, for this and for everything else-

But right now, chances were looking pretty slim of seeing it to next Tuesday yourself.

“G-guys, it’s okay, really-”

“she’s got you by the fucking throat-!”

“If you fucking hurt her- te arrancó el brazo y lo tiro al mar-!”

You inhaled sharply, tears pricking at your eyes as the hand around your middle squeezed you tighter, your back pressed to a jagged, massive set of ribs, bare but for the massive coat shielding much of them, and draped around your form. The other hand at your throat held no weapon - but it was a weapon, even without the claws that threatened to prick your skin.

But the hand of the enormous skeleton woman holding you wasn’t squeezing your throat. It hadn’t once.

Blood, meanwhile, dripped slow and hot down your leg, staining the dead leaves of the forest floor below.

You wanted to curse your luck - curse the fact that you were on a walk in the woods with the dogs when Alpha’s monitoring programs picked up the subtle fluctuation in space-time that marked that machine being turned on for even an instant. You wanted to curse the fact that you’d tripped on a dumb root, cracking your phone and, apparently, breaking the ringer so you didn’t hear the many calls that came in. You wanted to curse the fact that you’re a magnet for skeletal trouble-

-or you would, if it hadn’t also brought you too much good this past year…But when you’d stumbled across the wounded, massive skeleton now clutching you, your feet dangling more than five feet off the ground, your first thought had been concern as you only saw her back turned to you, and a bear trap big enough to catch a rhinoceros nearly snapping her leg in half-

“Blade, holy shit- are you… are you okay-?”

The massive hole in her skull had been so familiar… but a moment later, you’d realized it was wrong. As was the way her head had snapped around… two massive gold fangs implanted in a mouth overrun with nigh-feral sharp teeth, a jagged red eyelight in the wrong socket, the hole on the wrong side of her head, the scars all wrong, so wrong-

The fear and fury in her face so unfamiliar and dangerous.

And yet… you… you didn’t leave.

You were nearly an hour’s walk away from the house. You shouldn’t have gone alone in the first place, but you had the dogs, far more intelligent than any normal animal, and you’d been cooped up for weeks because of bad weather and-

-and then, slowly, murmuring, crouching low with your hands out in a deference of power, soft nothings and reassurances spilling out of your mouth… you were approaching, circling in a wide berth to her front. Her snarls and growls were so loud you nearly lost your balance in the physicality, but…

… but slowly, while you were out of reach, she began to growl quieter, pain eking out over anything, though not once had she blinked…

A new arrival, you’d known. You’d found out about the machines a long while back now, and… there was no questioning it. But her tibia and fibula were cut almost clean through in a trap you couldn’t help but wonder if was from her world, brought with her - how long had she been out here? What was running through her head?

Why were you risking yourself-

The sound of fire, the feel of your own fear when your old place had crumbled around you… the soul-breaking relief when you’d been rescued, despite the danger…

You steeled yourself, and slowly came closer.

It took several tries - she nearly lunged at you once, when your hand slipped, digging the trap teeth in on her. You apologized, and kept talking- did she even… even speak English? Gods, you had no idea. But the sound of your voice seemed to help, so you kept at it- noticing more and more scars, noticing how terrifyingly dusty the wound was becoming- when you gestured for her to hold the one side to help undo the mechanism, trying to explain, ask for help as it was too strong for you alone-

-she’d done so, her hand larger than your head. Despite the pain, her grip didn’t shake, but you heard her teeth gritting, creaking as they ground down, erratic, unsteady magic charging the air around her-

And at last you’d freed her.

The trap to the side, you’d hurried to look at her removed leg, shedding your hoodie, forgetting to move slow. You missed the flicker in her gaze, pain undeniable in every shadow of her face, the moment of confusion, of hunger, of hesitance, of her reaching towards you-

But you’d looked up then, sweater in your hands, hovering over the horrifying break, an injury you were certain would have killed her otherwise- ready to bind her up.

Her hand had frozen at the level of your throat.

Like a rabbit in the gaze of a wolf, you’d frozen.

The wind rustled the leaves overhead, afternoon sun growing long, dimmer behind gathering clouds.

Her hand slowly came closer.

You didn’t move, a fine tremble in your spine, but- you didn’t look away.

She paused again. Watching. Waiting- your heart was racing, but- you didn’t run. For a thousand reasons, you didn’t run, despite some deeper instinct beyond logic begging at you to.

And then she’d brushed a lock of hair back from your throat, catching a bead of sweat with it, and lingering over your pulse.

Oh so slowly, her pinprick eyelight dilated.

“… y..ou…”

Without warning, a shout in the distance, cutting in as if through a phone line picked up startled you both. The dogs, waiting, tense, worried just a few feet behind you, barked- and all hell had broken loose.

Serif had shortcut into the clearing, her eyelights no sooner landing on you than taking in the massive, dangerous looking skeleton with her hand at your throat. She’d sworn, magic suddenly flaring at her fingertips before, as if desperately wrenching her senses back, it vanished, and she lifted her hands, furious and hiding too much emotion but clearly attempting to look reasonable, to calm down the newcomer.

It was too late.

The sudden appearance, the split second of aggressive magic was enough. The injured skeleton woman was surging forward, enveloping you- before, as if forgotten, her leg gave out with a sickening crunch.

You both fell, and your leg slammed into the hellish, too-jagged bear trap you’d just removed from her leg. The jagged metal and sharpened bone teeth of the closed trap protruding from it cut into your leg and dragged viciously as intertia and gravity took over before she could catch herself, taking the brunt of the fall-

The smell of blood had a visceral effect on the woman holding you, even as your vision was cut off by the ground and her arms and jacket- your scream mingled with a guttural sound, a language glitching and feral- clashing with the sounds of more people arriving, hitting the ground running, swearing, your vision blurring and whiting with pain lancing from your leg straight through you and whiting out your conscious mind for a moment- vertigo as you were suddenly upright-

Now you stared at your friends, leg throbbing, hot blood staining your jeans and shoe, struggling to keep your vision clear and not panic. She was cornered - you were too, you supposed, in her arms. Her leg was… it wasn’t right. You couldn’t quite see it when you glanced down, and that was… a problem. She seemed to be propped against a tree, against a steep hill that was nearly cliff- staring down, chest heaving at Serif, Scarlet, Crimson, Sapphire, and Cinnamon. You had no idea where the others were. There was no time to spare to think about it - or how they’d found you at all-

“P-please, I think she’s just scared, I think she’s feeling my pulse, s-since- I’m hurt-”

“doesn’t mean she gets t'hold you hostage,” Cinnamon’s low voice was a drawl, but her stance was one you’d only seen once or twice. Ready, ready in a way that would set your internal alarms off if they weren’t already pealing.

“Come now, let’s… let’s just take it easy,” Sapphire’s voice was measured, even almost warm - her eyelights were steady, and she was the only one who didn’t visibly appear to be a moment’s away from a fighting stance. Still, her voice was almost too measured. You knew her too well to miss it. Nonetheless, she met your gaze, and her chest took a steady inhale, then slow exhale, ever so minutely.

You blinked, tears threatening to spill at the silent message to breathe, that she’d stay calm too, she’d try and de-escalate-

The rough, static-like inflection of the woman’s speech behind you twisted and rumbled, short, dark, aggressive-

A huff of air tickled your hair, and you felt her… her head, dip down to the back of yours. It cut through the pain, almost tingling with a wild sort of magic, but… not in a bad way.

The others looked confused in varying degrees, and Crimson’s arm out only barely kept Scarlet from acting- but there was a flicker of deeper confusion yet on Serif’s face… one of almost-recognition and angrier confusion on Cinnamon’s-

But Crimson’s sockets widened.

“ay, ni de coña-”

Several eyelights snapped to her as she swore, shaking her head as if to clear it of cobwebs-

And then… slowly, she stumbled through a handful of similar sounds.

Words.

Glitching, uneven, but also rich like radio static - if a little clumsier in her mouth-

You felt as much as heard the surprised intake of breath behind you.

And slowly, came a response.

Crimson frowned, scowled outright, sockets squinting and head cocking a bit. A few more words- a grunt, then a continuation that sounded corrected-

An angrier response from the woman holding you-

“could you please let us in on the conversation, thanks,” hissed Serif sharply at Crimson, but she was promptly waved off as Crimson haltingly tried a few more words-

And slowly, the hand at your throat drifted just a little further down.

“… n..o.”

“pendejo-” Crimson swore, making a sharp rude gesture - but not at your captor, at the sky.

“¿Qué le hizo?” Scarlet was sharp, too quick, her Spanish rough and thick with anger-

“that bastard must’ve turned it on alright- she’s…. joder, she’s like Blade but- us too, hermana. our estrelita here apparently helped her outta a trap she was dyin’ in, and when we showed up-”

“shit,” Serif swore softly, her hands lowering again, anger and stress and understanding flickering over her face.

“she’s still holdin’ her,” Cinnamon pointed out, words tight - but her posture had relaxed… slightly. “we gotta get her some first aid-”

She paused, then, quieter.

“both of ‘em…. fuck, her leg’s completely…”

“Please, let us help you- both of you-” Sapphire’s voice was earnest, firm but gentle- but you couldn’t quite focus on her. On any of them, now, not with your vision threatening to tunnel.

You were starting to shiver a little, following along but only just. The wound in your leg must be… pretty bad. You were feeling faint. Your body shifted in time with the growing shallower breaths of the woman holding you…

Crimson was swearing, attempting a word again, and again, but clearly not knowing how or what to say in that strange language-

“what even is it you’re speakin’-” Cinnamon pressed.

“shh, it’s just- it’s– old, old monster shit, most forgot except uh- certain scientist, and a few others, it’s been ages but-”

Suddenly, you were higher off the ground, your mind slipping for a moment in vertigo. The next, you realized… both her arms were supporting you, cradling you close, a modified bridal carry to accommodate the size difference and your wounded leg that-

“Oh god-”

You dry heaved, forcing yourself to look away from the open gash in your leg.  You’d never been good with great quantities of blood, but - but you’d seen white in the deep, long wound, and your head was spinning, fuck-

“…n.ow. b… oth.”

The two halting words were punctuated by a longer phrase in that radio-static language you couldn’t understand. Your eyes were closing, unable to focus any longer. Whatever was going to happen, you couldn’t fight it… at least… at least they didn’t seem like the others were going to fight, either…

“you gotta give her to us- you can’t pass through a shortcut with that-”

Your mind was fading, and you barely registered the harsher, almost booming radio-static words falling from the woman holding you possessively, protectively. The following swears tumbling from Crimson might as well have been white noise...

“Take… take care of her, first,” you mumbled, not seeing the other girl’s attention snap to you, nor the wide stare of the woman holding you. “She was… d-dust, at… at her wound… please don’t let- let her… fall…….”

And with that, your mind slipped away in pain and anemic exhaustion.

—

It wouldn’t be till much later that you found out that the girls had apparently surged into action that, and somehow, together, managed to shortcut you and your new friend back to Blade and Twist’s place.

Both of you were patched up…

But the cost of teleporting while so grievously injured cost this new arrival her lower leg. A cost she apparently knew she might pay.

You cried when you found out.

But you’d also awoken in her arms, a place she’d apparently refused to let you free of, even at Blade’s anger and Twist’s worry. Her leg was gone, yours was patched and stitched by Twist’s patent, phenomenal care. And still, you were there... warm, bundled in new blankets, with the woman’s eyelight rarely leaving you, even as Crimson and Serif explained what happened, Blade looming nearby.

She couldn’t speak English well, you found out then, too. She’d… forgotten it. What monsters were left in her world forgot it - forgot a lot, apparently, forced into a feral survival, hunted by… something.

But in the end, to start… you were able to help her choose a new nickname, at least. A beginning. A start, because… Despite their concern, well, none of the girls were going to kick this new arrival out on her own. Crimson in particular had been there too, the whole time, helping translate broken sentences and try to parse together what she knew…

Dusk, she chose as her name, after a long game of suggestions and narrowing in on sounds and concepts she seemed less opposed to. She seemed pleased… if you were reading her right.

And… she didn’t have a sister that came with her.

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 29

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen @emberbent @leo-writer . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

-------------------------------------

Rhonda tugged at the ugly yellow jumpsuit. Somehow, the Department of Mutant Control had gotten uglier and more uncomfortable jumpsuits. She growled under her breath, "Upgraded the collars, downgraded the clothes. What else did they cut corners on to cover these?"

Wade chirped, "Good ol' privatized prisons! Gotta love 'em, right Jackboot Thug Number Three?" He nudged the guard who was ushering them to the mess hall.

Jackboot Thug Number Three was not amused and hit Wade with the cattle prod he carried. With a pained yelp, he crumpled to his knees on the metal grate they walked on. Rhonda slowed, but didn't stop for fear she'd get hit next. Hair still cold and wet from when the officers hosed her off, she shivered. Wade groaned his way back to his feet, "He's a little spicier than you, Pikachu." He played it cool, but his coughing was worrisome.

The Icebox itself looked mostly how Rhonda remembered it. Chilly, hard surfaces everywhere so even quiet sounds echoed extensively. The areas that Cable had broken through only a matter of months ago had been repaired, but were done with functionality in mind and not uniformity with the rest of the facility. Rebar, concrete, and steel jutted at rough angles. Guards stood watch near many of the repaired areas, making it difficult for inmates to try to investigate if there were any weaknesses.

Passing by a group of inmates, Rhonda only recognized a few, but those gave her dirtier looks than the ones she didn’t know. A man with red-rimmed eyes bared his teeth - filed to points - and hissed at her. Showing infinitely more confidence than she felt, Rhonda said, “Hello to you too, snaggletooth. Miss me?”

 A buzzing alarm rang, and inmates flowed around Rhonda, Wade, and their officer escort to the mess hall. “Go ahead,” their officer said gruffly. “Don’t start any shit in there or I will let you die.” Jackboot Thug Number Three melted away into the crowd, leaving Wade and Rhonda to exchange a look.

“Okay,” Wade was way too cheerful, “Let’s get our lunch trays and figure out which cool kids we can sit with.” 

“Nobody, Wade,” she answered flatly as they got in line for food. “I can’t sit with anybody here.”

The other inmates gave them a wide berth. Trays clacked and slid along the metal rails, and even though everyone was hungry, no one got too close to Rhonda. Wade muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Jesus, what did you do, huh?”

“Not here,” her voice was so raspy she was barely audible when she spoke quietly.

The food that was scooped and plopped onto their plates was beige and barely warm. The mess hall staff said it was beef and noodles, but whatever was passing for beef was too pale. There was also a small scoop of green beans - somehow worse than the canned kind, a half an orange that was dry like it had been cut days ago, and the Icebox’s trademark little chocolate pudding cup. “Still better than my piece of shit dad used to make,” Wade shrugged. Rhonda sighed, remembering why some days she had simply opted out of eating. Something tugged and twisted in her heart.

Shoulders up and head down, Rhonda held her tray close, such as it was, and scanned for a table they could take. As they walked past each one, inmates would spread their elbows or scoot a few inches so they all took up more room than they needed. Making an executive decision, Rhonda planted herself at the end of a table, and if the inmates there wanted a bubble around her, they would have to make one. As Wade settled in across from her, the wiry men who were there first scooted a few inches to put some distance between them.

With no appetite, Rhonda started to force down the food. The noodles were too soft, the meat too salty, though it was pretty much the only flavor on the whole plate. She tried the green beans and had to keep herself from gagging. Why were they slimy? Taking a deep breath, she was still deciding whether she would bother trying the orange, when heavy footsteps stomped from across the mess hall and stopped a few feet away from her table. 

“New bitches give me their pudding,” a deep voice echoed through the room and somehow managed to sound a little whiny.

“Ooh, here we go!” Wade said gleefully as he bit into the rind of his orange like it was an apple. 

She briefly closed her eyes and shook her head, her heart already surging with adrenaline. “We’re not new,” she replied, just loudly enough to be heard.

“Oh?” the deep voice grew louder and he took a couple steps. “Because I ain’t seen you here. Where the hell you been if you ain’t new?”

Rhonda fought to keep her breathing slow, controlled. “I’m not gonna spend time explaining myself to idiots.” She glanced over her shoulder, just to gauge this petulant aggressor. 

He was meaty, had a bit of a gut. There was a big burn scar on his face, which spread down his neck and trailed under his collar. His breathing was heavy, though he didn't look like he'd recently exerted himself. His face started turning red as he huffed, "Listen, bitch. You're new, and I'm gonna get your pudding."

Looking back to Wade before the man was even done talking, Rhonda rolled her eyes and shook her head. She knew this type all too well. No amount of conflict de-escalation could salvage this conversation. "Play your intimidation show with someone else." She wasn't loud, but her dry throat sounded like she'd just drank cement mix. Her tone was flat, neutral. Unfortunately, belligerent idiots still hear neutral as combative. Especially when other inmates start snickering.

The red-faced brute came hurtling his full force at Rhonda, and at the last second she swung her legs around the end of the bench, spinning to her feet. She grabbed the man by the back of his head and slammed his face into the edge of the metal table--to a sickening, wet crunch of his teeth breaking. Pieces of his teeth flew over the table. He howled in shock and pain, blood pouring from his mouth, lips busted.

Rhonda shoved him away from her, onto the floor. She picked up her little plastic cup of pudding--the only not-terrible thing in the Icebox and the single hottest commodity--and threw the damn thing on the ground with her whole strength, close to the man’s head. The foil seal broke and pudding splattered over the concrete floor. 

The rest of the inmates stopped laughing and fell silent, watching.

Rhonda wanted to roar and shout, but her throat was too sore, voice too hoarse. Instead, she croaked at the man moaning on the ground, “If you want my pudding so bad, you will lick it off the fucking floor.” When he didn’t move, she tangled her fist in his hair and shoved his face in it, snarling, “Go on, lick it! I’ll wait.” 

He made pitiful sounds, and after some hesitation, finally started licking it off the floor. 

“Wade, come piss on this idiot,” she waved him over.

He winced and balked, “Aw, come on, it hurts to pee!”

She answered him with a glare that very clearly said, Motherfucker, do not test me here or I will make an example of you.

He gave a whining groan like a kid being told to take out the trash, and crossed over to piss on the man who attacked Rhonda.

She searched the immediate area and picked up the broken pieces of teeth from the table and floor. Rattling them in her hand, she raised her voice just loud enough for the other inmates (though it hurt to speak), “Next person who touches me eats these teeth.”

When there was no answer, the inmates resumed their meals and Rhonda and Wade returned to their seats. She forced down her food, despite her nausea, and hoped she didn’t regret it later. 

“Soooo,” Wade raised his eyebrows and picked at his food, “Guess I’m never stealing any french fries from your Happy Meal. Food aggressive, much?”

She chewed her next few bites just as little as she could get away with in order to swallow her food, before giving up eating any more. “If we have the slightest chance for survival,” she said, “We’re gonna have to get control over as much of the prison as possible.”

“Sooner’s better than later,” Wade agreed. “We don’t know what kind of timeline we have.”

Scanning the room with the corner of her eye, Rhonda observed, "You see the tall, skinny guy with the blue hair?" When Wade confirmed, she continued, "He's sitting with the Vicious 13. Last time I was here, he was high-ranking with the Red Disciples." She stole a glance around the room. "I don't see who I'd expect for the Disciples, so something happened. We need to find what."

They finished their meals and as they returned their trays, the other inmates gave them sideways glances. It was respectful - sort of - like the way all animals must drink during a drought, and there will be surprising moments of tenuous peace. However, as people clustered to return trays was also a good time for a whole gang to shank one victim and then disperse with no one sure who did the attack. When neither Rhonda nor Wade was stabbed, she was sure the semi-respectful glances were the other inmates sizing her up, calculating who could take her down, when, and how.

“I see it too,” Wade’s voice was low in her ear, “Come on.” He pinched part of her jumpsuit to lead her to a less crowded part of the mess hall, less obvious than taking her by the elbow. They could hear the tiny rattle and rustle of the teeth fragments in Rhonda’s pocket. Her exterior looked calm enough, but her heart was pounding and she kept every muscle tensed just to keep from trembling. When they were out of everyone’s arm’s reach, Wade had a coughing fit. It was a deep, choppy cough that wracked his body.

Rhonda put a hand on his shoulder, brows creasing, “What’s wrong?”

Wade groaned as his cough subsided, “Probably a bunch of fuckin’ tumors. I didn’t tell you my superpower is just not dying of cancer?”

Realization dawned and turned to horror on her face. “So the collar...Wade! Why did you jump in on this?”

A guard barked, “Inmates! Turn in for the night. Lights out in one hour.”

Clearing his throat to stave off another coughing fit, he answered, “Because I’m the right choice. If Cable’s cut off from his powers, his metal arm will become his metal everything; we already covered how Colossus wouldn’t make it a day without getting his shit wrecked. Maybe Domino would get by fine, but I know the Icebox better.”

Stunned, Rhonda said quietly, “I could do this on my own if I had to.”

“It’s bad enough to send you back in here at all,” Wade shook his head, “Nobody’s saying you aren’t tough, but everyone’s got their limits.”

“How long do you have?” her voice cut out in her hoarse whisper, like a phone call with a bad connection.

Wade shrugged, “At least a few days, we’ll be fine.”

Her eyes widened in dread. Before she could answer, the guard yelled a few feet away from them, “INMATES! Cells! Now.”

Wade squared his shoulders and turned on the charm with a fake English accent, “Ah, concierge! Show us to our rooms please, we’ve only just arrived.”

The officer gripped his cattle prod, a warning. Then he waved his hand to usher them along. They shuffled up some stairs, steps echoing through the concrete cavern. He led them to their cell block and stopped at one cell that was occupied by what looked like a werewolf with terrible mange. “You’re in here,” he shoved Wade in.

The realization that they were separating made Rhonda’s heart leap into her throat, veins turning cold.

If Wade was worried, he didn’t let it show. He waved, “Bye, bestie! See you in the morning!”

Somehow, she forced herself to nod and allowed the guard to herd her further down the row to her cell. Someone was in there, but it was too dark to see who; the lights were busted in that cell. There was something cruel in the way the guard chuckled, “Good luck, mutie,” as he pushed Rhonda in, right before the doors mechanically slid closed.

“I heard the rumors that Guestbook was back,” a feminine voice like crushed velvet purred, “but I didn’t believe it until I saw for myself.”

Rhonda sighed, irritated. “Hello, Mimi.”