#DNA Recovery

[simplyforensic]

DNA Recovery After Sequential Processing of Latent Fingerprints on Black Polyethylene Plastic

Date: May 19, 2024Source: Journal of Forensic SciencesAuthors: Abigail S. Bathrick MFS, Sarah Norsworthy MS, Dane T. Plaza BS, Mallory N. McCormick BA, Donia Slack MS, Robert S. Ramotowski MS The Impact of Sequential Treatments on DNA Analysis from Latent Fingerprints on Black Polyethylene Plastic Introduction In forensic science, both latent fingerprint visualization and DNA analysis are…

[heaven-s-black-box]

What you mean to me- multiple x gn!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: January 26th, 2025

Description: Omggg I'd looove to see more for the underrated daiya boys!

Notes: Recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. I did the same guys from the first underrated Daiya boys ask, so it's Masamune, Sanada, Jun, and Shirakawa. I had fun with this.

Word count: Masamune-412 , Sanada-400 , Jun-395, Shirakawa- 455

Back to directory

Masamune

It’s late, and cold. The winter chill is seeping in through the glass of Y/n’s window, they sighs. Leaning back in their desk chair they yawn and turn to look out at the dark street, streetlights barely illuminating small snowflakes.

Their textbook and notebook were open on thei desk, a half empty– now cold– mug sat on a coaster at the edge, and their phone was perched precariously on the edge of the upper shelf. They picked it up, deciding they'd earned a break, and found a new line message from Renji.

Y/n knew what he’d sent without even opening it.

With a tired sigh they pushed themself away from their desk and grabbed the socks they’d been wearing earlier.

“I’m going for a walk!” They called as they pulled on their coat and stepped into their boots– tucking their pajama bottoms into the warm shoes.

They didn’t wait for an answer as they grabbed their keys and left, quickly zipping their coat up as they marched towards the local baseball diamond. Their scarf was wrapped around their neck haphazardly, and they tried to adjust it to cover their ears a bit before fishing in their pocket for gloves.

“Fuck,” they mummbled, realizing they’d left them in their bag at home.

Thankfully it wasn’t a long walk, and they saw a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the diamond; swinging away.

“Ma-sa-mu-ne!” They yelled, and he stopped for a moment– looking back over his shoulder at them.

They began crossing the field, and he returned to his drill.

“Come on,” thye sighed, breaking off into a yawn. “It’s cold, and it’s late. Go home.”

“We practice like this all the time, it’s fine. You can go home.”

Y/n pulled their hands from their pockets and cupped them around their mouth, exhaling. Masamune stopped swinging again and turned to them with a frown, one deeper than his usual resting looking of displeasure.

“It’s the holidays, take a break.”

“No.”

“Masamune.”

He watches as they shoves their hands back in their pockets, shoulders hunched to try and cover their ears more. Dropping his bat, he crouches down by his coat and rifles through the pockets.

“Here,” he says, holding out a hat and gloves.

“Or we could just head home?”

“I’m almost done.”

Y/n pulled the hat down over their ears and then pulled the gloves on– they didn’t fit quite right– with a roll of their eyes.

“Fine.”

Sanada

Sanada pouts, chin resting on his palm, as he stares at the empty seat in front of him. It has been empty for two days now, and that’s on top of coming off the weekend. He has not seen Y/n in four days, and it is driving him crazy.

The bell goes for lunch, and it isn’t long before his classroom door opens slowly and Raichi peeks in. Sanada waves him in, and reaches over his desk to turn Y/n’s chair. Raichi is followed by Mishima and Akiba who yell their greetings across the room.

He takes out his lunch and frowns, Y/n usually brings him lunch on Mondays. Since they were sick yesterday he didn’t get one, and staring at his lunch today– which is the same one he had yesterday– annoys him.

“Nada-senpai, what’s wrong?” Raichi asks, sitting in Y/n’s empty seat while the other two borrow nearby chairs.

He doesn’t understand why they have to crowd his desk and they can’t find somewhere else to eat. Normally they only eat here so that Y/n will eat with them…

“It’s cause Y/n-senpai isn’t here,” Mishima declares around a mouthful of food. “He misses them,” the pitcher teases before shoveling more food into his mouth.

“Of course I miss them, they’re my partner. Don’t talk with food in your mouth, you’ll choke.”

Akiba looks over at the empty desk behind Raichi and says, “It’s weird not seeing them at practice.”

“Y/n-senpai’s sick? We should take them bananas after school, those help when you’re sick,” Raichi suggests, also talking with food in his mouth.

Sanada gives him a look, and the batter closes his mouth to finish eating.

“We have practice, besides, they’ll be back tomorrow.”

He takes a bite of his lunch, finally. Raichi’s suggestion does make him think though; as a responsible upperclassman he can’t very well encourage them to skip practice, but he’s pretty sure coach will just laugh him off if he skips. He has yet to miss a practice, and he went this morning, so surely one missed afternoon practice won’t be the end of the world…

Sanada snorts a laugh, shaking his head when the other three look at him in confusion. He can imagine the scolding from Y/n if he skipped practice to visit them. 

Whatever, he’ll see them tomorrow when they watch morning practice.

Jun

For the third night in a row, before the sun sets, Jun is laying face down in his bed.

It started a week after moving out of the Seidou spirit dorms. He’d finish school, come back, and just lay face down for a few minutes before grabbing his bat and going to swing before settling down to study. He wasn’t tired, not physically at least.

Today was the same, his knee hit the edge of the bottom bunk and he fell over. His face hit the pillow, and he let out a long tired sigh. Then, it was different. There was a knock at the door and he frowned. Had someone forgotten their key?

He slid awkwardly off the bed and dragged himself over to the door

“Who forgot- Y/n?” His eyes widened in surprise as they smiled awkwardly and raised a plastic bag.

“Hey, I brought peace offerings?”

Without a word, he stepped aside to let them in. They frowned and flicked the lights on, he hadn’t even realized they were still off. Jun closed the door while they sat at his desk and he pulled one of the other desk chairs over.

“How are you doing?” They asked, unpacking the bag.

There were some convenience store snacks and the first four volumes of the manga Y/n had promised to let him borrow. They tossed him a bag of… healthy, chips. He didn’t hesitate to open them and try one. It tasted like cardboard and he spit it out into the nearby trash can.

“What do you mean?”

“I have it on good word you’ve been kind of mopey.”

He guaffed, staring at the ingredients instead of looking at Y/n. “I have not been mopey.”

Y/n snatched the bag and handed him a small pack of candies, no boasting of health in sight.

He poured some into his hand and popped them into his mouth, finally looking at Y/n who had kicked their legs up on the edge of his desk and was eating their own snack. As soon as their eyes met, Y/n gave in an unconvinced look.

“Fine, I’ve been a little mopey. But I’ll get over it.”

“Of course you will, after a nice evening of reading shoujo manga with me,” they cheered, patting the stack of manga. “Give me one I haven’t read yet.”

Shirakawa

Shirakawa was not known for having a large tolerance for bullshit, so it baffled the students of Inashiro to see him being trailed by– rather than trailing– a whiney Mei and a smug looking Carlos.

They all carry their lunches and descend from the third floor to the first. All the while, Shirakawa wears his signature scowl and ignores his friends.

“You like them,” Mei teases.

Finally, Shirakawa scoffs and grants him a response. Arguably, a bad move on hsi part.

“So?”

Mei gasps, looking to Carlos who starts wheezing with laughter. Shirakawa rolls his eyes and continues leading the way outside to a small shaded area.

Y/n quickly comes into view across the courtyard, perched on the knee-height stone wall enclosing a little raised garden. They’re hiding beneath the nearby trees shade, eating their lunch. Shirakawa’s sharp gaze softens, almost imperceptibly. However, almost is more than enough for Mei who descends into a childish fit of giggles.

“You should tell them.”

Shirakawa gives him a sidelong glance and rolls his eyes. He sets off with longer strides to the shade where Yamaoka has joined Y/n, offering them a drink. This, while being a near daily occurrence, sets Mei off into teasing a ooo.

Why were they still on his heels.

Carlos jumps in, “Looks like you’ve got competition.”

He could stoop to their level and remind them that Yamaoka always brings Y/n a drink from the vending machine, but it’s too much effort.

“There you guys are,” Y/n called, noticing the fast approaching trio, “we thought you might have gotten lost.”

“Shirakawa is,” Carlos mumbles, just loud enough for Mei and Shirakawa to hear him.

Mei chokes on a laugh, and Y/n and Yamaoka pay him no mind. It makes Shirakawa smile a bit.

He sits down next to Y/n and opens his lunch. Mei sits next to him, Carlos sits on the ground, and Yamaoka sits on Y/n’s other side. Shirakawa thinks Mei will leave their earlier conversation alone. He doesn’t know why he thought that.

“So, Y/n, do you like anyone?”

Y/n inhales their food awkwardly and starts choking. Shirakawa places a hand on their back as they try to wash the food down, and levels Mei with a glare.

The pitcher has the grace to look mildly apologetic.

“What-” they croaked before clearly their throat, “What brought that up?”

“I was just thinking, you’re always hanging out with us, and the team,” Mei leans against Shirakawa, “is it cause you like someone?”

With a small frown of confusion, Y/n looks at Shirakawa and then back to Mei.

Shirakawa places his hand over Mei’s face and pushes him away.

“You’re an idiot.”

[soloansia]

Mangiare

Parlare

Sorridere

Basta poco per fingere di stare bene.

[themorningnewsinformer]

Air India Crash Survivor Tragedy: Surat Grandfather’s Pain

Introduction The Air India crash survivor story may refer to a lone physical survivor, but another harrowing saga unfolded in Surat: 62‑year‑old Abdulla Nanabawa’s shocking journey after the accident claimed his son Akeel, daughter‑in‑law Hannaa, and granddaughter Sara. What began as a routine Eid reunion turned into a nightmare in the wake of the AI171 tragedy. Family Trip Turned Tragic On…

[reasonsforhope]

"Once thought to be extinct, black-footed ferrets are the only ferret native to North America, and are making a comeback, thanks to the tireless efforts of conservationists.

Captive breeding, habitat restoration, and wildlife reintegration have all played a major role in bringing populations into the hundreds after near total extinction.

But one other key development has been genetic cloning.

In April [2024], the United States Fish and Wildlife Service announced the cloning of two black-footed ferrets from preserved tissue samples, the second and third ferret clones in history, following the birth of the first clone in December 2020. 

Cloning is a tactic to preserve the health of species, as all living black-footed ferrets come from just seven wild-caught descendants.  This means their genetic diversity is extremely limited and opens them up to greater risks of disease and genetic abnormalities. 

Now, a new breakthrough has been made.

Antonia, a black-footed ferret cloned from the DNA of a ferret that lived in the 1980s has successfully birthed two healthy kits of her own: Sibert and Red Cloud.

These babies mark the first successful live births from a cloned endangered species — and is a milestone for the country’s ferret recovery program.

The kits are now three months old, and mother Antonia is helping to raise them — and expand their gene pool.

In fact, Antonia’s offspring have three times the genetic diversity of any other living ferrets that have come from the original seven ancestors.

Researchers believe that expanded genetic diversity could help grow the ferrets’ population and help prime them to recover from ongoing diseases that have been massively detrimental to the species, including sylvatic plague and canine distemper. 

“The successful breeding and subsequent birth of Antonia's kits marks a major milestone in endangered species conservation,” said Paul Marinari, senior curator at the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. 

“The many partners in the Black-footed Ferret Recovery Program continue their innovative and inspirational efforts to save this species and be a model for other conservation programs across the globe.”

Antonia actually gave birth to three kits, after mating with Urchin, a 3-year-old male ferret. One of the three kits passed away shortly after birth, but one male and one female are in good health and meeting developmental milestones, according to the Smithsonian.

Mom and babies will remain at the facility for further research, with no plans to release them into the wild.

According to the Colorado Sun, another cloned ferret, Noreen, is also a potential mom in the cloning-breeding program. The original cloned ferret, Elizabeth Ann, is doing well at the recovery program in Colorado, but does not have the capabilities to breed. 

Antonia, who was cloned using the DNA of a black-footed ferret named Willa, has now solidified Willa’s place as the eighth founding ancestor of all current living ferrets.

“By doing this, we’ve actually added an eighth founder,” said Tina Jackson, black-footed ferret recovery coordinator for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, in an interview with the Colorado Sun. 

“And in some ways that may not sound like a lot, but in this genetic world, that is huge.”

Along with the USFWS and Smithsonian, conservation organization Revive & Restore has also enabled the use of biotechnologies in conservation practice. Co-founder and executive director Ryan Phelan is thrilled to welcome these two new kits to the black-footed ferret family.

“For the first time, we can definitively say that cloning contributed meaningful genetic variation back into a breeding population,” he said in a statement.

“As these kits move forward in the breeding program, the impact of this work will multiply, building a more robust and resilient population over time.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, November 4, 2024

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Soldier's Baby

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Sized fem!reader

Warning: Y/N use, swearing, mentions of sexual assault (Not graphic just mentioned a few times) & the word rape (No one raped reader, there was just confusion on what happened), fatphobia, trauma, abuse, insecurities.

Summary: Y/N, a former HYDRA captive, taken at 18, escapes with her young daughter-born not by choice but through HYDRA's experimentation using The Winter Soldier's genetic material. Traumatized and wary, Y/N is brought to the Avengers compound for safety and recovery. It's there she discovers that the father of her child, a man she had only seen in passing, was alive and nearby. Bucky, who has no memory of what HYDRA did to him and has never met Y/N, is blindsided when he learns he has a daughter. Will the two be able to work past this difficult situation to become the parents their little girl deserves? Will they find love along the way?

After Captain America TWS, Not cannon to movies just some things from the movies mentioned.

*Not Proof Read*

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU

□□□□□□□

The metal of the chair was cold against your skin, the sterile lab lights buzzing faintly overhead. You try not to shiver, though you are in nothing but a thin gown, one size too small, clinging to you uncomfortably in all the places they like to mock.

"Subject Nine," a voice crackles from above. "Remain still. This will be quick."

You don't move. Not because you are obeying, but because your limbs are too heavy. Too tired. Too defeated. The restraints around your wrists dig into your flesh, but you barely notice anymore.

Dr. Johns, the lead scientist, enters the room with his usual haughty gait and bitter aftershave that made your stomach churn. He doesn't look at you. He rarely does. You aren't a person to them. Just a project.

"You should be honored," he says, flipping through a clipboard. "You've been chosen for something… special."

You don't speak.

He looks up then, eyes sharp and smiling in a way that feels wrong. "We're calling it Project Genesis. Has a nice ring, don't you think?"

Still, you say nothing. You'd learned silence was the only control you had left. But you can't stop your stomach from sinking, can't stop the coil of dread tightening in your chest. What are they going to do to me?

"We've selected the optimal pairing. Your mind-remarkably resilient to manipulation and incredible intelligence, and his… well. You'll see."

You frown. "His?"

He finally smiles. "Yes. We're combining your DNA with one of our finest specimens. You'll be carrying a child."

Your heart stops.

"What?" you croak. It was the first time you've spoken in weeks.

"A hybrid. The perfect balance of power and adaptability," he says matter-of-factly. "Your body will serve as the host. We'll be implanting within the next week."

"No," you whisper, eyes wide. "You can't-please. I don't want-"

Dr. Johns leans in closer. "Want?" he echoes. "You don't get to want. This isn't about you."

Here, nothing is ever about what I want. It's about what they can take and use.

The following week was hell.

You screamed. You cried. You begged. But the drugs were stronger than your resistance, and they didn't even look at you while they did it. Just hands and needles and cold words behind masks.

Then it was over.

And you were left in a cell, aching and furious.

For days, you lay curled on the thin cot, hands cradling your soft belly protectively, as if the new life inside you could already hear your sobbing. You didn't want this. Not like this. Not here.

But slowly, something inside you shifts.

The first time you feel the flutter, you are on your knees, scrubbing the concrete with shaking hands after they'd ordered you to "make yourself useful." Your palm pauses mid-swipe. A soft thump, deep in your stomach.

Your breath catches.

Was that…?

It comes again. A whisper from within. Not pain. Not control.

Just… life.

Tears fill your eyes as you drop the rag. You wrap your arms around yourself, hands shaking.

"Hi," you whisper to the silence. "I'm your mom."

This is not the life you want for your child. All you can do was love it and hope there was a way out.

Every time it kicks, your love for it grows stronger. The little baby underneath your heart. She is the only thing you have for yourself. The only thing that would love you back.

They try to stop you from talking to her. They say affection would ruin the experiment. But you don't care anymore.

You name it in secret-just a name between you and it. A name you never speak out loud, but repeat every night in your thoughts. My baby. My child. My everything.

Sometimes you envision a different life with your baby. A life where it would be born into a safe, loving home-not a facility. A life where you can give it everything it could ever want or need.

They still taunt you.

"You're barely holding together," a guard snortes. "Fat girl and a freak baby. What a combo. It's incredible they chose you as the surrogate. Clearly, there are better options."

You stare straight ahead, your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach. Say what you want about me, you think. But don't you dare touch my baby.

Time passes slowly. Days bleed into weeks. Your belly grows, and with it, a fragile hope.

You don't know who the father is -not truly. They never say anything, and you know not to ask. You wonder if the father knows he's going to be a dad. If he is a victim like you, someone they forced into the same predicament.

That was likely the case.

Would your baby ever get to meet its father? Would it be safe for the baby to know him? All these questions yet no answers.

What kind of life will it have?

You try to escape numerous times. You try to get yourself and your baby out of the place you know as hell. It never works. They know you are too smart for digital locks. You can crack them within minutes. They settle for old-fashioned chain lock and cuffs. The more restricted you are, the less likely you would be able to find a way to get out of the situation.

-------

They make you give birth on a table. No warmth. No hand to hold. Just cold hands and barking orders.

You remember screaming. You remember crying. You remember the sharp pains wracking your body due to the lack of drugs to soothe them.

You remember the silence after her first wail.

"Let me see her!" you cry, body shaking. "Please-let me hold her-just once-please-!"

But they are already gone. The door slams. The silence returns.

And you bleed alone on the table, heartbroken. You knew this would happen. There was no way they'd let you keep her. You just wish that small sliver of hope buried deep in your chest had been correct.

You don't move for days.

They threaten you. Drug you. Torture you mentally. But you stay silent, numb.

Then, one day, they come with a new offer.

"You'll get to see her," Dr. Johns says smoothly, "once a week. But only if you behave."

You want to spit in his face. But the thought of your baby—of her eyes, her breath, her smile—shatters your resolve.

"…Okay," you say. At least you can check if she was okay.

-----

She is beautiful. Everything you imagine and more. With beautiful brown eyes and tuffs of brown hair. There are a few features you recognize in yourself. Your pout, your lashes. And there are features you don't recognize, like birthmarks or the shape of her nose. Those must be from her father-whoever he is.

Even through the glass, even under guard supervision, she is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

And one day, you find the file.

It's stupid. Someone left it open. Maybe a test. Maybe a trap.

But you can't help it. You have to know.

Subject: Project Genesis Maternal Donor: Subject Nine Paternal Donor: WS-13 (Winter Soldier)

You nearly drop it.

Him.

That man. The one with the metal arm. The one who never speaks.

Your heart breaks-not for yourself, but for him. He doesn't know. There is no way he does. I've seen them wipe his mind hundreds of times. If he knew, they would immediately wipe him. That's the kind of people they were. He doesn't know she exists.

You close the file, tuck it back carefully, and say nothing.

You don't tell anyone. You don't tell him, even though you sometimes see him in the halls on his way to the next mission. His stoic eyes and rough demeanor scare you. He isn't here to mess around. He has a mission, and that is his only focus.

Who knows what he would do if he found out he had a child? A man like him, so badly tortured. He's a killing machine. There's no telling if he was even capable of caring for anyone. He could become a risk to her. He could cause her harm. He could hurt me, too.

Sometimes your mind would wander. What if he does know? What if he knows he has a child and but doesn't care? On the other hand, what if he found out and he did care? Would he try to protect the baby?

The what-ifs plague your mind. In the end, you decide it is too much of a risk. You have no idea how he will react, and that scares you. It's better safe than sorry.

Because if you die -there will be no one left to protect her. You are her only shot.

----

The guards give you one hour. That was the rule.

One hour, once a week. Under supervision. In a sterile white room with a single metal chair and your baby sitting behind reinforced glass, until they allow you to hold her.

They never say her name—never call her anything but the subject or the specimen. But you say her name in your head a thousand times a day. It is the only thing that feels like yours.

When they first let you hold her, she is so small. Lighter than you imagined. Warm, wiggling in your arms like she knows you.

You sit down and don't move the entire hour, too scared they'll take her early if you do anything wrong.

"I missed you," you whisper, brushing your nose against her tiny head. "Did they treat you okay? Did they… Did you eat enough?"

She cooes softly, hand brushing against the thin hospital gown you are wearing. Your heart breaks into a thousand glass pieces.

"You're safe with me," you promise, even though it is a lie. You really can't do much to protect her. You have no leverage to use against them. You also aren't a trained supersoldier, like her father. They are more focused on your mental abilities than your physical strength, so they never bother to train you. "Just for now. You're safe."

The guard coughs behind you, clearly bored.

You glare down at your arms. "Don't listen to them, sweetheart. Mommy's here."

------

Weeks pass.

Your arms grow stronger from carrying her. Your body, tired and aching, moves faster in the cell training they force on you. You do everything they ask. Not because you want to-but because it keeps her safe.

She starts recognizing you.

She babbles when she sees you. Wriggle excitedly when you come into the room. One visit, she reaches her chubby arms out and gives the smallest, gummiest smile.

You cry so hard you can barely breathe.

When she falls asleep against your chest, her tiny hand wrapped around your finger -you pray time will freeze.

"Sleep, baby," you whisper. "Please… dream of trees, and blue skies, and things I can't give you."

Most days are like that. Peaceful between the two of you. However, there are times when things get difficult.

There is one day, she is quiet.

Too quiet.

You feel the panic rising in your throat the moment you step into the room. She isn't smiling. She isn't moving.

"Is she sick?" you ask the guards, voice rising. "What did you do?!"

"No questions," says the same monotone response. "One hour. No more."

You clutch her tightly, holding her against your chest, rocking her gently.

Her little head lifts. She lets out a tired breath. Her eyes-a beautiful shimmering brown-blink up at you.

Relief hits like a tidal wave. You cradle her even tighter.

"You scared Mommy," you whisper into her soft curls. "Don't ever do that again, okay?"

Your voice cracks.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

You have no idea what they are doing to your child. It kills you to think they are hurting her. You have no control. All you can do is try to bring some comfort in the short time you have with her.

-----

Life stays like that for two years. You spend the time you can with her. You teach her how to talk and walk. Even though the situation is difficult, she is a resilient baby. She is smart. She learns quickly. She definitely develops skills faster than other babies do. That makes you proud.

Then the visits stop.

No explanation. No announcement. Just… silence.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You scream and you fight. You are drugged.

And when you come to-bleary, arms strapped down in your cot, you know something is wrong.

The halls are quieter. Fewer footsteps. Fewer voices. Then none.

The next time someone opens your door, it isn't a guard.

It was no one.

A soft creak. A hiss of released air.

You wait.

No commands. No threats.

You pull the restraints free with little effort, too easily. The power has been cut. The systems are breaking down.

You stumble into the hallway, barefoot and filled with panic.

Lights flicker.

No soldiers.

No scientists.

Just the dead hum of a forgotten place.

And then-

A sound.

A baby crying.

Your baby crying.

Her.

You run harder than you ever have in your life.

Your legs burn, your body still weak from weeks of starvation and isolation, punishments for your lack of cooperation, but you run.

The lab is a maze. But your instincts, your love-cut through the fog.

You find her in a room filled with overturned equipment. She is crying, face red, fists curled. She is still in her tiny containment crib. But no one is watching her anymore.

You throw open the gate and collapse to your knees, cradling her against your chest.

"I'm here," you sob, rocking her. "I'm here. I got you. I got you."

She stops crying instantly, face pressed into your neck.

You clutch her so tight, your arms ache.

And then you find a room with a door that locks from the inside. It used to be a cell. Now, it's your only sanctuary.

You ration food. You keep her warm. You sing songs in a hoarse voice, trying to drown out your own fear.

You don't know how long you can last. But as long as she is breathing, you'd try.

You know, at some point, you will have to leave the building. You will need more food and water.

The thought terrifies you. You haven't been outside in years. You haven't seen the sun or the outside in so long. The world is different. It has to be. While you were stuck in a building that never seemed to change, you know the outside is different. There is no one for you to trust outside. You will be so exposed and vulnerable out there.

At least you know what you are working with in the confines of the building. You can keep her safe here for now. You will figure out the rest later.

You scavenge the building for as many resources as you can find. It is enough to keep you both okay for a few months. Definitely not enough to last longer than 8 months.

---

Three months passed. Winter was coming. You know you need to leave soon. You will both freeze to death if you stay here much longer.

You are thinner. Paler. You know your body is getting weaker, but you do your best to be there for your baby and plan your next steps.

Then one day-it all shattered.

You hear footsteps.

Not like before. Heavier and measured.

English voices.

You scoop her up. Her body is heavier now, growing. You run down the halls, bare feet slapping against concrete. The lights died long ago, and all you have is your memory of the maze.

She starts crying.

Too loud.

You hush her frantically. "Please, baby, shh-don't cry, don't cry, they'll hear you-"

Too late.

Footsteps speed up.

Voices bark orders.

Then you turn a corner-and freeze.

A woman stands at the end of the hall.

Red hair and black suit. Eyes wide.

She doesn't raise a weapon.

"Hey," she says, holding up both hands. "It's okay. We're not going to hurt you."

You back away, toddler clutched tight. "No! Don't touch her! Don't take her!"

Others come. Bigger and scarier. You see a glowing chest light in the dark-hear a metal suit hiss.

You turn. You run.

But another figure appears behind you, this one carrying arrows.

You are surrounded.

The baby is sobbing now, screaming into your neck. She can sense your fear and desperation.

"Don't kill her!" you cry, collapsing to your knees. "Please-I'll do anything, just don't hurt her-please-!"

The redhead approaches slowly. "We're not here to hurt her," she says gently. "Or you."

You shake your head, body trembling. "Liar. You're all liars-she's just a project to you. She's all I have. Don't take her."

"We're the Avengers, we just want to help you. We are not a part of HYDRA," she says. "You're safe now."

You cling tighter to your baby.

"Please," you whisper, chest heaving. You don't believe their words. "Just let me keep her."

The redhead crouches beside you.

"You will."

------

The Quinjet is too loud.

You sit stiffly in a corner seat, clutching your daughter like she might vanish if you blink. She's curled up against your chest, worn out from crying and the chaos, her tiny hands fists in your torn clothes.

Your arms are shaking.

Everything feels like too much.

Too bright. Too fast. Too real.

You stare at the dark floor panels, heart pounding like a war drum. The whirring of the engines, the humming of voices you don't trust-none of it felt safe. You don't feel safe.

No one tries to take her from you. Not yet. That was the only reason you haven't fought.

She shifts in your arms, pressing her flushed cheek to your collarbone. Your hand automatically rubs gentle circles into her back, your mother's instincts stronger than the trauma clawing at your brain.

"She won't let go," Natasha murmurs to Bruce, standing just far enough not to crowd you. "Even when she's asleep."

"She shouldn't have to," Bruce says softly. "Not after what she's been through."

They don't think you can hear them.

But you did.

You heard everything.

They bring you to a room with soft lighting and gentle walls. It smells clean-but not like chemicals. Not like HYDRA.

Bruce Banner stands in the corner, hands folded, speaking in a voice like wind brushing over still water.

"I'm just going to take a look at you," he says gently. "Both of you. I promise I won't touch her unless you say it's okay."

You don't move.

Your baby is wide awake again, sitting in your lap, staring with wide eyes at the stranger in the white coat.

You pull her tighter against you.

"She's mine," you say. Your voice cracks. "No one touches her."

Bruce gives a small nod. "Of course. I just want to help."

You don't believe that.

But he doesn't push. Instead, he pulls out a scanner and crouches-to your eye level.

"May I scan you from here?"

You hesitate… then give a tiny nod.

The scan was quiet. No poking. No restraint.

"She's malnourished but stable," Bruce says, looking at your daughter. "You've been feeding her from rations?"

"Yes," you whisper.

He nods again, with genuine warmth. "You did an incredible job."

Your throat closes up. You tried.

You look down at your baby, who's pressing her forehead into your chest. She's calmer here. Calmer with you.

You've done something right.

"You've been through serious mental trauma," Bruce continues. "I think your system's still fighting the effects of long-term neurological exposure. We'll give you space, but if you ever want help-therapy, or medication, or even just rest-we'll be here."

You don't answer.

You are still waiting for the moment they take her away.

But no one moves.

They are waiting for you.

Later, they bring you to a different hospital room that was too nice to be real. Real bed. Blankets. A large mirror on the other side of the room. A window with sunlight. You can see the world. It was very different than what you remembered.

When you were taken, you were freshly 18. A time that was supposed to be exciting and full of new adventures was quickly robbed from you. All your dreams of finally getting to go to Harvard were crushed. You were from a smaller town, one that didn't have these massive buildings that surrounded you. You were used to fields and animals. Nothing like that was outside. It was a shock.

You don't know how to sleep in a bed anymore. But your baby is finally dozing in the crook of your arm.

You sit, awake, staring at the door.

And then it knocks.

"Hey. It's me. Natasha," comes the voice from the other side. "Can I come in?"

You don't say anything.

The door opens gently.

She enters slowly, hands empty. She sits across from you, not too close.

"I just want to ask you a few questions," she says quietly. "Is that okay?"

You look at her for a long moment… then give the smallest nod.

"What's your name?"

You lick your dry lips. "Y/N."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

Her expression softens. "And how long were you in that facility?"

You look down at your baby. "Since I turned 18."

A beat of silence.

Natasha's jaw tightens-just a bit. "That's a long time."

You don't respond.

She nods to your baby, who is sound asleep now.

"What's her name?"

You hesitate-but just for a moment. You are too proud to stay silent.

"Daisy."

You always loved Daisies. Naming her that reminded you of the beautiful world outside of the building. A world you hoped you would get to show her.

Natasha smiles gently. "That's beautiful."

You nod slowly, brushing your fingers through your daughter's hair. "I thought so too."

Natasha leans forward just a little. "Can I ask about her father?"

Your whole body tenses.

Your eyes drop to Daisy's face again. So small. So innocent.

You swallow thickly. "I don't… I don't know him," you admit. "I never met him. Not really." You had only ever seen him in passing.

Natasha's gaze flickers, and you see it-just the briefest flash of concern. Worry.

"It wasn't like that," you say quickly. "No one… touched me. I mean, not—not that way."

She relaxes. Just slightly.

You toke a shaky breath.

"They called it Project Genesis. They told me they wanted to create a weapon with the perfect balance. My mind. His body. His strength. "You brush your fingers across Daisy's head. "I didn't even know whose DNA they used. Not at first."

"You found out?"

You nod slowly. "They left a file out once. I don't think they meant to. I saw his name."

Natasha doesn't speak.

"They called him… the Winter Soldier."

You wonder what happened to him. You stopped seeing him about a month before they stopped showing you Daisy. Had he gotten away? Was he a free man, living his life as normally as he could? Sometimes you wonder if you should have told him. He did have a right to know. If he had gotten away, would he have taken Daisy with him if he knew? Would he have kept her safe?

The room goes so quiet, you could hear your heartbeat.

"I didn't tell him," you whisper. "I was scared. I thought maybe he'd take her. Maybe he'd hurt her. Or… maybe he didn't know. I couldn't risk it. I had to protect her."

You looked up at Natasha, terrified.

"I swear I'm telling the truth."

She didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

Her face said everything.

----3rd POV----

Outside, behind a one-way mirror, the rest of the team watched in stunned silence.

Steve stood stiff, fists clenched. His heart hurt for the woman. She had been forced into a situation no one should ever have to be. And he felt bad for his friend. Bucky had no idea. If Bucky knew he had a child, he would've told Steve. He also would've done everything in his power to save it from the horrors the baby undoubtedly experienced.

Sam glanced at Clint. "Is this even possible? Bucky's never mentioned having a kid before. Could she be lying? Trying to get something from him or us?"

Tony frowned. "HYDRA did a lot of things that shouldn't have been possible. It's not out of the realm to think they would go this far. They were selectively breeding."

"She doesn't know he's here. What's there to gain from lying about him?" Bruce said quietly. "I don't think she's lying."

Steve ran a hand through his hair. "I think she's telling the truth. I mean look at that kid. I knew she looked familiar. It makes sense now. She's got Buck's eyes and hair. We can also do a DNA test, right, Bruce?" he said, voice rough.

Bruce nods. "If he wants one done, I can try to convince Y/N to let us take some blood from the baby." He observes the baby through the glass. "She does look a lot like Bucky."

"We have to tell him." Clint looks around at the group of men.

"Who’s going to do it?" Sam asked.

"I will." Steve volunteers. "It'll be better coming from me."

----- 3rd POV -----

The rhythmic thud of fists against the heavy bag echoed through the training room.

Sweat dripped from Bucky's brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His knuckles-flesh and metal-were raw from the relentless assault. The gym was quiet, empty except for the sound of effort. That's how he liked it.

This was the only place where the memories didn't claw so loudly at the back of his skull.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw faces-bloodied, terrified, dying. Faces he couldn't name. Faces he'd hurt. Even now, even free, the weight of what he'd done pressed against his chest like a boulder he could never move.

So he hit the bag.

Over and over.

Like he could punch his past into silence.

His metal arm whirred with each movement-controlled and brutal. He wasn't training to stay in shape. He was trying to feel something. Anything that wasn't guilt.

But then he heard it.

"Buck."

Steve's voice.

He didn't stop punching. Didn't look.

"I need to talk to you."

Still, he didn't stop. Not until Steve stepped into his line of sight.

Bucky dropped his fists, breathing heavy, strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead. "What is it?"

Steve hesitated.

And that… that was never a good sign.

Steve's voice was low, careful. Like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

"There's a woman here. She was rescued from a HYDRA facility."

Bucky blinked, wiping his face with a towel. "Okay…"

"She was part of an experiment. One of the worst ones. Mental manipulation. Long-term isolation. She's been in there since she was eighteen."

Bucky stiffened.

"I… I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't important."

"Steve," Bucky said, voice a warning. "What are you not saying?" Steve needs to stop beating around the bush.

Steve's throat bobbed.

"She has a daughter."

Bucky frowned. "Okay? So?"

Steve took a step closer. "We're... We're pretty sure she's yours. She looks a lot like you did as a kid. The mother says they used your DNA, Buck."

The words hit him like a bullet to the chest.

"What?"

"She didn't know at first. She found out later. The girl-her name's Daisy-is about two years old. HYDRA created her. They used you."

Bucky staggered back, as if someone had punched him in the gut.

"No." His voice cracked. "No, that's not-That can't be-"

"I know it's a lot," Steve said quickly. "I know. She didn't lie. She didn't even know you were here. She wasn't trying to manipulate anyone. All she's done is try to protect that little girl. If you want more confirmation, we can try to get a DNA test from Daisy. It might take some time to convince her mom to allow us to get close to her, but we can try if you want."

Bucky stared down at his hands.

His right hand-flesh and bone-trembled. His left hand-metal, inhuman-hung limp at his side.

"A kid?" he whispered. "My kid?"

His vision blurred. He didn't realize he was shaking until Steve gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't even know," Bucky rasped. "I didn't even know what they were doing. They took it from me. They used me again."

"I know, Buck."

He turned away, eyes wild. "I don't-What if I'm just like them? What if Daisy's like me? What if-"

"She's not," Steve said, voice firm. "She's sweet. Gentle. She looks at her mother like she's the whole damn world. She's a great kid, Buck."

Bucky's throat closed.

And then the question clawed its way out:

"Does she know I'm here now? The mother… does she hate me?"

"No," Steve said quietly. "She doesn't even blame you. She said she thinks you didn't know. That maybe you were just a name to them. She didn't tell anyone because she was scared. She's just trying to keep her daughter safe."

Bucky sank to the floor.

He didn't speak. Just pressed his face into his hands, breaths coming short and fast. Should I get a DNA test? That might put both the mother and the kid through a lot of trauma. Steve said Daisy looked like me. How could she look like me if she's not somehow related to me? I don't have any family left alive. It couldn't be a niece or something.

A kid.

A real one.

A little girl who existed in this world, who shouldn't, because of him.

And he didn't know if he had the right to see her.

-----

The compound garden was quiet except for the rustle of wind against tree branches and the distant hum of city life beyond the security walls. It didn't feel real, not after the concrete and cold metal of the facility. You still flinch every time someone closes a door too hard.

You sit on a bench near the far edge of the garden, your daughter cradled against your side, her tiny hands sticky with banana. The blanket around her small frame is a borrowed one-soft and blue with tiny stars stitched into the corners. It was Natasha's idea, something comforting and warm to help your daughter adjust.

Your own comfort? That was a different story.

You're still in borrowed clothes. Still tense. Still not sure when someone is going to pull the rug out from under you again.

Daisy's humming a little tune, off-key but sweet. Your hand moves in her hair, soothing her even though she doesn't need it. Maybe you do.

Then came the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps on the gravel path.

You don't move right away. You are used to the sounds of people coming. You'd learned that reacting too quickly made them think you were unstable.

But something about these steps made your body tense. Heavy. Measured.

You turned-and your breath caught.

It was him.

The man from the file. The man from the hallway glimpses when you'd been escorted for testing. The man who made your head race with a million questions.

The Winter Soldier.

No-Bucky Barnes. That's what Natasha calls him.

He looks like a shadow from the past given breath. His long hair is tied back in a loose band, strands escaping around his jaw. He's wearing a hoodie too big for him and boots that look scuffed from use. His vibranium arm shines in the filtered sunlight, catching faint reflections of the world around him.

His face-oh, his face.

He isn't the weapon you remember. He's a man. And he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

He stops several feet away, eyes locked on you, then flickers to the child on your lap. His eyes stay on Daisy as he takes her in, like he's trying to memorize her.

He looks like he wants to speak but doesn't know how.

You sit up straighter, your arms instinctively wrapping more protectively around Daisy. She shifts, sensing your tension.

Bucky notices.

"I-" he starts, voice rough like gravel. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

You don't answer.

"I shouldn't've come," he murmurs. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain. "I didn't want to scare you. I just…"

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to Daisy again.

"She's mine?" he asks quietly.

You nod, slow and cautious. "Yes."

His jaw clenches. He looks like he might collapse under the weight of that one word.

"I didn't know. They didn't tell me," he whispers. "I swear, I didn't know."

"I believe you," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He looks so different then how you'd seen him in the past. His face, which was usually stoic and emotionless, is filled with conflicting feelings. This has to be a lot for him to take in.

His eyes-startlingly blue, filled with pain, finally meet yours.

He takes one step forward and then pauses again. And then, hesitantly, in a voice that barely held together: "Did I-did I hurt you when she… when she was…" He trails off, the words choking in his throat. His eyes drop to the ground. "I hoped I wasn't capable of shit like that but… I don't know. I never know what they made me do. Not really."

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

You know what he meant. He wants to know if they made him rape you. It was too hard for him to say.

That has to be a horrible feeling to experience. Knowing your mind and body could have been potentially used to so horribly violate another person. HYDRA controlled his actions, but in the end, he was the one having to live with the consequences.

"No," you say softly. "You weren't even in the room."

His head jerks up to look at you. He's confused.

"It was in vitro," you clarify. You tear your gaze away from his face, embarrassed by your vulnerable experience. I wish I could've protected myself. Stopped what they did to me. I couldn't, which makes me feel so weak. You continue. "When I was first brought into the facility, they took some of my eggs. They fertilized the egg with your sperm in a lab and then put it back in me. You were never physically involved in it." You try to reassure the man. "They never let me see who the donor was. I didn't know until about a year after Daisy was born."

You push yourself to look at his face.

Relief crashes across his features-brief, raw, and almost too painful to look at. He nods, a quiet breath escaping him, but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders. Then sympathy and regret take over his face as your words settle in his head.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that...I can't imagine what that must've been like. Living in a place like that, in those conditions while pregnant...it's hard enough to survive without a baby." Bucky apologizes like it's his fault. Like he had put you through that situation. "If I had known...I would've tried to get you both out or helped you. It's not fair that you had to do that alone." He speaks genuinely.

"It's not your fault. They used you like they used me. There's nothing you could've done. They would have killed you or sent you away." I don't hold a grudge against him.

"Still, I'm very sorry."

You look at him again-really looked at him-and realize something that unsettles you.

He's just as scared as you are.

And just as broken.

There was silence between you. Heavy, aching silence. You both had experienced so much at the hands of the same people. While your journeys were different, you were both left with trauma and nightmares. You both missed time with your daughter.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." It's your turn to apologize. "About her. I-I didn't know what you were going to do or react. If you would even care. I didn't know if it was safe to tell you. I couldn't risk being hurt and getting killed or losing the time they allowed me to see her." You nervously continue. "I had seen you a few times in the halls. You always looked angry and emotionless. Like a cold weapon. I was nervous to talk to you."

Bucky face is stiff. His eyes, however, hold sadness. " I'm sorry. I couldn't control myself. They killed my personality and feelings. You did what you had to. She comes first. I'll never be angry for you putting her well-being first."

He isn't how you expected. Well, you didn't really know what to expect. It makes you sad he didn't get to spend time with her at all. At least you saw her once a week. This is the first time he's met her. While you missed a few milestones, he had missed them all. That's time he could never get back.

Then Daisy stirs.

She blinks up at the stranger, her small brows furrowing. "Mama?" she whispers.

You smooth a hand over her hair. "It's okay, sweetheart."

Bucky slowly crouches down, still not closing the distance.

He looks at Daisy with a softness that shocks you. His metal hand flexes on his knee, uncertain.

"She's… beautiful," he says, voice cracking.

Your throat tightens. "She is."

"How old?"

"Almost two and a half."

He nods slowly, trying to work the math in his head. "God…"

You see him glance toward her again.

He wants to reach out. You can tell.

But he doesn't.

And that matters more than anything else-he doesn't assume he has a right to her. He respects you. He's willing to go at your pace.

"Do you… do you want to sit?" you ask hesitantly.

He looks up, shocked. Then nods, barely breathing.

"I'll stay back here," he promises, lowering himself to the far end of the bench. "Just wanted to see her. That's all."

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as Daisy nibbles on the banana again, still watching him with curiosity. She giggles and waves at him with a wide grin.

Bucky's lips curl into a pained smile. He waves back.

"He good guy?" she asks, glancing at you.

You pause.

You look at Bucky again.

The sorrow on his face. The weight on his shoulders.

"I think he's trying to be," you said quietly.

----- 3rd POV -----

Bucky didn't remember walking back into the compound.

He remembered standing up from the bench with a nod and a faint, careful thank you to Y/N. He remembered Daisy waving her banana at him in a tiny, sticky goodbye. He remembered the ache in his chest when he looked at them one last time.

But after that, it was a blur.

Now he was back in the gym, his hoodie on the floor, fists slamming into the punching bag like it had personally ruined his life. Sweat clung to his skin, hair stuck to his forehead, and the fabric of his shirt felt suffocating. The leather wrap on his right hand had already started to fray.

Wham.

Wham.

WHAM.

"You're gonna break the wall if you keep that up."

Bucky didn't stop punching, but his jaw tensed. "Maybe it deserves it."

Steve stepped into view, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His voice was steady, but soft. "You went to see her?"

Bucky exhaled through his nose and gave the bag one last blow before stepping back. His chest heaved. "Yeah."

Steve didn't say anything for a long moment. He just waited.

Bucky ripped off the wraps on his hands, tossing them onto the floor. "Y/N, she's scared of me."

"She's been through hell," Steve said quietly.

"I know that," Bucky snapped, more at himself than Steve. "I saw it. I saw it all over her face. Every time I moved too fast, every time I even looked at her wrong, she flinched like I was going to-"

He broke off, dragging a hand over his face.

"I didn't mean to scare her."

Steve walked closer. "You didn't mean to have a kid, either."

Bucky barked a humorless laugh. "No, I didn't. Hydra made that choice for both of us. Took what they wanted, like they always did. Used me to make a baby and used her to carry it. That shit is cruel. All those procedures Y/N had to endure...going through pregnancy in a place like that. A time that was supposed to be happy for most must've been a nightmare for her. Yeah, they took sperm from me, but that was the end of my job. They made her carry Daisy and suffer alone. The fear she must've felt, Steve. The pain. And she had no one there to support her." Bucky was pissed and guilty.

He had wanted kids when he was younger. Before the war, he wanted a family. He wanted to be there for his wife, whoever she was, when the time came for them to have kids. He wanted to help her and be there to get everything she needed or wanted. He felt like it was the responsiblity of the father to be there to support the mother of their child. He hadn't known, so he wasn't able to be there. That hurt. Besides that, he missed so many milestones. Daisy's first laugh, first word. And so many more.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, pacing a few steps away. "You know what's messed up? For a second-I was terrified I'd hurt her. That they made me violate her..." He swallowed the bile crawling up his throat at the thought. "But she said it was in vitro. That I wasn't even there. And I was relieved. Relieved I didn't hurt her."

"That's not messed up," Steve said. "That's human. It'd be messed up if you didn't care what had happened to her."

Bucky slumped onto a bench, metal hand resting on his thigh. "She said she'd seen me before. That I looked cold. Like a weapon."

Steve sat beside him, not too close. "You were being used as one."

"It doesn't matter. That face still haunts her. Still haunts me."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She was trying so hard to be brave. Holding that little girl like her life depended on it. Maybe it does."

Steve was quiet for a moment. "Did you look at her?"

Bucky glanced sideways. "The baby?"

Steve nodded.

Bucky's voice dropped to a whisper. "She’s perfect, Steve. Big eyes. Wild hair. She's got this laugh-she laughed at me. Me. Can you believe that?" His lips pulled into a soft, disbelieving smile. Then it faded.

"I don't know what to do. She's scared of me. Rightfully so. I don't even know what I am to that little girl. I don't know if I'm good enough to be a dad. I've never had a responsibility like that. I didn’t choose any of this."

"No," Steve agreed. "But you're here now. You're going to be a great dad, Bucky. You're just going to need to learn a little bit. There's nothing wrong with that. Y/N is still learning too."

Bucky closed his eyes, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. "What if I mess this up?"

Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and sure. "Then you keep trying. You show up and try again. You don't give up on your kid. And you let them set the pace."

------

You watch Daisy sleep from across the room, arms wrapped around your knees, curled into yourself like you used to in your cell.

The compound was too quiet sometimes. Not the same kind of terrifying quiet like HYDRA, but… too peaceful. Like silence, you hadn't earned.

You could still feel the warmth of the bench under your body. Still see the careful way Bucky had kept his distance. The way he'd crouched like he wasn't sure if he should even breathe too close to your daughter.

Our daughter.

This isn't how you had planned to have a family. As a young girl, you had always wanted to have a family someday. You wanted a lot of things. You want to graduate from Harvard with honors and get into a great graduate program. You wanted an amazing career in an industry where you could make a difference with the help of your intelligence. You wanted to find a man who loved you completely, no matter how much you weighed or what you looked like. You wanted to get married and have children in a beautiful home you worked hard for. You wanted your husband to be there when you gave birth to your babies, to be able to share the moment with you. You wanted your husband to be able to share your baby's beautiful moments and milestones with you. You wanted to throw birthday parties and show your baby off. You wanted so much.

And you got none of it.

You didn't get to graduate or get married. You didn't get to fall and love and have support through your pregnancy. You were forced through hundreds of tests, surgeries, and experiments until your bubbly, confident self was turned into a shell of who you were. You were forced to experience the heartbreak of being forcibly impregnated by a stranger, growing a bond with your baby, delivering her in a traumatic setting, and then getting her taken away.

You shiver at the thought.

You had seen his face in so many nightmares. Those glimpses in the hallway, the times he'd walked by in black gear with no emotion behind his eyes. The Winter Soldier. A ghost of war, of death, of silence.

Now that face had looked at you with fear. Guilt.

And tenderness.

He had looked at Daisy like she was made of stardust. Like she was the one good thing in a world full of pain.

Your heart twisted.

You wanted to hate him. To blame him. That would be easier than trying to navigate this next stage in life.

But he hadn't been in the room. He hadn't made the choice. He hadn't known.

Neither had you.

You reach up and touch your side, remembering the cold, sterile ache of the implantation procedure. The way they drugged you and stole pieces of you before violating your body and forcing you to take those changed pieces back. Remembering the nurse who whispered, "You should be honored. He's the pinnacle of perfection. Your child will be a masterpiece."

You blink hard, pressing your forehead to your knees. Rage and shame twist in your stomach.

You hadn't even known his name when Daisy started to grow inside her. Just a number. A file. A myth.

And now he was real.

So painfully real.

You weren't ready. You wanted to be-but you weren't. Not yet.

But the way he'd looked at Daisy…

It made something shift in you.

A glimmer of hope.

A flicker of trust.

You didn't know what was going to happen next. Didn't know if you could ever let him in completely. But maybe-just maybe-Daisy could have the chance at something better.

Maybe they all could.

------

It was late afternoon when the hallway outside the common room falls quiet again, the golden sunlight slants across the polished floors. The Avengers Compound always seems to hum with a soft, underlying rhythm-doors closing gently, distant voices, the faint clinking of cups or laughter echoing down corridors.

You sit on the floor with Daisy again, this time carefully braiding your daughter's hair-short, wavy strands that refuse to stay in the little plaits. Daisy keeps giggling and squirming, half-playing, half-patient. A picture book lies forgotten on the rug, open to a page about rainbows.

It feels… almost normal. A warmth in your chest you don't dare name yet.

You don't hear him at first.

"Um… hi." The voice was gravel-soft. Low. Hesitant.

You look up slowly, hands still tangled in your daughter's hair.

Bucky stands a few feet away, not moving any closer, shoulders drawn in like he's trying to make himself smaller. He's wearing a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the glint of his metal arm. His eyes, usually so guarded, are careful now-open in a quiet way, like he's trying not to spook you.

You stiffen slightly, but don't pull Daisy into your lap the way you might've just a few days ago.

He notices.

"I-I didn't mean to interrupt," he says quickly, raising one hand in a peaceable gesture. "I just… I was wondering if I could… if I could talk to her. To Daisy. Just for a little bit."

His voice cracks slightly on the name.

You blink. Daisy keeps playing with her plush porcupine, blissfully unaware of the tension between the two adults hovering above her.

"I wouldn't-" Bucky looks down at his boots, then up at you again, almost painfully slow. "I wouldn't touch her. Or scare her. I'd just… like to sit nearby. Maybe say hi. If that's okay."

There's a long silence. The kind where you can hear every breath.

You look at him-really look at him. He isn't trying to loom or press. If anything, he looks like he's bracing for you to flinch. For you to say no. For you to shut him down completely.

And yet… he's still here.

Still trying.

"Yeah sure. She's just playing," You say, finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "You can sit. If you want."

The relief that passes through Bucky's body isn't loud-but you feel it, somehow. Like something in the air softened.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

He steps over slowly and settles on the floor, leaving a comfortable space between them. He sits cross-legged, not facing Daisy directly-just angled enough to be part of the circle, but not too close. He doesn't speak right away. Just watches.

Daisy looks up from her toy and blinks at the new face.

She tilts her head.

Then offers him her porcupine.

Bucky lets out a breath of laughter, barely audible, as he reaches forward with a hand that trembles just slightly.

"That for me?" he asks softly.

Daisy nodded solemnly. "His name's Pokey."

He takes the plush in his large, careful hands and holds it like it is something delicate. "Pokey, huh? That's a good name."

You watch them both. Your hands drop from your daughter's hair as you sit back against the couch, unsure of what to feel. Your heart is beating a little too fast.

Daisy begins stacking plastic cups again. Her porcupine now rests between her and Bucky, like a silent peace offering.

"She likes you," You say after a beat. "I can tell."

"She's brave," Bucky says, watching her. "She's got your smile."

The compliment stirs something warm in your chest, though you don't show it.

You two sat like that for a while. Not friends. Not strangers. Something in between. A fragile beginning.

And Bucky doesn't push. He just stays.

Careful. Quiet.

Present.

----3rd POV----

Bucky sat alone on the balcony connected to his room, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his mouth. The sky was slipping into dusk, streaked in lilac and orange, and the air carried that subtle shift toward nighttime-the kind of cool that made you breathe a little deeper.

He hadn't moved for nearly an hour.

The image of Daisy-stacking plastic cups with gentle concentration, her nose scrunched, her little fingers brushing his when she passed him the porcupine-played on repeat in his mind.

She didn't know who he was.

And still, she smiled.

Still, she trusted him-instinctively, openly, like no one ever had without reason.

It was unbearable in the best and worst way.

The door behind him opened softly.

He didn't look back.

"Figured I'd find you out here," Steve said, stepping onto the balcony with two mugs in hand.

Bucky took one without a word. It was warm-chamomile or something equally Steve-like.

They sat in silence for a few long beats. The kind of silence only decades of friendship could make comfortable.

Steve finally spoke.

"How'd it go?"

Bucky let out a breath through his nose.

"She let me sit," he said. "That's more than I expected."

"She trusts you?" Steve asked gently.

"No. Not yet," Bucky murmured. "But she didn't flinch when I talked. She didn't grab Daisy and run."

Steve nodded. "That's progress."

"She looked scared of me," Bucky said finally, softly. "Even though she was trying not to be. I know that look."

Steve tilted his head, studying his best friend.

"And Daisy?" he asked.

"She gave me a damn stuffed animal," Bucky said, shaking his head. "Called it Pokey. Just… handed it to me like she already knew I wasn't gonna hurt her."

There was a beat of silence.

"I didn't think I'd ever get this," Bucky said, almost too quietly. "A kid. Even just… knowing there's someone out there who's part of me."

Steve set his mug down carefully on the railing.

"You didn't get this, Buck. It was taken from you. From both of you."

Bucky nodded slowly, staring at the darkening horizon. His hands clenched around the mug.

"I want to know her," he said. "But I don't wanna push Y/N. I don't wanna be that guy who comes in and messes it all up just because I showed up too late."

Steve looked at him, steady and kind.

"You being cautious already tells me you're not gonna mess it up. You care. You're trying. That counts."

Bucky exhaled deeply.

"I just hate that HYDRA used us both like that," he said. "Violated her. Used my DNA like it meant nothing. I feel like I'm walking into a house made of glass. One wrong word and it all shatters."

Steve nodded again, silent in understanding.

"You'll figure it out," he said. "She'll see it."

Bucky didn't answer. Just stared at the horizon, holding the warmth of the tea in his hands like an anchor.

----

The compound was quiet again.

You stand at the crib beside your bed, your fingers brushing softly over Daisy's soft hair. The toddler was fast asleep-tucked up tight, one arm around Pokey, the other sprawled across her blanket.

She looked so small like that. Fragile. But she wasn't, not really. Daisy had known nothing but chaos and confinement, and yet she still smiled. Still trusted.

Still shared her toys.

You turn away and sit down on the bed, your knees pulled up toward your chest. The sheets were soft. Clean. The scent of lavender drifted from the pillow.

It was all so different from the concrete cell.

From the cold, sterile walls of the lab.

And yet you couldn't stop the way your heart pounded anytime you saw someone unexpected in the hallway. Couldn't stop the way your body tensed when someone spoke too loudly. Couldn't stop glancing at the exits.

One of the moments with Bucky played in your head over and over.

His voice, low and cautious. The way he sat across from you, like he didn't want to breathe too loudly.

"Did I… did I hurt you…"

You swallow hard, your chest tightening again.

He'd been so careful. So afraid that he had done something monstrous without knowing. And when you told him he hadn't, you saw him breathe again. Like someone had finally taken the weight off his chest.

He wasn't the man who hurt you.

He'd never even been there.

And yet… he was the man whose face haunted you back then. Cold. Silent. Deadly. The Winter Soldier had passed by your cell more than once. You remembered the way guards stood straighter. How even the doctors looked nervous.

But this Bucky?

This was someone else entirely.

Gentle and broken.

And you didn't know what to do with that.

How could someone be the ghost in your nightmares and also the man your child smiled at?

You curled tighter into yourself and closed your eyes. Your body ached with memory and fatigue. Your heart-felt stretched thin with confusion and fear and… something else. Something warmer that you didn't dare name.

Not yet.

But maybe, if he stayed gentle… if he kept giving them space and showing up without demanding anything…

Maybe you could learn how to name it.

----

Bucky now spent a little more time with you and Daisy every few days-never too long, always careful not to push. Sometimes he brought little things for Daisy: a new picture book, a wooden toy. He always checked with you first.

And you two started to talk.

It started out slow with things like 'How are you?', 'Do you like the tower?', or just general conversation about the baby.

"She reminds me of Becca sometimes," Bucky says one afternoon as Daisy scribbled chalk shapes on the pavement. His soft eyes gaze down at her, a small smile curling on his lips. "My sister."

You tilt your head. "Was she older or younger?"

"Younger," he says, his smile widening at a memory. "Bossy. Tougher than I ever was."

You smile back. "I had a brother. He was older. He… tried to stop them when they came for me."

Bucky looks over, eyes shaded with something dark and aching. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," you whisper. "I don't even know if he made it."

Bucky gives you a sad smile. "My sister got sick and died a long time ago. This was after HYDRA got to me."

There was silence for a moment, not heavy-but shared. Bucky sits back on the bench, arms resting on his knees.

"You were only eighteen," he murmurs. "I read your file."

Your stomach clenches. "Oh."

"No- I just…" He sits up straighter. "I'm not trying to dig into your past. I just-wanted to understand. What they did to you, what they made you go through…"

His voice cracks a little, then hardens again. "It's not fair. None of it."

You look at him carefully. He was trying to understand you. "It wasn't your fault."

"But it's still part of me," he says. "HYDRA's part of me. And I hate that."

You are quiet for a while. Then softly you speak: "They tried to break both of us. But we're still here."

He looks at you. Really looked. There was something in his eyes-a kind of admiration you didn't know how to respond to. He gives you space, respects every boundary. And still, there's warmth. There's safety.

And you were beginning to feel it.

Your chest aches with something too complex to name. You knew you were starting to like him. To care. But you couldn't let it show. Not yet.

You turn your eyes to Daisy, who is now chalking a stick figure with dark hair.

Bucky smiles faintly beside her. "That one's me, isn't it?"

You laugh under your breath. "Looks like it. Strong jaw and everything."

He grins, and for a moment-just a fleeting second-you feel like a girl again. Not a prisoner. Not a lab rat. Just someone…normal.

And that was new.

---

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU

[powerofthemindmotivation]

528hz Soul Awakening: Powerful DNA Repair Meditation for Spiritual Trans...

[todays-xkcd]

Our nucleic acid recovery techinques found a great deal of homo sapiens DNA incorporated into the fossils, particularly the ones containing high levels of resin, leading to the theory that these dinosaurs preyed on the once-dominant primates.

Late Cenozoic [Explained]

Transcript Under the Cut

[Three squid-like aliens in a classroom; one alien stands in front of a board covered with minute text and a drawing of a T-Rex skeleton. Two aliens sit on stools watching the teacher alien. The teacher alien on the left is on a raised platform and points at the board with one tentacle.] Left alien: Species such as triceratops and tyrannosaurus became more rare after the Cretaceous, but they survived to flourish in the late Cenozoic, 66 million years later. Left alien: Many complete skeletons have been discovered from this era.

[Caption below the panel:] It's going to be really funny when our museums get buried in sediment.

[heaven-s-black-box]

Silence- Ensemble

Return to File- Event Masterlist

Recovery date: July 8th, 2025

Description: Terrible Tuesday, Baseball/softball week. Sawamura is sick and no one wants to admit how weird it is.

Notes: Heads up, the fics for the next two days won't have their links updated until late Thursday or early Friday. Sorry! You can find the next entry here.

Word count: 661

Back to directory

Sawamura Eijun does not get sick.

Some say it's because he’s too stupid (his family), and some say it's his country boy immune system (also his family). So when the Seidou boys baseball team is struck with a terrible case of the flu, everyone is baffled to see him still running with his tire. How is he not sick?!

He's at least calmer, trying not to disturb Kuramochi and Asada's rest. He also doesn’t fuss about running errands if someone needs something.

However, he’s still brimming with positive energy.

“Sawamoron! Get up!”

The pitcher grumbles and curls further in on himself, pulling his blanket to his chin. Asada watches Kuramochi glare at the pile of blankets that is the second year pitcher.

“Oi!”

Kuramochi yanks the blankets off and- Sawamura… doesn’t respond? No indignant yells? Not even flailing for his blanket?

The pitcher just wraps his arms around himself and looks back over his shoulder with glassy eyes.

“Kuramochi-senpai, it's so cold,” he sniffs.

Asada and Kuramochi stare slack jawed.

Sawamura Eijun is… sick?

Kuramochi wordlessly drapes the blanket back over him and leaves the room in a strange daze. Asada looks over the safety rail at Sawamura as he buries himself back in his blanket and falls back asleep. He’s always noisy in his sleep, but with a stuffy nose he’s even louder. The first year pitcher is left wondering how they hadn’t noticed sooner.

They show up to morning practice and are greeted by Miyuki.

“What, you guys stay up late playing video games again?” He laughs.

“Sawamura’s sick,” Kuramochi says, sounding almost unsure like he’s still processing it.

Miyuki immediately stops laughing.

“You’re serious?”

That seemed to snap him back to his senses because he glared at Miyuki and said, “No, he just decided to sleep in. Yes, I’m serious!”

“Damn…” Miyuki walks off towards the bull pen talking to himself. “I didn’t think he could get sick.”

Kuramochi tells Asada to go start warming up while he lets the coach know Sawamura is sick. By the time he makes it out to the others, everyone has heard that their favorite loud mouth pitcher won’t be joining them today. There are mixed reactions.

Haruichi is outwardly a bit concerned. Sure it’s just a cold, but Sawamura never gets sick. Maybe he’s really stressed about something? Furuya is also concerned, though you wouldn’t guess it. He asks Kuramochi when Sawamura will be back, and then goes back to warming up.

Some people, notably Kanemaru, are looking forward to the quiet. Well, as quiet as practice gets. That’s not to say Kanemaru isn’t worried.

Everyone was expecting to enjoy the silence. Sure Sawamura was great at raising morale, but early Saturday morning was not when people wanted to deal with his… everything.

They lasted one lap around the field.

It was early, so Miyuki wasn’t planning on starting his call and response until the third lap. Maybe half way through the second if he felt people weren’t reasonably picking up the pace. There was no problem with that but… it was too quiet.

Normally Sawmaura would have pulled way ahead, yelling at the top of his lungs and Furuya would be hot on his heels. Not wanting to be out done, the second and third years would pick up the pace.

Today there’s nothing but cleats on grass and heavy breathing so, Miyuki pushes his exhaustion to the side and-

“Osh! Osh, Osh, Osh!”

That wasn’t what he meant to say, he blamed his sleep-addled brain and– begrudgingly– having Sawamura on the brain.

But it works.

“Osh! Osh, Osh, Osh!” Comes the response from behind him.

So he calls again, and receives the same response.

There is a silent agreement that no one will tell Sawamura about this, and that they will complain it’s too early for his energy tomorrow morning, but they are all forced to admit that Sawamura being sick leaves a lot of slack for everyone else.

[ludwigplayingthetrombone]

Post war/coma comic about Gai struggling with his recovery

Since tumblr hates long form comics, I have to split this into 2 bc its 36 images. This is the first part, part 2 i'll either do as a reblog or a separate post right after this, stay tuned! Links to support me in pinned post <3

tw: s*icidal thoughts, injury, a little blood

Bisuke: Gai's Back!

Gai: GRAAH!

Kks: Im home Gai: Welcome back Kks: [wheels rolling] Hey,

Kks: Ga-!? Gai: Im fine. The tile is cool on my face. Kks: Wanna go lay down in bed? Gai: I am so /sick/ of lying down. Kks: Ok. What do you want for supper?

Gai: You're not going to comment? Kks: I already know what happened. You overdid it again. I should be able to keep up with chores, kakashi. Kks: You can. Just don' bull through it all in one go. Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Gai: Please don't. Kks: I know sitting still is hard for you, and "too much" is in your DNA, but you have to take this slow so you don't exacerbate your injuries, Gai. You went from hyper-aware to pretending your body limits dont exist. Gai: Like you haven't done the same.

Gai: You've proved your point. Kks: It's not about that. And you've dragged me to bed and out of bed repeatedly when I needed it. You were burning alive from the inside. Tsunade told you your immune system is out of whack. You need to take it easy. /I/ know you're capable, but are you trying to prove to /yourself/ you are? Gai: You want me to admit my embarrassment? Kks: If something serioud happens, You'll be even more embarrassed then

Gai: How could you possibly know how I FEEL?! How could you EVER KNOW HOW I FEEL?! Kks: I DON'T! But I've /been/ the one ouking and sobbing on your bathroom floor because I couldn't take living anymore! And I don't want that for YOU!

Kks: I'm sorry, Gai. Gai: I'm sorry

Kks: I can't stand knowing you're in pain, and I can't get you help. If there was a way, I'd do anything. Gai: You do so much to help me already.... And I yelled at you Kks: I've screamed at you so much, that was pretty tame. I wish I was like you with things like this. Not great with what to say...... But I can listen.

Gai: I hate feeling so weak. I'm tired all the time, in constant pain, I can't even walk-..... I can tell tenten and the boys worry despite my efforts to appear positive. Kks: They're just not sure how to react. They know you hate being babied, but don't want to push you into hurting yourself. You hate being told you can't do something. They love you. You get stronger everyday, everyone is cheering you on.

Gai: I know it's irrational, but... I feel like you gave up the Hokage position to take care of me. Kks: Haa!? I'm grateful if anything. I'd be retired too if I could. That'd be amazing. I'm dreading just helping Tsunade but as long as you're by my side, I'll be fine. We're still equals, rivals, friends, partners

Gai: Even if I can't- Kks: /Always/ wil be, dickhead. Gai: You worry about me hurting myself? Kks: I know you think about it

Kks: We're the same in that regard Gai: I would never act on this, please believe me, these thoughts are rare........... Kks: It's ok, Gai. Gai: Sometimes I think i should have just died. I feel so out of place on the streets I used to feel so at home at. I never asked to live. I didn't plan to. I just don't know how to-...

Kks: I understand that. Though, dying didn't feel any better. Gai: I know I didn't fully pass like you did. I didn't see papa. Just for a moment, I wish I could have seen him.

Kks: As much as I'm sure he wants to see you again, It's too soon. Dai'd slap the shit out of you for wanting to waste your youth just to see him. Gai: [chuckle] probably. Kks: I have those thoughts less and less now, but they're still there. "why am I the one who survives?" "Burden" "Gai will come to his senses eventually"

Gai: FALSE!! None of my grief is with you! I love living here with you! My love for you only burns hotter each day! You're so lovely inside and out! Kks: Maa What did I do to deserve such praise from teh mouth of the hottest man in Konoha?? Gai: YOU STILL THINK I'M HOT?! Kks: YOU-! [CACKLE]

Kks: Your bad taste is the only reason I had a chance before someone snatched you up. Gai: The worst. Kks: Thought we'd irritate eachother, but it's been pretty smooth. Even though you still get played by the dogs. Gai: You really wanna throw those stones?

Gai: They play you just as easily. don't lie. Kks: My point is, whatever you need from me, you have it. No questions asked. Even if you yell and scream, i can take it. You held me together when I was unraveling, and I'll never forget it. Didn't trust anyone else to see me like that. Broken

Gai: I never saw you as that. Kks: I'll never see you as that

[tamayakii]

grayson daughter au blurb before work

The recovery post!Chicago was another layer of trauma for you, but having your brother there beside you gave you some comfort, the thought that you weren't alone in this did in someway help you from spiraling.

Obviously, you weren't as injured as Mark was, but you still were unable to walk due to broken legs, your dominant arm was just barely saved, thanks to the GDA’s advanced technology. Your ribs were also broken. A miracle they say. Somehow your lungs weren’t punctured, same with other vital organs.

Guess your viltrumite DNA did help you out in the end.

You went home in a wheelchair, for most of the day your eyes were on the ground. You didn’t even really think about where you were going until your mom pushed the wheelchair over the step of your front porch.

It was as if the house wasn’t destroyed with bullet, it practically shined it was so clean.

“Couch..” You wheeze, trying to stifle a cough. Your throat and chest ached as you spoke, doctors recommended. Being transferred from the chair to the couch was just as tedious as getting in and out of the car.

Your mother went upstairs and your brother floated around the house. You let your weary eyes fall shut, sliding to lay down on the couch rather than sit.

After a couple of minutes, a knock came from the front door. You didn’t pay attention to the conversation Mark was having with Amber.

Your body flinched at the sound of the doorbell, heart beginning race. Breathe, Breathe. You are okay. You are fine. You tense again as you hear footsteps coming to close, you don’t open your eyes-

Mark kisses your forehead, dragging a throw-blanket off the back of the couch and tenderly tucking you in.

He smells just like dad.

Mark leaves, leaving you in the silence of the living room. Your bottom lip wobbles, a quiet sob falls from your lips.

This whole house smelled.

It smelled like him.

throws this at you, eat up children, eat up.

[s-4pphics]

mourn. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: grief: the curse of remembrance. 

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: HEAVY ANGST—TW: MENTIONS OF DRUG ADDICTION, VIOLENCE, DEATH, AND EMOTIONAL/PHYSICAL ABUSE. be cautious and gentle with yourself pls.

retired*streetracer!ellie[envisioned as santabarbara!ellie], drugdealer!reader, lots of time skips, underage use of drugs, mentions of therapy/recovery and relapse, brief mention of weapons[knives, guns(future)], anxiety attacks, parental loss/grief, allusions to ellie having chronic insomnia, hurt/no comfort

A/N: uh. so it’s been over a year LOL. sorry💔. teaser and intro for context :) love u

She’s always loved the scent of burnt rubber. 

Tires have an acquired smell, much like the gas that gets them spinning. No matter how often racers get forced to inhale the scent of fire, their noses never adapt. 

Just hers, apparently. The odor brings an odd sense of comfort. Remembrance. Joel would get a crack at that if he knew: an estranged adoptee picking up his bad habit of secretly sniffing scorched oil. 

Even you hated the scent despite having always played backseat driver. Ellie secretly enjoyed listening to you rave about potential danger; the crashes, her dying from mechanical complications like an explosion. She found it funny. After all this time, it’s still just as satisfying to know that her allegations have always been right: you’re a fucking hypocrite, the last person that should be worried about danger. 

It’s what you embody. What you attract. All that you are. 

She had an inkling when she first met you, yet she still allowed you to bleed into her, overtake her own DNA, intertwine your cells until separation meant death. 

Temptations creep every once in a while to call and see if you’re still alive, especially in times like this. Sporadic, unpredictable. In a constant state of mourning. She’s known to be reckless no thanks to you; in and outside of her car, so what would a call hurt? 

She’ll always live the same way—the way you taught her; impulsive and dumb. Everything Joel instilled in her is long gone. 

She knows you miss her. It’s felt when the blinds welcome the sun into her bedroom in the morning, when she’s eating. Sleeping. Talking to no one. 

If the universe has written out that reunion, she’ll just have to accept it. She’s unsure if she misses you or not—a constant battle that she’s forced to internalize, she despises the topic. Linda only knows bits and pieces of your relationship, and with good reason. Ellie doesn’t have many great things to say whenever she remembers. Therapy is exhausting enough as it is. 

Her mother’s car, Joel’s driveway, the front yard, it’s all the exact same besides the dead plants. It feels like centuries have passed since she’s been outside. The summer air nearly suffocated her the second she locked the front door. 

After all this time, sitting in the driver’s side feels like a sin, keys nearly kin to a weapon. Overwhelmed with guilt; if Anna were here, what would she say about her only child? Her appearance? Her decisions thus far? One of the reason she hates driving this cursed fucking car; her mind reels into dark places, but she needs this. She’s dying for this release. 

So, she swallows whatever’s stuck in her throat and cranks all the windows down. She wants her skin to memorize the wind of her last drive. 

No music. Just her and her mom. 

The hot air always reminds her of the first time. 

Forced into battle with a bunch of strangers by you, but oddly enough, despite the bullshit… It was the best night of her life. The only birthday she remembers besides her first with Joel. 

The keys to the Supra felt like a nail bomb—sharp and cold, chain linked to a pocket knife that was linked to a dice block that was linked to something in another language. Micah’s most prized possession… she’ll never forget that son of a bitch. 

No one knew that you both were children: another thing you loved lying about. You loved feeling mature, fitting into a crowd you didn’t belong to. She doesn’t remember the last time you hung out with people your own age. It was always the two of you amongst college students, mid-aged fuckers, a few grandpas thrown in the mix at random periods. Fucking weirdos, but they never knew, because oddly enough, Ellie never snitched you both out. 

Sitting in Micah’s driver’s seat felt like getting stabbed with a thousand needles… while also being fed grapes like a king on a throne. The strangest sensations: pride, fear, jealousy, concern, fear. She had to adjust his seat multiple times just so she could reach the pedals. 

She studied the dashboard, just how she was taught: coolant temp, check engine light, mileage, brake systems. It was all there, shiny and seemingly futuristic, all while you strapped in beside her with your second cigarette, eyes filled with intrigue. You’d said something in your state of awe, but she doesn’t remember what. All she recalls was the reaction of her heart: thumping and eager to hear more. 

The keys shoved into the ignition, and the car roared like… 

Aslan. The door to Narnia unlocked to relinquish all fairytale creatures. She fell so deeply in love at that moment, the vibrations from the engine shook her from the inside out, hands squeezed around the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened and bones cracked. 

Surrounding cars had already revved up to pull out of the driveway, zoomed off to some fucking where; she blacked out with excitement on the way, but the destination had been wide enough to line up twelve rides. 

She’d been so timid, it’s laughable now. She purposefully missed the first countdown because spectators were snickering at her seatbelt being on and it scared her. That threat from Micah flashed through her head like floodlights. 

But they were kind(?) enough to let her start-up again. Maybe to laugh some more, she’s not sure. 

She lost that race—she lost all seven of them, but she drove, pedal to the metal through every single one no matter how the car spun out of control, going a minimum a hundred miles an hour, all while you screamed and laughed your head off with your eyes squeezed shut and hair wild from the wind. Ellie had never been so happy, never laughed that much, never had so much control. 

Dominance. A power she’d never experienced until that moment; the second she had it, it was hers, claimed for the rest of her life. 

No matter how high she’d gotten, the euphoria from that night was never found again. 

All nights lead to dawn, though. Soon enough, you two returned to that crummy garage on cloud nine. 

Only to crash back down to Earth with fear; you’d quaintly told Ellie to leave without you.

I’ll be fine, just go. 

I’m not fucking leaving you here! 

You never listen, do you? Just fucking go!

She prefers to block out the feeling when you shoved her away—pierced with negligence. Micah was on you like a shadow, lingering behind while his teeth glowed with that same sinister smile. 

Ellie called you a million times when she got home that night, but you never answered. Joel had to babysit her through two bone-rattling anxiety attacks. Because she was scared: of what would happen to you if she didn’t act, what would happen to her if you found out she sent the police to that same address of the party. 

Two weeks of radio silence. She couldn’t stop vomiting from nerves of unknowing: if you were dead or alive, harmed, injured, dead dead dead, that’s all she could think about. You were dead; that’s why her messages and calls went unanswered, why you weren’t in class, why she couldn’t sleep. Your soul was keeping her awake, punishing her with unrest for being a goddamn snitch. A rat. 

But that following Monday, you waltzed into third period like nothing happened. Like you weren’t missing. Just ridiculously bundled from head to toe despite the humidity that Spring. 

Whenever she asked of your whereabouts, she was met with laughter. Uncontrollable hysteria, beaming smiles before applying verbal band-aids. 

Just got caught up. Don’t worry about it. 

I’m fine, just had shit going on. 

I’ve told you a million times that I’m fucking fine! How many fucking times do I have to tell your ass—

… That was less of a band-aid. More like a knife to the chest, but you always patched up the wounds you left behind. 

Did you ever find out she called the police? Where are all those people now? How did you expect her not to worry? 

Questions that’ll forever go unanswered. 

After all these years, you’ve never reached out. Not to say happy birthday, not to give condolences when her dad died, never apologized for ruining her fucking life, nothing. You could be dead, who knows. She doesn’t dwell on the thought for too long, it sickens her all over again; she’s had enough loss to last ten lifetimes. So she settles: you were a figment of her imagination, her mind playing tricks on her, a mere hallucination that tempted her with man-made substances. 

It’s humiliating to acknowledge sometimes: what if she never got high with you that day? Would she still be overly passionate about cars? She likes to think so, just to feel her regret that much deeper: of meeting you, of allowing you to convince her that she’d be okay as long as she blindly followed. It’s a complicated punishment; she hates your guts, but you were her safe space for so long. 

…Will she ever really hate you? 

WINTER OF ‘19

Ay, Williams! 

Nerves sizzle underneath her nails at the sharp call of her name. If annoyance wasn’t already spurring in her chest, she would’ve welcomed any distraction. Anything to take her mind off her impending doom. 

But it’s Rodney. Fucking dipshit.

Her disdain gets masked to the best of her ability, but she’s agitated, lip curled with every scratch of his soles on the dirt as he chases after her. All these loud, rambunctious wranglers and somehow, she’s still his main spectacle. 

Darling! 

She almost vomits. The closer he gets, the more the wind wafts his scent in her direction. He smells like shit always, not to mention it’s fucking freezing, but she knows better than to voice her grievances out loud. The last time a minor objection was expressed, bullets went flying. No losses, thankfully. Only diminished trust and a busted windshield. Too many hotheads drive these plains. 

Why the hell did Ellie accept the offer to race in the fucking desert of all places? Every gust sends another whirl of rocky dust directly through her already blocked sinuses. The rough sleeve of her hoodie is scratching the skin below her nose. 

I know you hear me! 

A damning curse that she can. She slaps on the best toothless grin she can muster while envisioning his head stuck on a pike. One swift spin, and he’s already closer than necessary. It’s nauseating how comfortable people are in her space. 

I was callin’ you. 

Didn’t hear. My bad.  

Bullshit! His jolly laugh scratches her ears in an unpleasant manner. A large arm rests around her shoulders and she nearly gags. Ellie always feels like a hypocrite whenever her stomach churns at the smell of cigars. I needa ask you somethin’.

He’s dangerously close to her ear when he whispers, Where’s that girlfriend o’ yours, huh? Needa borrow her for a sec. 

Not my fucking girlfriend. I told you that. She’s stayed calm this long, but she’s seconds away from slicing his fucking neck with her pocket knife. She shoves a hand in there for good measure. She’s not coming. She masks her shame as best she can, eyes glued to her feet. 

Speckles of saliva spray on her ear when he bursts into laughter. Aww, c’mon! She never misses a race! Trouble in paradise? She doesn’t have time to threaten to gut him where he stands before a harsh squeeze on her shoulder sends her body into shock. 

His tone is dark. 

Or is she finally done missin’ out on revenue for you? Pills stopped workin’, eh? 

Such a fucking sucker. How enraging is it to know that he’s spot on and he barely knows you? Incredibly.

She uses all remaining strength to shove him off before the wind whisks her towards her vehicle. Rodney’s laughter is almost demonic where it obnoxiously dominates the air: more suffocating than the dirt.

She dodges other racers, women that dream of tearing her from the inside out, and spectators praying that their bids on her winning were worth it until she plops into the driver’s seat of her ‘19 Supra. 

She can almost see your fingerprints all over the gearshift. 

The small baggie—your trail, the one proof of your existence—picks at her from the passenger's seat. A taunting call that shields dusted white, maintains its purity just for her. Who were you to toss such a precious gift so carelessly? 

Don’t fuckin’ call me anymore. This is it, Ellie.

How does one trust a liar? 

The bag feels like diamonds brushing her fingertips, teeth grinding together in sonics when she pricks it open. It’s mechanical; the way her pinky scoops the last remnants of glittery snow, dumps it right there on her ID. 

Impulse leads her after that. 

One sniff. That’s all it takes for time to twist before melting. She, with excitement, gums whatever remains, tongue suddenly dry.

Numb nose, numb face. A pleasant thrum that rushes down her limbs like an electric shock. It took no time to awaken from her 48 hour slumber. She’s focused, on like a fully charged battery, the voice of doubt finally silenced for what felt like centuries. She’d give anything to yammer on about her past grievances, yet another impulse, but what do they matter now? What do you matter? 

She nearly forgets that was her last. 

Her foot stomps on the pedal in her adrenaline and her vehicle thrums, trembles—breaks still on. Her window comes down ingest the cheers, the shouts of her name, the air pungent with smoke. 

There’s our girl! Someone shouts, whistles at her. 

Rides sketched with flames and dead smilies pull up next to her, revving wild and alert, pushing to intimidate in her own dominion.

Ellie grins. There’s slime in her teeth. 

In her truest form. 

SUMMER OF ‘15

You’re gonna get me in fucking trouble. 

Ellie’s shitting bricks. Fat bricks. Her leg thumps with the speed of a jackrabbit’s, knee hitting against the passenger door as she nervously inspects her home. 

What if they weren’t quiet enough when they shut the front door? What if the stuffed animals and pillows they shoved under the sheets aren’t suitable enough to be her? What if Joel is awake right now and waiting to catch her? She’s fucked if he finds out what she’s doing right now. She’s fucked, she’s so fucking fucked—

You love trouble, Bear. 

Does she? Did she tell you that before? You sound so sure. She definitely wouldn’t lie in her mother’s car. Guilt would eat her alive. 

Your smile is catastrophic when she whips to face you, thumbnail caught between her teeth while her eyes cry out for fucking help—for some form of sanity from you. For once. 

Your eye roll is playful. Teasing when your hand reaches into your pocket. A box that fits perfectly in your palm is retrieved alongside a lighter. Ellie’s brows crease when you whisper, I think you need one. You’re stressed for no reason. 

What is this? 

Cig. Here. A small, white and orange stick is held between your index and thumb. Right in front of her face. Her mom used to hide those in the bottom drawer of the kitchen counter. And the bathroom cabinets. And atop the living room tables. You never answer her questions. The hell is this? 

Don’t make that face, Your thumb is reminiscent of a feather when it brushes her cheek, gently and aimed to soothe. Her brows halt their strain, but her heart races with the beat of a thousand drums. She feels she shouldn't be doing this, but your touch overtakes her consciousness. 

It’s okay, you say. It’s what you always say. It’s fun. Makes ya look cooler. 

Ellie remains unmoving. She senses your agitation. 

M-Maybe another time? She rushes. Anything to extinguish the flame that begs to enrage you. 

What better time to try than right now? 

To an unaware ear, you sound fine. Indifferent and decent, but Ellie knows you. You’re seconds away from exploding and turning her mother’s car into a clump of useless metal. 

Before Ellie can say anything, you’re shrugging with a huff. The… cig rests between your lips before you flick the lighter, bringing the lit flame to the white tip of the… what the hell is this again? 

When you answer, a sphere of smoke dissipates right in front of your lips. My uncle said it’s nicotine. It’s a… calming agent or whatever. His words, not mine. But you don’t wanna try, so. 

It doesn’t matter what cards are stacked against you, Ellie is always the one left feeling guilty for declining your invitations for things she feels uncomfortable with, no matter how gently. She knows what nicotine is now; the smell alone resurfaces unwelcome memories of her mom, the remnants of each blow sticking to her clothes like glue. Wafted in clouds wherever she walked. 

Ready to roll, Bear? With a voice that drips honey, you stick the key in the ignition. 

As ever. 

You’ll love it, Ellie. You trust me, right?

Yes, she wants to say proudly, without a doubt in her mind, but she can’t, declarations only meant to appease you: you’re sensitive. Her insecurities are hardly a priority. 

Always.

But her grip on the armrest says otherwise when the car zips down the street, pure acceleration. In a residential area, but you never care. Never. 

Drums beat through her mother’s speakers while you scream lyrics to a song she doesn’t recognize, hair blowing in the wind. The further you drive from Joel’s house, the more tense Ellie feels. 

It’s always like that with you. Adrenaline replaces fear or the other way around, it never fails. A curse you carry.

The drives to these random places are never too long, but this was the shortest it’s ever been. Her mother’s car seems so out of place trapped between giant SUVs and Supras. There’s a few million dollars parked in this random driveway. Ellie tries not to nerd out in her seat. 

Dude… whose house is this? 

Pretty unimpressive and small given what’s being driven. There’s some people walking around outside. 

Adults. Adults she doesn’t recognize from anywhere. 

You told me it was a party. 

Is this not a party? You laugh while purple lights flash through the windows; the silhouettes seem so haunting from out here. They’re too big—too calm to be anyone from school.

Do you know anyone here? She pins, and your eyes roll. 

‘Course I do. Why would I come if I didn’t? Who do you think invited me? You scoff, Not to spoil the surprise, but you’re the special guest. 

Her heart plummets. Just before anxiety can sizzle from her nails to her palms, her cheeks are engulfed in warmth, wafted with nicotine as you coddle so gently. 

I set this up for you. I didn’t wanna say ‘cuz I thought you’d get mad at me. You said you wanted your 16th to be unforgettable, right?

That was a joke. She just regained the joy for celebration a couple years ago after being forced to not care. She grapples your wrist, uses your stability as a stress ball.

Just stay with me. I gotchu, okay? 

Instead of her silence being a warning to turn back, it’s taken as an invitation to pull up the block, too far from the driveway. One of your hands free the key from the ignition, body twisting to open your door before reaching over to open Ellie’s. 

Couldnta parked closer? is the only fight she can muster. All you do is snicker. 

Why does she trust you so freely? Her mistake. It always is. 

She clenches your hand tight on the walk to the garage, not a complaint about her sweaty hands dispelled from your mouth. A loyal follower despite your smoke—and now the smoke of others, infiltrating her nose until it leaks from her sinuses, passing through bodies that move in slow motion until you reach your stop. 

A large group of unwelcoming men… holding thicker cigarettes. Great. 

Look who's here!

Ellie’s able to keep her cowering to a minimum when they approach: on contrast, you seem to belong, not shaken at all by the dinginess, the cracked walls, the fat stacks of cash that some of them hold and trade with. She liked your outfit when it was just the two of you driving around, now she can’t help but notice how exposed you are. 

Where’s the birthday girl? A man asks with no courtesy. 

Right here, You lay an open palm of her sizzling cheek, be nice, will ya? 

Aren’t I always? And you reply with a hum like you’re flirting. Ellie’s hand clamps yours: in need of stability, of reassurance of safety, but you don’t reciprocate.

Ellie… A large hand extends in front of her, letters imprinted on each of his knuckles. Braun is the only way to describe him. 

Name’s Micah, tone cordial. Nice to meet you. 

You, too, she replies despite feeling the opposite. She’s never too fond of strangers. 

Micah’s hand drops when she doesn’t accept, just holds yours tighter, but you’re just as giddy and bright. Not intimidated in the slightest. On the outside, at least.

I like her already. He notes to you. 

Join the club, you mutter, Your goons can’t say hello? 

You wanna ask them yourself? 

An underlying jab rests beneath the invitation, something’s there that upsets you for a second. She feels it in the light scratches from your thumbnail: insecurity. 

Good thing she hates seeing you upset. 

I’m not new. 

A mindless comment. The world seems to freeze for a minute. 

The bones in Ellie’s hand nearly shatter when you squeeze, a signal meant to shut her up, but her gaze never falters, glued to the man that oozes satisfaction at her indifference, completely unaware of the warfare that crashes and burns in her chest. His smile is twisted, eyes carnivorous where they drop down, all the way to her dirty shoes. 

Seem new to me. 

C’mon, let her spin. You promised me. You flue to him, purposefully interrupting the sizing, but Micah’s eyes never drop from hers. 

You know how much that fuckin’ car costs? She crashes it n’ I got her head. And yours. 

It’s Ellie's turn to break your hand. Only then do you give a reassuring squeeze. 

Did he just threaten to kill you both? 

She won’t fucking crash it! 

What’s in it for me? 

Finally, he looks to you. A semblance of silence, a kind that sizzles. A mutual communication between you and him, and all Ellie can do is watch with unease. This is when you falter; blinks rapid and stuttered and your palm feels clammier. Ellie matches your squeezes. 

I gotchu, okay? You say with a pout and glossy eyes and that buttery tone, your silent weapon. A last resort. 

Promise? He hums. 

S… Swear. 

Ellie stiffens when he leans down, waist cut a few inches to whisper something unheard by her to you. You’re nodding, accepting, choking the life from her hand before Micah retracts, last statement barely caught by her. 

Tell your uncle to call me back. 

The air tenses with Ellie’s curiosity. You agree silently, and with that, he seems satisfied enough to pull away. 

Micah may know you—he knows your uncle, a privilege Ellie’s never earned, but he exudes trust in you, for that toothy smile that strains at its corners before he rounds up his friends with the flick of a hand, ushering them outside. Her heart pounds at the jingles from decorative car keys, boosting louder than the speakers, above mischievous laughter from strangers. 

Adrenaline kicks, the strangulation of her hand is proof enough. 

Micah may know you, but not well enough. 

That’s the difference between her and him. Learning your deception is a skill she’s mastered.

Keys land in the center of your palm, Micah’s fangs conniving and thirsty. The wind he leaves behind is ghostly, cold and rushed. 

You turn to Ellie, keys passed like a steaming torch from him to you to her. Your final whisper brings no comfort. Just ice. 

Happy birthday, Bear. 

—

Humidity makes her car wear. 

It's at least five decades old, so she can’t be too upset about it; she hasn’t tended to her dire needs for a while, but she moves, drives smooth enough, even through the dirt and rocks. The broken and cracked streets. Gets from point A to B without too much of a hassle. The stutters often go ignored.

Even without a destination, she comes in handy. 

Time seems to fly when reminiscing. Despite the gloominess of the memorial, there’s an inkling of something that keeps Ellie’s chest warm. Could be you, your idea. Your imagery that marks her so deeply. She’ll always be unsure why, but your echoes rest there, tucked away safely. Protected, even if she failed to do so when you were still around.

The warmth never lasts too long; always overtaken by despair: a heat that hollows from the center. 

Open plains. Sand, dead grass, dirt. So many rocks. The farther she travels, the fewer trees. Just her and the beaming sun. There’s no use in wiping her sweat when the beads are replaced every three seconds.

Hilly areas were always her favorite course. Below seems so small from that high up, making the world that’s nearly impossible to grasp more digestible. For her eyes, at least. Her body still feels its weight with every shift and turn of the road. From up here, buildings are worthless and people hardly exist to the human eye. 

Her therapist hates her use of perspective. In Ellie’s eyes, nothing mattered—a twisted change after her brain chemistry rewired the first or tenth time. It was readily accepted, like her body embodied autopilot. There was no necessity to add weight to things, conversations, ideas that had no benefit to her. The world doesn’t spin for me, so what actually is the point of caring? Of wondering or thinking or trying to be? There wasn’t one. 

Her world was simple: her, you, and your litters of bags. 

Bags filled with what she used to view as treasures, something locked away and sacred, only to be shared by both of you(and clientele)when no one was watching. Although a rarity—someone was always watching. It's otherworldly how Joel never found out until he did. She wore highs on her sleeve for two years. He must’ve not been paying close attention. 

Or he had trust that his kid would never partake in something so harmful. She prefers to go with the latter. Makes her feel slightly less like shit. 

But that became her purpose. To use and take and lie, much like your purpose was to give at the expense of others around you; entirely unconditional in your mind. You’re a force that lives to feed. A match crafted by the universe. 

She didn’t know how deadly you were at the time. 

Forgiveness is strange—more complex than hate or grief or anger. Forgive them, forgive yourself, forgive this and that and fuck all, in words of her therapist. It’s complicated and takes time—the process of healing, an undetermined amount but she imagines it's lengthy because she finds herself at phase one very often; the hardest pill to swallow, she’s hardly made any progress, her only trophy being that her skin doesn’t feel like it’s growing tiny legs every ten seconds. 

Forgiveness is always first. She hasn’t seen you in years, but that emptiness whenever she thinks of you is still fresh and ghostly, tickling her neck whenever she recalls. 

Forgiveness is earned. Forgiveness is a privilege, one that no one in her life deserved. Not meant in an egotistical way—her refusal to do so was neutral, not spiteful or out of defiance, but because… 

Why? Where would that put her? Everyone that she loved is gone. Progressing isn’t worth the effort if no one she values can witness it. She thrives off of approval, even now. 

To quote Linda, “That’s your greatest weakness.”

—

Anna is always at the forefront of her mind.  

Not with affection… sometimes with affection. There were good times on occasion. Not the widest selection to choose from, but enough to keep her spirit alive in a way that isn’t entirely tortuous. 

They made fresh ice cream together when she was six, bought fish and decorated their tanks when she was seven, rode bikes down the block together a few times. 

She didn’t know her mother was high during all of it though. That knowledge always sours her appreciation. 

Ellie blames her unknowing on naivety. She was eight when she caught her mother in the act: barely anything for the eye to notice, but it was heard—a distant sniff, then cough, then a breath that felt like the first in ages. She blamed it on allergies at first, but when her mother’s words started jumbling together, she put two and two together. Her mother always did love mafia films. They had a lot of that white stuff. She thought it was sugar.

Catching users' use is particularly horrifying. There’s a look they always have: kin to shame but much worse, like they know hollowness isn’t enough to make them stop, even if it’s their own kid begging them to. 

Ellie never begged though. Never out loud: silently, in her mother’s room with her heart beating in her ear, when she was an optimist and believed in God, she’d think of angels sent to heal her mom, that’d she’d wake up and see her best friend, idol, smile like she used to. Maybe if she cried, hollered, screamed like she did at Joel all those times, she’d have a mother that wasn’t sick; painful that she’ll never know. 

The tears never came, and neither did that joyous morning. The start of her addiction was always blurry. All Ellie can recall was the end. 

She thought her mom was asleep. Why didn’t she check her chest for movement before she layed on it? She thought an extra blanket would make her mom warmer. 

Her body lurches forward when a foot plants on the brake, tires screeching to a sudden halt with her hands tight on the wheel, tightness forming in her chest. No traffic, thank the universe there’s no traffic. 

The first bits of a spiral are always the scariest; the last attempt from the brain to grasp reality before crashing. She feels it whenever she thinks of that next morning. Why does she always think of that morning? She’ll never forget that morning, ever ever ever. 

Any and all imagery is used as a distraction. How far had she driven? The land is unfamiliar but it's pretty. Lots of green. The tightness grows tighter when she twists and snatches the keys from the ignition, the car dying from exhaust. Irregular breaths and her brain won’t fucking forget. 

“You’re fine, you’re fucking fine, relax.” 

Whispers, whispers from every corner of her mind. 

My mother’s safe underground, her spirit’s in the car. My mom’s safe underground, her spirit’s in the car. 

She’s safe, she’s safe, she’s safe. 

She’s no longer in pain. 

In moments like this, she would’ve used whatever shit you crushed up and left for her. Anything to keep her quiet, she’d do anything to quiet: no more you, no more mom, no more suffering. Silence and rest, that’s all she ever needed—all you’ve ever supplied, and then you fucking left her to suffer by herself like the heartless bitch you’ve always been.  

… In moments like this, she’s very tempted to use. A quick flash across her mind, always left with immense guilt because the temptation has never—will never disappear; a constant itch under the skin. 

All she wants is to forget. What’ll one more time hurt? The last time, she promised herself over and over again. She’s quit and un-quit so many fucking times that her brain recognizes it as a pattern; use and stop then rehab, use and stop then rehab. 

If her vice was within reach, she’d be high by now. Phase one is never too far behind, just a fucking failure. 

Her mother was always her last thought before she got high, and Joel was always the first when she woke up sober and in pain. Could be why she’d grown so attached during her vulnerable years. Drugs, alcohol—substances kept her connected to both of her parents, souls trapped deep in her psyche instead of the piles of dirt that submerge their bones. 

Joel always told her it was okay to cry about whatever made her upset, no matter how stupid… or not stupid at all. The body can’t decipher what is and isn’t significant. It just feels and emotes accordingly. Her sobs are as ragged for her mother as they are for the Tiktoks of unhoused kittens with no food. 

Everything hurts just the same. 

—

—

—

WINTER OF ‘18

I need a favor. 

I need a favor. 

I need a favor. 

I need, I need, I need, please…

Everyday since her eighteenth birthday, like clockwork. But recently… you can’t pin it exactly, but there’s something new. 

She calls, you answer, like always. You call, she answers after a few rings, conversations doomed with the same pleasantry. 

Can I please…

But you’ve always delivered. You’ve never said no. Maybe you should start saying no, but she knew you wouldn’t. You owe her this, everything. 

Can I come over? I miss you.

No, but you’ll meet her somewhere. Your uncle’s home. She can’t be here when he is. No one can. 

How’ve you been? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in a while. 

You saw Ellie yesterday. And the day before and the day before that. She was high and you babysat like always, maybe that’s why she can’t remember. You’re always together, although now, she doesn’t visit solely because she misses your company anymore. 

Can you meet me, please? 

You’ve accepted her invitation twice already. She sounded about ready to cry—you’ll never deny her when she’s like this. 

Can you bring the ones from last time? I—I forgot what they’re called, I need ‘em. Needa see you. 

She corrects robotically, but you pretend to not notice. Need. A pierce through the eardrums, a shock that signaled alarms. Something about that word… it makes you itch this time. For some odd reason. 

But you never say no. And she knows you won’t. 

The walk to the pond feels like a voyage through the Sahara, feet heavy with the weight of sand in your shoes. The trail you follow is always the same but there’s something different. Something about you. 

Ellie would usually be sitting on the bench, anticipating your arrival with tapping feet, and you see her—smaller with your distance, but she’s up this time around, steps frantic where she paces back and forth in front of the bench. 

Something about you. Something about Ellie. 

Ay, Stranger!

You holler, ignoring your unease. Ellie's ears jolt like a fox’s, miming your smile. Toothless and agitated. At least she’s still. For the time being.

Missed you. She calls back, as always. This time, your smile’s genuine. Smaller, but real. I missed you more. You look tired. 

Aren’t I always? She sighs. 

Not too long before you’re face to face with freckles. Your skin frosts; she’s never hesitated to hug you. But you never pry. That’s not your responsibility. 

Where you been? 

Around. You didn’t answer last night. Subtly accusatory. She’s never questioned about your whereabouts before. 

So, you allow your instincts to embrace you. Ah, yeah, unc had my phone. Sorry. 

All good. He gave it back, all that matters. 

You hum nonsensically. 

This fucking tone. Something about it. Then silence. Nothing from either. She simply observes and you do the same to her. Right on your bag strap. 

Are… are they in there? 

Yes. You never forget to carry. 

Is what in where? Forced from your throat, out of place. What did you just say?

What I asked you to bring. Are they… Is it in there? 

Yes. Always. I always carry. For you…

… Is what you always say, but the air hangs empty. Unanswered. 

All you can do is watch her crumble in slow motion as the silence widens. Her eye has an arrhythmic twitch like when the body’s dehydrated, but it translates downward. Her throat jumps with dryness, down to her chest that jerks with every breath, down to her arms that struggle to stay at her sides, to her fingers, to her knees that wobble and legs shake. 

Look at her. Are you stupid? Your brain is shouting signals to disengage. Have you never taken in how different she appears? Eyes sunken and red with dryness that matches her mouth that seems to be gnawed off, pale as can be. She’s worn those clothes for days now. No joy, no color. She’s so… small. Physically and…

Everything about her is small. Ellie’s never been small. She’s too large for life, too creative and spontaneous to be confined by whatever that is. 

You’re looking at her, but your brain doesn’t register familiarity. There’s a mental shock that’s earned whenever you see your best friend, but that didn’t happen this time. 

What the fuck is happening? What is that? Ellie? 

Can you just give—

Ellie—

FUCKING ANSWER ME! DID YOU BRING THEM OR NOT? 

Dry your throat is dry. 

Never once has Ellie yelled at you, ever ever. Not in her desperation, not in her sadness not in her disappointment with your dumb choices. Never. She’s never been upset with you—tone evident with conviction, never raised a hand to you, never touched where she shouldn’t never never never so why is she 

Dry. You can’t speak. Your mouth refuses. Hers takes up for yours—deep mutters as she paces. 

Fucking… fuck you. Why the fuck did you come if you didn’t fucking have… I needed you… One fucking job…

You always carry. They’re always on you. 

It crashes into you then. Something—still unpinned, but something is different. A bad kind. One that brings you unrest instead of adrenaline. Within you. Within Ellie. Your chest hurts strangely, too much to bear. 

That look on her face… so broken and hurt by your denial, your heart cracks. Whatever power you thought you had in this moment was faulty. Her baggie’s in your water bottle holder. You went out of your way to crush them for her.

When she sees it in your hand, she breathes like she couldn’t seconds prior, ragged and broken and painful sounding. 

Why the fuck did you lie? Said as a joke, accepted like a hot knife. You didn’t lie. You just didn’t answer. 

Why do her hands shake like that? She must notice your scrutiny because she sits right on the bench. Just like always. 

And you watch: watch her breathe powder that you crushed just for her as easy as oxygen, eyes shut in bliss. A sense of tranquility takes over her, she doesn’t shake as much: like her body whispers to her brain, finally. She laughs at your face, passes you the baggie. Tells you to relax. 

There’s a family playing with their dog not too far from you both. Why do you care so suddenly about its annoying barking?

Keep it. 

And she accepts without argument. She’d always acknowledge your hesitancy, your discomfort, why you won’t indulge with her. She read you better than anyone else. 

You never sit on the bench, and Ellie never asks why. 

Something about you. Something’s wrong with Ellie. 

—

—

—

FALL OF ‘15

…What does it feel like? 

You curious?

A gentle bite while you shove wads of cash into your uncle’s bill counter. Ellie’s interest is never short on you. It creeps up on her from time to time. It’s oddly entertaining, watching her struggle to understand why you do it. 

It’s weed. It feels like weed. Not much to it. 

Smells like shit. 

It smells good to me. 

You’re used to it. I don’t like it. 

Okay. Do you want me to waste it? The last bit was unnecessary: weed doesn’t waste unless you’re smoking with a fucking idiot, but Ellie doesn’t know that. Her brows crease with a jutted lip. 

No, ‘m just saying… 

Good. All it does is make you sleepy, You note casually, I think it’d do you some good. 

Are you insulting my irregular sleeping patterns? She jokes. 

Yes, you mumble between a grin. 

She just watches you toke and discreetly blow smoke into her face for an undetermined amount of time, all while the stutters of counted money slice through the air. You can’t help yourself; her upturned nose is adorable. If it really bothered her, she’d back away or go home. 

What if I do it wrong? 

Your brain’s emptying, draining out all wasteful thoughts from your ears until Ellie and her rampant curiosity are all that’s left. You snort. 

If you wanna try, just ask, n’ I’ll teach you. You mask the slur enough to ease her… you think. Or maybe she’s scared all over again. It’s hard to tell, your visions fuzzing at the corners a bit. 

Weeds for beginners, it’s not like… crack or somethin’. If that’s what you’re thinkin’. You’ll be fine. 

Pinched between your thumb and index, the half-smoked joint gets passed down. Ellie eyes it with alarm. 

Try not to think of bad things when you hit it. 

Wow, thanks. I definitely won’t be seeing the Boogieman anymore. Thanks, thanks a lot. 

Ellie flinches. Did you laugh too loudly? Probably. She’s funny. What’s expected?

Laugh with me, ya sucker. 

And much to your shock, after what felt like minutes of silent judgement, the joint is no longer in your hand. 

Your instructions don’t feel like they’re coming from you—more like an inner monologue. Your mouth moves but your brain doesn’t follow, doesn’t even know if the words being said are making sense. How much cash did you count? … did the machine count? 

You must be somewhat accurate because Ellie follows like a good student—that’s what she’s always been. A listener, an adapter. Faces challenges like a headstrong bull. All while you cower. Envy her in silence… 

Right before you teeter off into darkness, Ellie sucks in carbon until her cheeks are filled before… swallowing. Smoke glides from her nostrils. 

You don’t mean to laugh at her choking but her suffering has always been cartoonish. A bit silly. Her eyes bulge and water and she’s dry heaving like a Spongebob character desperate for water. 

She shoves the joint back into your grabby hand before dropping it into the ashtray, watching your friend shovel down water like drowning doesn’t matter, all while you gasp and choke on your laughter. 

The silence that follows is abrupt. 

Ellie’s quiet. You’re quiet. Even the money machine’s stunted with your room’s stillness. 

Your bestie’s adorable in this lighting, with the sun glowing from behind. Almost angelic. 

Your brain’s afloat, and based on her inattentive stare, Ellie’s there with you. She’s the coolest smoking virgin you’ve ever encountered. You despise tweakers. 

Sleepy? You think you say. 

Ellie says nothing, allowing herself to melt into your fluffy rug. Did you say something?

For an anxiety-riddled freak, she seems at peace. For once. Finally. 

You mimic her, shoving away stacks of money before laying out on your side, watching with intensity. Ellie often wears her heart on her sleeve: the easiest to read but now… 

You’re not sure what she’s thinking. She stares with voidness. 

You wanna sleep? You whisper. Ellie denies with a light shake of her head. 

How do you feel? 

She shrugs as much as she can with one shoulder. A grin pins your cheeks up. With a heavy arm, you twirl a loose bang behind her ear. 

She smiles then. Pretty. 

She’s always been pretty. She deserves this. 

She deserves peace. 

—

—

—

WINTER OF ‘19

I FUCKING HATE YOU! 

STUPID FUCKING BITCH! 

Please, baby, please open the door? Please, I need you, I’m hurting real bad, please… please… please? 

Fucking worthless whore, open the goddamn door, you—

I’m sorry, I love you so much. I didn’t mean any of it.

For three hours: berated and coddled. Then silence. After three hours, there's silence. 

With bloodshot eyes, you peer from the peephole. She’s gone. Or hiding. Waiting for the door to open so she can strangle you. 

You rush to close your blinds, dust flying from beneath their flaps. Protection. You’re too exposed. You need to hide, you need solace. 

No solitude. Not with that fucking bag sitting in the middle of your living room with an expressionless taunt, surrounded by glocks on the wall. All a mockery.

You killed your best friend. Sing-songy. The harder you sob, the louder it attacks. The voice that won’t quiet. 

You killed her, you killed her, you killed her. 

Your eardrums blow with your hollers. She sounded like she’s withdrawing and she’s alone because you refused to help her and if she dies or is dead it’s all on you, everything’s on you. 

Every sin signed by you. Every lie swindled and resold. You can’t calm down. The elastic snapping against your wrist isn’t enough, you can’t breathe, you can’t think. Your uncle isn’t here to compress you, to level you out, to nurture with knives for fingernails.

Ellie’s been alone, and now you are. 

Abandonment. It shouldn’t feel this painful. You’ve adapted for so long, it’s in your nature to be lonely. Why do you feel so damaged? Unfixable? This can’t all be on you, right? Ellie played her own part. You helped her, made life easier, gave her fun distractions because she deserved it. She deserved fun. Your uncle always told you kids should have fun, be free. 

Right? Your knees burn while you beg for confirmation from the universe. You’re always right. Your uncle’s always right. 

Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die. 

Rushed and snot-filled and desperate. You should’ve opened the door, let her in. Made her happy. She would’ve at least been in your proximity. Watched incredibly close. 

She deserves happiness. She deserves, she deserves, and you supply. 

But there’s no succession this time. No internal praise, no elation, no adrenaline, no soul, no good. 

Dread. The purest form, the kind that tears from the inside, slashed to death by a thousand knives, surviving pieces left behind in a shell to suffer until their own end. 

Trapped with no one to call. 

Is this how Ellie felt around you all these years? 

Trapped. 

What karma. 

—

—

—

As long as it’s not cocaine. 

One little cigarette. Just as long as it’s not cocaine. Or acid. Or molly. Or that watery stuff. Cocaine, though. Especially that. 

Her tantrum is long forgotten, all because of one little cigarette trapped in the glove box. Like a baby sucking on their thumb, such an odd way to self-soothe. 

She’s parked even higher up now, car barricaded by a ragged freeway fence so she won’t drive off the green cliff. It looks weak and rusted. She probably could if she wanted to, she’s thought about it, but she’s a pussy. And she refuses to lose her last cig. 

She enjoys the last bits of it, ignoring her guilt, but not that much—it’s not cocaine—before tossing the butt out the window. Hopefully no fires start. 

Hours seem to fly with every shift of the ocean. The sun is barely peeking from behind the mountains, nearly dark out, yet it’s still just as hot. Her shirt is drenched, clinging to her; she can’t wait to shower. Or drown in the depths beneath her. 

Just a thought. She never learned how to swim. 

Joel is here if she doesn’t look at the passenger's seat, watching the moon slowly rise to dominate the sky. He loved night-watching, star-gazing… sky-staring? Inclined with mother nature and all that. 

Such a small thought has so much power over her. She just smoked, she shouldn’t be so ready to crumble. Not this quickly. Stop thinking about Joel, stop thinking about mom, stop thinking about… 

Somehow, trying not to think about you is so much harder. She wants to stop thinking. 

Fuck you for forcing her to mourn a quiet brain. Fuck you for everything.

The last bits of sun are telling her to go the fuck home, but she’s lost. She drove too much, too far. Followed her mother’s guide with no map. She can wait it out for ten, fifteen more minutes. Until the moon’s at her peak. 

…

Her mind always plays tricks on her. 

She vowed not to bring her phone on this trip. She had her wallet and keys in hand, so where the fuck is that ringing coming from? 

…

The passenger’s side. Underneath the coat she left in there a few months back… Did she leave her phone in here?

The device is yanked from her coat pocket. The call is marked unknown. 

Joel would’ve joked that the moon’s clocking into her shift. So stupid. A knot forms in her throat. 

She answers to distract. “Hello,” dry and cracked. She hasn’t spoken in a week. Maybe two. 

No response, but someone breathes on the other line. Stupid fucking kids prank-calling again. 

“Hello,” agitated. The breathing stutters, followed by another bout of silence. 

The universe is strange. Her thumb hovers over the red button right as a voice breaks through, cracked and timid and scared. Her mind… What a strong enemy. 

The screen frosts her ear. 

“… Hello?” 

A masked sob blares through her phone. Swallowed. Ellie feels the cliff beneath her crumble, trapped by her seatbelt, plummeting to her death, and somehow, that’s not as scary. Her heart crawling up her throat to splatter in her lap wasn’t as scary. Not as much. 

Not nearly as much as that buttery timbre that shakes with uncertainty. 

“Hey, Stranger.” 

[on-the-fringe-now]

batfam fic idea

so it’s a time travel fic but instead of any of the batkids being sent back it’s bruce. so bruce wakes up fifteen? years in the past when he’s just starting to go out on the streets as batman. he briefly considers his time travel contingencies but everyone’s life is so tragic so he decides to try and change things so his family can have a happy life.

but it doesn’t work.

he prevents the grayson’s lines from being cut but then they get shot point blank moments after the show. he still adopts a grieving acrobat. he invests into better social welfare programs and drug recovery centers in an attempt to keep catherine alive. she ods anyway and he finds a kid taking his tires a year later. he uncovers the drake’s schedule and they lose custody of their son, but bruce can’t put together the paperwork well enough for the court and tim gets sent into foster care. bruce gets him out eventually, but it’s a longer, more painful process. he tries to track down cass early to prevent her from spending too many of her formative years under cain, but she’s still jason’s age and a lot of damage can be done in twelve years. when he finally finds her, she’s just as silent and untrusting as she was in his time.

however, it’s not all lost. steph’s dad takes advantage of the social welfare programs long enough to get his feet under him which stops him from turning to crime, letting steph grow up in a better household. bruce gets close to barbara and introduce her to coding, but without becoming batgirl joker never lays eyes on her. duke’s family, similarly, is kept as far away from joker as bruce can manage.

he also tries so hard to keep his distance from the league of assassins, but having just completed his training there’s no way they don’t have his dna so he checks back in within a year for any cloning attempts. he doesn’t catch it in time, and damian is still created. however, this time bruce can still provide a better home for him.

at this point bruce would know there never could be a robin. he lets dick tell his stories of his parents and trains his family in self defense but no matter how many times they beg he’ll never take them out onto the streets. he could never bear it if any of them died again.

[restinslices]

Lin Kuei Bros: Play Fighting

Smoke so dramatic-. Anyway, don’t ask why I thought of this. The voices were loud

Bi-Han

Play fighting with any of them is bold as fuck but HIM? You don't like your life 

I'm not saying he's gonna straight up assault you but out of all the brothers, he has the highest chance of hitting you hard as shit on accident 

He probably wouldn't even like play fighting that much. He'd prefer sparring cause at least you're working on your skills. Why you just fucking around?

You gotta catch him on the right day. Some days he's busy and some days he's just legit not in the mood. 

“Imma start it off slow. Imma scope the scenery out-”

If you somehow get this man to cooperate, first of all good job. Second of all, y'all do not stop until you give up. 

The type to pin you down and not let go until you admit he won. If you refuse, you're legit not moving. 

This is a big guy so you're not moving him. You give up, he lets go and you manage to crack a smile out of him

We never see him smile in the game but listen bitch, I'm here for the fantasy-

If he's not in the mood, I can see him just saying “no” like you're a puppy or smth. 

You'd go to swing on him again and he'd either grab your hand or give you a look that tells you he's being serious 

Going back to him accidentally hitting you hard as shit, he's used to sparring with two other buff ass men. Imma guess you're not as buff as them, and some of y'all reading this ain't men. Accidents are bound to happen 

You'd think the Grandmaster would have more control but I just think it slips sometimes. He's stupidly prideful and he's used to sparring so sometimes that's where his mind goes. Also once again, he probably sometimes forgets a hit Kuai Liang could handle is a hit that'll take years off your life. 

I would love to say he gets on his knees and apologizes but this is the same man who betrayed his brothers and was like “why y'all tweaking?” so um… 

You're gasping for air and he's “see why I always say no?”

I feel like I'm making him sound abusive but as someone who's play fought with my older siblings, they hit you hard as shit then tell you you're a bitch when a tear slips out. Why the fuck are you hitting me this hard in my chest? You got 5+ years on me-

He's an older brother. He's gonna hit hard. I swear it's in their DNA 

And if he does apologize it's not really verbal. He checks to make sure your limbs are alright then offers to do something else. 

“Are you gonna say you're sorry?” “For?” “For almost breaking my damn lung” “You started this”

You'd expect that the next time you wanna play fight he'd decline cause he doesn't wanna hurt you again. Wrong. 

Remember he's an older brother. THE older brother. Y'all squaring up again. You don't care about your health so fuck it. 

Honestly would be super fun besides the limb you're gonna lose 

Kuai Liang

Would be more cooperative than Bi-Han but still isn't overly excited to play fight 

Bi-Han is the “tell mom. I don't care” older brother. Kuai Liang is the “wait wait wait, I'm sorry. You can hit me back. Calm down. You want some candy?” older brother 

Fully aware he could cause terrible injuries but as time passes on, he relaxes more 

Definitely play fought as a kid but after Tomas started jumping everytime he heard his voice, he thought “maybe I need new hobbies”.

You’ve interrupted his recovery

He actively focuses on holding back and being soft even if you tell him not to

“Hit me harder” “No❤”

Honestly a fun time though. He holds back when it comes to strength but still tussles with you. Also let's you get hits in even when he could easily dodge them. 

If he accidentally injured you frfr, he's checking up on you immediately and says y'all stopping for today. 

“No, I'm ok” “Can you even breathe right now?” “Uhhh… yes😀” “We're done”

For sure feels like an asshole depending on how bad you're hurt. He's not sliding down the wall in pain but he's like “damn, that was a little too hard”. 

“You can hit me back” “No. I've seen Twilight” “What?” “It's gonna hurt me more than it's gonna hurt you. I'm not doing that”. (Now I wanna write you making them watch Twilight. I'm never gonna be rid of this addiction-)

You gotta hit him back so y'all can be even. It's the only way to move on

Y'all are not doing that shit again for at least another week or so. 

“We gotta scrap right here right now” “No”

Does the thing older siblings do when they put their hand on your head so when you swing at them, you're just hitting air. 

It's so infuriating so you gotta stop. 

The next time though, you swear you're gonna win. You will not. 

Tomas Vrbada

The most willing and having the most fun 

Tomas has two older brothers that probably jumped him on several occasions growing up and you're gonna try and convince me he doesn't have aggression to get out?

People would probably expect he's the softest but no. He's the youngest. As the youngest myself I can assure you, we are used to putting our all in these fights cause we gotta use all our strength to defeat these evil mfs we live with. Sometimes it's not enough-

You're not his older sibling so he's not scrapping like his life depends on it but I do think he's hitting somewhat hard 

Not as hard as Bi-Han, not as soft as Kuai Liang 

You feel his hits but it's not knocking the wind outta you 

Super fun cause he's also using the environment. Definitely is grabbing a pillow and starts swinging it at you. Definitely is running around the couch to chase you. Definitely has thrown you but made sure to aim at something soft. He's probably even turned off the lights then threw a folded blanket at you 

“Cheater” “Don't be upset you didn't think of it first”

You're fighting but laughing at the same time. There's no real tension. Just fucking around. 

Probably starts initiating it too

If he does injure you fr, for a split second he'd actually see it as a victory then he'd remember you're not his older brothers and is like “oh shit-”. 

Injuring those two would mean freedom (or a worse jumping. really depends), injuring you is not good. 

He knows how bad those hits can hurt so he makes sure you're alright. He's not watching you as much as Kuai Liang would but he'd still make sure you're not overly sore. 

He doesn't feel as bad as Kuai Liang would cause he kinda knows this shit happens. Kuai Liang kinda got a little bit of guilt cause Tomas gets into a fighting stance when he raises his hand up. Tomas hasn't victimized anyone so he's more chill about these situations 😭

Tells you random ass stories about when he used to play fight with his brothers. 

“One time Bi-Han threw me in the air and Kuai Liang jumped to catch me only to throw me against the wall”

“This reminds me of when Bi-Han swept my feet from under me and Kuai Liang jumped on me”

“What is it called when someone jumps on you elbow first?”

“This one time I woke up to them standing over me. I knew it was a wrap”

“One time Bi-Han slapped the back of my neck so hard, it was red for at least a week”

“One time Kuai Liang-” “Tomas… you need a therapist” “I don't think that's what it is”

Unlike Kuai Liang who makes you wait, he's cool with scrapping days later. 

Actually says “time out” when he wants a break. Also says “time in” fast as fuck though to catch you off guard 

Legit the most fun brother. I don't make the rules (except I do). 

I did not mean to write the least for Kuai Liang but I was really brain empty for him. Y’all should give me ideas, thanks bookie

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for S behind the cut; “Clark panic-adopts his teenage clones (yes, including the supervillain one)”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Asshole,” Thirteen mutters, then–hesitates, and glances warily over towards Superman, half-settling back in his seat with an uncomfortable frown. “So like . . . then what were you thinking, man? Like . . . no labs, not the Fortress, and not, like–here, so what else even is there?” 

Superman looks pained. 

“Nothing involving assigning you anywhere, for one thing,” he says, which is a mystifying thing to lie about, and then even more mystifyingly additionally lies: “Or anything involving security, surveillance, or manual labor either. Just–is that actually what you think I meant? That’s really the first thing you think, that I’m talking about just getting you both a job? Not, I don’t know, high school?” 

“Uh–no?” Thirteen says, looking bewildered. “Fuck no, when I go to high school supervillains happen to it. Like a lot of supervillains happen to it. Like there’s a reason I did home school in Hawaii, on account of, again, all the supervillains and shit. And like, what the fuck do you think’d happen if Match went?” 

“The Agenda would immediately send a retrieval team to any school I might potentially be identified as–attending,” Match informs Superman, his lip curling slightly as he barely manages to keep his full level of disgust at that idea out of his voice. “That would actually be an ideal extraction situation for them to recover me from your possession, given it would involve a target-rich environment occupied by hundreds of noncombatant minors that you would feel the need to prioritize over maintaining possession of me. An execution squad would also be a possibility, if the DNA was determined to no longer be worth the investment.” 

“. . . ‘execution squad’,” Jonathan repeats slowly as he and Martha share another one of those strange expressions between them. Match has no idea if he should consider those expressions relevant or not–or concerning or not. 

“If the DNA is no longer worth reproducing, there wouldn’t be a point in recovering the target alive or bothering with the effort of body recovery,” he clarifies on the assumption that the obvious logic behind deployment of one is less obvious to civilians, and also presuming that Superman would expect him to provide requested information to his–parents. Being difficult with or keeping things from Thirteen is one thing, but–not Superman’s parents, presumably. It’s necessary information, anyway. Superman won’t be pleased with him if he has to deal with an Agenda kill squad without forewarning, especially if noncombatant civilians are injured or killed in the process. “In that event personnel would only need to be sent to reassert ownership of the asset and confirm to other assets under the Agenda’s custody that they should resist being stolen to the fullest extent of their capabilities to avoid the necessity of a similar assertion.” 

“. . . you didn’t ‘resist’ being stolen,” Superman says after a long moment. Match stares blankly at him. He doesn’t know why Superman said it that way. 

He also doesn’t know why Superman is so stupid.

“I attempted to resubmit myself to the Agenda’s authority and informed you of the inconvenience that acquiring sole proprietorship of me would cause to you when you prevented me from doing so,” he says. 

“No, I mean–you didn’t try to run off or . . . fight me,” Superman says slowly, his tone turning a little more careful. Match keeps his eyes on the man’s face and his stare exactly as blank. 

Superman is so stupid. 

“Physical resistance would have devalued the product,” he says, because maybe Superman just thinks he’s stupid. Stupid enough not to know his “fullest capabilities” as far as actually physically fighting Superman of all people, or just stupid enough to damage the product, when Superman had clearly wanted the product for–whatever reason, and would obviously not have been pleased to receive it damaged. “Superboy wasn’t compromised enough to require immediate medical attention, so there wasn’t a suitable situation in place to delay or distract you.” 

And the Agenda was already going to dispose of him for refusing orders, so it hadn’t actually mattered what he did anyway. 

It’s never actually mattered what he does, just . . . 

It hadn’t actually mattered. 

“I think I wanna disassemble this fuckin’ tectonic plate,” Thirteen mutters under his breath, his teeth gritted. Match ignores him. Thirteen’s opinion doesn’t matter either. 

The only actual opinion that’s currently a concern is Superman’s inscrutable and clearly unstable one. 

So that’s–information that Match is currently in possession of. 

“I don’t see why this is relevant,” he says. “You’ve asserted primary ownership over me. I’ll perform to expectation.” 

“. . . what do you think that means, Match?” Superman asks, looking very briefly tired, and Match only doesn’t stiffen because he was already prepared for Superman to ask him something stupid, but–

But questions like that are just–traps. That’s all. 

“It means I’ll obey your orders and the orders of any provided authorized handlers as given and will not attempt to either subvert or engage in malicious compliance of those orders,” he replies, matter-of-fact and neutral-toned and without adjusting his facial expression in the slightest; not including any opinion or analysis or unnecessary filler statements. “I’ll complete assignments as directed to offset any fiscal or legal inconveniences that my presence causes and will not perform in a way that would necessitate decommissioning.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Superboy mutters, putting his elbows on the table on either side of his plate and dropping his face into his hands. “Well, I did always wanna know what having an actual conversation with you would be like, guess I did wanna know that. Cool. Cool cool cool.” 

This isn’t a conversation. Even if Match had any interest whatsoever in talking to Thirteen, he isn’t stupid enough to have an actual conversation in front of Superman. 

“It’s unnecessary to decommission a resource that retains the potential to be lucrative, so I’ll perform as a justifiable investment at your discretion,” he says to Superman, and then realizes he’s talking too much again and feels like an idiot for it. Just–apparently the stupidity is catching, is all. He’s talking too much; over-explaining obvious things; things that don’t even need explained. Running his mouth. 

Just–Match knows when to shut up, unlike Superboy. 

So Match shuts up. 

And Superman stares intently at him, the microscopic pinprick-centers of his irises burningly, blazingly crimson. Match stares back blankly. 

He thinks he should’ve shut up sooner.