#EXCEPT FOR SAL because he's just called “Soap”

[limoncats]

what if everyone in WatGBS was called "Soup" and then a number EXCEPT for Sal because he's called "Soap". like that's it. just. Soap

[thesharktanksdriver]

Call Sign: Sharky (Platonic)

Part 1, part 2 part 4 part 5

Sorry if parts repeat like some people noticed. There’s not much I can do about it and it seems to be a glitch with the keep reading line. My posts are long and I don’t wanna clog people’s pages so y’all will have to deal with it

Also thank you all for your support!.

The topic of your Call sign is often ones that’s discussed with confusion with 141

Each time you were asked you’d come up with a new story something like “dad was a marine biologist”, “I was raised by sharks sharkboy style and was taken in by the military” or “I just wouldn’t shut up about them”

It leaves all them confused and silently curious

Call signs most of the time have meaning to them

Now some can certainly be stupid or embarrassing but they get them for a reason and Sharky is a specific one

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

Which had meant that only you and your past squadron knew that meaning

And meant ghost, Soap and Gaz we’re clueless as to getting it except from you

Price is not it the same situation as them, partially because he knew your past captain

In fact he’s good mates with him, they had used to serve together before climbing both their ways up the ranks

Even got your recommendation from him

But when he decided to ask the question of your Codename he didn’t really expect that it had more than what meets the eye

“Your wondering about their Codename?.” He questions looking over to Price whom sits beside him at the bar. Price nods, making his old friend laugh a bit and add “I’ll have to give some context first before we get to that point”.

“Context of what?”

“Oh, of when they first joined”

When you had first joined you were much different to how you were now

You were a shy little thing, less confident to how you were now. Downright afraid of the others on your team

There was a very clear and tall wall you put between yourself and everyone else no matter how they tried to reach through to you

It took a long while but after some time one of them had gotten through to you

Salamander, but everyone at the time called him Sal for short

He was an a older soldier, mid-50’s with a wife and kid

It’s that reason why he was able to connect to you, having experience with a child of his own

He showed you the ropes, helping bridge that gap between you and the others

You began to open up more, talking in hushed mumbled before they evolved to full on discussions

You knew a lot of weird and obscure facts, stuff most of them hadn’t known about

You specifically talked quite a bit about marine life since a few of them were ex-navy and you thought that would be funny

It admittedly was especially when you joke that “you’d think they’d teach you about this stuff when your at sea” and “maybe I���m more navy than you guys”

It was nice, you were opening up and some had even began trying to debate each other over call signs for you

They weren’t really sure what to give you yet but it was the mission that finalized it

“The mission?”

“Yeah…the mission. What gave me their name”

The mission was ok at first, that’s the main thing you remember about it

No initial panic just clear waters both figuratively and literally as your footsteps crunch down on golden yellow sand

But then like a nuke dropping everything went to shit

It’s blurry to your mind what had initially happened but you ended up hiding behind some washed up driftwood

Sal was beside you clutching his neck as you did your best to keep him from bleeding out

The shrapnel lodged in his neck was too deep, blood pouring through your fingers as you pleaded with him to hang on

Your vision was blurred by tears as you watched the life drain from him

He often talked about his wife, his kid, and yet he now laid here beside you. Forgotten in the sand as your hands shook

Something came over you, that primal urge that every living creature had in times of peril

The urge to survive no matter what

Your adrenaline was running high, the pops of gunshots making it worse along with the red that began dying the once yellow sand

Your breath is getting quicker as you begin to see red

And then you can’t remember what happened other than the overwhelming feeling of panic and the urge to protect

When the haze over your mind cleared the pungent taste of iron filled your mouth and clogged your nose

You feel shaky, almost as if your entire body was hollow

taking a step back you almost trip over something, making you stumble a bit as you look down to see the dead face of the enemy staring back

Pure terror is twisted on his once moving face that bows stuck in the perpetual horror he died while feeling

Your attention is drawn away when you hear your captains voice, it cuts through the static that muffled the crashing waves and squawking pelicans that sounded so distant

His hand is on your shoulder, his eyes staring down at you with worry as blood dribbled down from your lips

Your dazed and confused. Eyes wide and pupils blown out

“Captain what happened. Why do I taste blood?” It’s such a simple question but it shakes him to his core, you sound so afraid. Like a kid

You are a kid compared to them but this just makes it more obvious

The remaining part of the squadron both injured and tired watch on as their captain talks to you gently

Your shaking like a leaf, blood drenching you as he draped an arm over your shoulder and walked you towards them

You don’t stare at your teammates though, you instead stare at the once blue water that was turned scarlet red

Off in the distance you see the distinct shape of a fin or two poke out from the water

The crashing of the waves felt louder despite the fact you walked farther and farther away

Rolling in and retracting back out in a cycle

You notice near a body in the sand two fingers, discarded and bloodied and a memory flashes in your mind

The enemy, captain, scuffle, bite, spit out, kill, safe, move on

It now explains the blood that isn’t your own that you spit out

You fill in the blanks about what happened by asking your teammates afterwards who are nervous to answer

Seemingly afraid to send you into a panic attack after learning what had happened

Apparently you went apeshit on the enemy, to the point the team did barely anything as you did the brunt of the work

You used your pistol, when you ran out of ammo you used the empty gun and your knife

At some point one had grabbed the captain, was about to put a bullet through his head before you intervened

The human jaw despite how weak it is compared to the bite of something like a dog or a big cat, it’s much more powerful than we give it credit for

Exerting up to Around 125 kg of force or 162 lbs per square inch

Usually something like this doesn’t happen much considering you’d have to get through skin, tissue and tendon but you had done it via your adrenaline

You bitt off the guy’s fingers, not one but two and then spat them out

You then killed him, his body dropping down to the sand just like his fingers did

It’s what earned you your nickname Sharky

You see

Shark attacks are much less common as one would think compared to how their portrayed in the media. Sure, they do happen but it’s less likely for one to be lethal

Your more likely to be killed by a deer or mosquito than a shark

They usually attack when provoked or when confused after mistaking a human for a seal

They dislike our flavour, so after an attack they usually discard us after the initial bite

Much like how rare a lethal shark attack actually is in comparison to other animal related deaths it’s rare that someone can bite off someone’s finger

And like a shark you spat it out

Thus your clever nickname given to you by your teammate Kansas after remembering your ramblings of the aquatic sea creature

“It just kinda stuck after that” he says taking a sip of his beer before placing it down onto the countertop, his thumb circles it’s rim as he looks down into the gold liquid. “Their a good kid. Their happy right?” It comes out as somewhat hoarse, he’s more choked up than he’d like to admit.

“Yeah, their happy. Hasn’t been a day I hadn’t woken up to find them with a shit eatin grin”

“Good. Funny how they’ve brightened up from such a shy kid.”

He pulls back from his chair, placing down his cash plus a small tip for the bartender who accepts it eagerly

“Good to see you again Price. I’ll keep in contact” just as he’s about to leave he adds one more thing “ps, they write about you a lot”

“Write?”

[bensonhurstbullet]

SAL + MEDIA CONSUMPTION

      Sal has never seen any film America has labeled a classic or, “mandatory to watch before you die.” This includes Scorsese's greatest films as well as The Godfather. He’s heard about the movies a ton, watched them up to a certain point because people have been trying to get him into it ( or they quote lines at him he doesn’t recognize ) yet, these films in his own words, ‘aren’t his thing.’ 

      Beyond him being critically uninterested in watching films that reflect the lifestyle he leads day in and day out, for the most part, Sal doesn’t have the sort of attention span required to watch any movie that’s not easy, quick and vibrant. Similarly, when it comes to engaging with local tv shows he still maintains that ‘quick/vibrant/funny’ preference.

      His favorite programs to watch in his spare time are things that can make him laugh like Looney Tunes. The Flintstones, The Simpsons, or even Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (which his love for intensifies depending on the verse.) There’s also that Jim Henson Dinosaur show, which is an unusual exception of Sal being okay with puppetry. 

      More often than not, Sal is sharing the television with one of his kids as he watches these programs. Nick in particular watches The Simpsons heavily.  Beyond that, Sal is inclined to have a game show airing on the TV in his office as background noise. Eve eventually gets him into watching soap operas, though. This happens as Sal grows older and he just likes to sit in the same room as her, doing absolutely nothing he starts giving mind to certain character storylines.

     His favorite movies include some 80s classics like Gremlins, The Goonies, Trading Places or Back to School. ( He is a big Rodney Dangerfield fan. ) Favorite family movies always have an adult tint. Like Who Framed Roger Rabbit, which he’s seen on VHS a million times or All Dogs Go To Heaven.

     His favorite genre right below comedy is horror. Whether it’s meant to be serious or comical doesn’t matter to him, he just loves seeing gratuitous gore. Admittedly, he doesn’t get to watch as much as he likes because Bianca - who loves being on the couch with her father - will get frightened. That and Eve doesn’t like it either.      Some of his favorite horror movies are It, Nightmare on Elm’s Street, Cujo and - Sal WOULD like Child’s Play for Chucky’s vulgarity, but it also reminds him of the deep childhood fear he had about dolls or puppets coming to life, so it’s something he can’t bring himself to watch. Calling the premise, “stupid.”

[deathsshadow]

I gasped and forced my eyes open, taking in the sun shining through the half-blinded windows, the lights throwing shadows off the dozens of boxes littering my room. Groaning I rubbed my forehead, clearing sleep and the dark mat of hair out of my eyes before wrestling the tangled mess of blankets from my body and made my way to the adjoining bathroom.

The sudden shock of cold water woke me up and brought me fully back to reality. I stared at the mirror for a few minutes, just talking in my pale complexion. My black hair still fell across my forehead and I had to move it back to look at my face, at my eyes. My whole life I’d been told I looked like my father and they were right, except for my eyes. They were my mother’s, one of the many strange things I had inherited from her.

One of my eyes was a bright crystal blue while the other was what she used to call ‘ghost grey’, a blue that was so pale it was almost translucent. For most of my childhood she forced me to wear contacts, “to avoid suspicion” she always said, but I never knew why. Right now the lenses rested in their case on the sink, never used. Once I turned fifteen I figured I was old enough to just not care what people think of me.

Also on the sink were my variations of meds: pills for depression and to help with sleep and some sort of experimental thing that was supposed to help with ‘hallucinations’. I huffed at the thought but reached for the cartons anyway, taking a few of each and gulping them down with a mouthful of water even though I knew they wouldn’t help. Sighing I twisted the caps back on before just tossing them into the bin, I’d tell dad I lost them during the move and we might even find a stronger type later, besides this prescription was about to run out anyway.

Throwing on the only clean clothes I had that weren’t already packed I made my way downstairs. Dad was already in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a newspaper in his hand and a coffee cup in front of him. The kitchen like my room was full of boxes.

“Morning Sal,” dad said not even glancing up from the paper, his hand instinctively reaching for the coffee in front of him.

“Morning,” I replied, taking the opposite seat at the small wooden table, eyeing the cup hopefully, “can I have some coffee?”

My father sipped his drink before regarding me, “did you take your medicine?”

“Yes,” I told him truthfully

“Then no,” he said simply finishing the drink, “you know what caffeine does to you while on your meds.”

I sighed and went to pour myself a bowl of cereal. Back at the table however my appetite left after one small bite so I just sat there and watched the flakes go soft in the milk. Finally dad finished the paper and folded it, placing it on the table beside him, only then did he actually look at me and took in my pale appearance.

sighing he leant forwards and laced his fingers together, “bad night?”

i shrugged, trying to act casually about it and stirred the spoon around my untouched breakfast, “just tired. all this packing.”

dad sighed again before smiling, reaching over to ruffle my hair, an action he hadn’t done since i was a child.

“it’ll be okay kid,” he promised, “once we head out we can start a new life. things will get better, you’ll see.”

after that he got up and made his way over to the sink, preparing to wash up the dishes. I waited a few minutes before finally caving in under my overwhelming feelings. Sighing i slouched back in my seat.

“I dreamt about mum last night,” I admitted, my voice cracking halfway through my sentence as an unwanted tear welled in the corner of my eye.

The clatter of plates caused me to glance up. Dad stood paralysed, hands in the sink, the dishes left forgotten. He had his back towards me but i could easily feel his emotions, the same feelings was currently running through me as well.

Finally after a few more fretful minutes he turned to glance back at my slumped form. He sighed and pulled the plug before running his wet, soap covered fingers through his hair and dried his hands on a tea-towel, then refilled his cup with fresh coffee.

“here,” he said, placing it down in front of me, “you look like you need it.”

i stared up at him with as much shock as i could force my tired face to show, “but… what about my meds?”

he shrugged, “well, they don’t seem to be working anyway, so…”

at this i practically grabbed hold of the mug and downed half the drink, ignoring the liquid as it burned my throat. as soon as it hit my stomach however a sudden flash blinded my vision, scenes from my past and even worse things flashing by in fast precision, a ringing buzz filling my head. Gasping out in pain i pressed my shaking hands against my temples as the buzzing became horrid screams. suddenly my stomach lurched and i rushed to the slowly draining sink, emptying both the caffeine and useless tablets out of my system. that was when i reminded myself that i just hated coffee.

bringing myself back i wiped my mouth clear with a hand, feeling the sweat trickle down my neck. i could hear dad sighing in the background.

“maybe next time,” he said as i turned to face him. slowly he cleared his throat, fidgeting slightly under my accusing gaze before adding, “speaking of which, shouldn’t you go say goodbye to Toby? it’ll be a while till you get to see him again.”

His question forced me back to the current situation. Sighing i lowered my head and, nodding sadly, made my way to the backdoor. this was one of the things i was dreading, having to say goodbye to a good friend. one of my only friends...

...

He spotted me the moment i exited the door. Giving a happy bark the large black hound bounded forwards, only to be pulled back by the heavy chain holding him down. Whimpering he sat back and scratched irritably at the shabby red collar.

Smiling sadly at his pathetic expression i closed the door, making my way over to unclip him. The moment he was untied he gave a loud yelp of excitement and bowled me over, forcing me down easily. I gave a genuine laugh and pushed him back just enough to sit up, scratching him behind the ears. He whined happily and tilted his head back against my palm, staring at me with his mix-matched eyes.

I had Toby ever since i was a kid, my auntie got him for me for my twelfth birthday. None of us knew what breed he was, some kind of cross-mix by the look of him. He was large and dark, with thick fur, pointed ears and a long bony tail. But the main reason my aunt got him for me was because of his eyes, they were just like mine, blue and grey. shiny and bright.

“Hey bud, it’s good to see you too,” i laughed as he licked my hand and then my cheek.

Smiling i pushed him back again so i could wipe my face clear. As the minutes drifted by my expression started to slip. Giving a small sigh i placed a hand against the dog’s head. He whimpered instantly at the touch, probably picking up on my emotions.

“Listen bud,” i muttered, placing both hands along his long head, forcing us to make eye-contact, “I’m going to go away for a while and i... won’t be able to bring you with me...”

He gave another sad whimper like he understood what i was saying and once again i could feel tears welling in my good eye. Wiping them quickly away i wrapped both arms around him, pulling him close for a hug.

“... I’m going to miss you...”

“— don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him.”

Sniffing I glanced up, shocked but not entirely surprised by the sudden voice.

She was standing in the shadow of the house, leaning confidently against the wall, which was probably why i hadn’t noticed her sooner. She was wearing ripped, faded blue jeans covered entirely in brightly coloured paint and marker stains, a long purple t-shirt and a short black coat. Her spiky black hair was cut short and styled in a way that i could only describe as punk-ish. She had a wide smile on her face.

Smiling back at her i wiped my eyes clear.

“Thanks Ace,” i muttered quietly.

Her smile widened at my response.

My cousin, who’s actual name is Ashley White, was exactly what I should have been, what i wished i had been, having inherited the Prince’s family genetics. Although both our hair was raven, a black so dark and shiny in was almost blue, she had been lucky enough to also inherit those bright emerald eyes, and the normality of sight that came with it.

Although i was admittedly a little jealous of this i never actually resented her, in-fact it was the exact opposite. I loved her. She was the best cousin i could have ever hoped for. Even if she was a little annoying at times...

Stepping out of the shadows she crossed her arms and studied me, tilting her head to the side.

“You look terrible,” she shot out, her words dripping with sarcasm

“...very funny...” i muttered, stroking my pet’s head.

She smiled before dropping the act, becoming the true caring and loving girl i knew. Making her way over she knelt down beside me.

“I’m serious,” she said, actually sounding like it, tucking her hands under her knees, “what’s wrong?”

It took a few minutes for me to say anything, but I’ve never lied to her and holding something back, keeping silent when i was hurting, too me at least was the same as lying. i sighed and gave in.

“I had the dream again,” i admitted, staring blankly off into nothing.

Ace’s eyes widened and her face went pale, but she shifted closer as if i had just informed her on some sort of secret, like a child finding out about a hidden birthday present.

“Was it there?” She asked, “i mean, like... did you see it?”

I nodded, absently running my fingers through the dog’s thick, black fur, “i did. Clearer than ever...”

Climbing to her feet she grabbed hold of my hand, “come on, let’s go to my room. Then you can tell me in detail.”

Nodding i followed her up, re-clipping the ratted old collar back on and saying a hurried, and final, goodbye to Toby.

...

The door to Ace’s room was always kept closed for her privacy and no one was allowed in without her permission, whether she was in the room or not. A plaque on the door read: ASHLEY WHITE’S ROOM DO NOT ENTER, but someone (Ace) had gone over it with red paint and had written: ACE’S.

I snickered a little at the sight, remembering how that whole scenario came about. That name had come around when we were kids, playing our own make-believe version of cards seeing as we were too young to have learned the original rules. She was always trying to hide things, but her smile always gave her away. When i called her out on it she snickered in a way she thought was evil and threw down her hand-made card.

“Bam, ace of fours. I win!”

I snorted at her failed scheme and scolded her, saying that an ace of four wasn’t even a real card. She pulled a face and muttered: “what-ever...” and ever since then it had become a sort of nick-name.

Slowly i brought myself back to the present as Ace pushed her door open. Flicking on the light she nodded for me to enter...

Entering her room was like entering an art studio, it was wrong to even think about calling it a bedroom. From floor to ceiling, even littered along the floor, were hundreds if not thousands of paintings, sketches, drawings, you name it. If someone was to mention something about one of her drawings she’d only scoff and say that it wasn’t even her best work, but i knew better. She had basic sketches that looked as if they could have been taken from an art museum. Even her worst was better than anything i ever drew.

Ace motioned me over to her bed and I obediently sat, curling my feet up silently. Making her way over to her overflowing desk she slipped out a large folio and a broken stick of charcoal. Slowly she flipped through the pages, looking for a clean slate. Each page she passed—much like the rest of her room— pictured a dark illustration of my nightmare. The black, horned shadow appearing to creep closer the more pages she turned.

Finally she found a blank page. Picking up her chunk of charcoal and a plain red pencil she asked me to recite my dreams to her. Tucking my knees up under my chin i obeyed, allowing the faint sounds of drawing to put me under a sort of trance.

The minuets blurred together as i spoke, eyes shut tight as the memories flooded through my mind. Then came the loud, sudden snap of the charcoal that forced me out of my nightmare back to the present, the creature’s glowing red eyes still burning through my retinas.

I sat there, curled up and shivering as Ace blew away the excess charcoal dust, brushing at the page almost lovingly to made sure it didn’t smudge. not once did she turn back to look at me. I didn’t mind, I actually appreciated the few minutes free time, giving me the chance to wipe the invisible tears and calm myself from the relived fright.

Finally she raised the page up to admire her art, the evil stare of the beast glowing right off the page, the blood red gaze so lifelike it was like it was staring right at me. I shuddered at the thought and turned away, re-closing my eyes. Unfortunately Ace took notice of my movement and turned to face me with a look that almost resembled guilt. She placed the page back down and made like she was going to say something when she was interrupted by the sudden, almost reassuring voice of her mother calling out to us.

“Salazar? Ashley? Are you there? The moving van’s here. Let’s go!”

We both let out a breath at the same time. I had no idea what Ace was sighing about, but i was sighing out of relief at not having to keep that image in my head any longer. Putting on a smile she slipped her drawing into a drawer and got up to walk over to me. Giving a small nod i joined her and together we left her room.

[justagoddamnbranch]

GRAD nite part 2

Leo, easily enough to say, panicked. He started crying and yelling, begging to turn back or at least call Sal to let them know that he’d be gone. The others tried their best, but it took until Leo was nearly throwing up because of how upset he was for Justin to figure out how to console him.

“Ok Leo, Leo look at me, I have it figured out.”

Leo sniffed and wailed, “you do?”

“Yes, I do, just calm down ok? I’ll explain.”

Leo nodded and did his best to stifle his cries, a few whimpers escaping here and there.

“Thank you.” Justin put his hand on Leo’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, “so we’re already about halfway there. There’s no cell service here since we’re in the mountains, but once we reach the next good sized town we’ll call Sal ok?”

“Ok.”

“Then we’ll keep going to Vegas, since it’s already paid for. But, before you say no, consider this: we’ll only be gone for 24 hours. It’s gonna take 2 more for us to get there, and it’ll take 4 to get back, so really we’ll only be gone for 18 hours. That’s not really all that long when you think about it right? I mean 12 hours is only half a day and 6 is half of that. And 6 plus 12 is 18, so it doesn’t seem like much now doesn’t it?”

“I guess.” Leo mumbled, rubbing his face, “We have to get back before the afternoon though, that’s when Kala gets discharged.”

“I promise you we will.”

Dustin piped up, finally taking his mask off, “hell, I’ll even pay for you to fly over if it gets down to it.”

That seemed to be good enough for Leo, and so he began to calm down in earnest, to the relief of everyone else in the car. However, Leo quietly set up a timer that would go off at noon the next day. It’d help him keep track of how long they had left. Soon enough, they reached the true halfway point. Everyone except Leo got out to stretch their legs and go into the nearby fast food place, which was one of those ones where they have a combination of several different types of food that are all owned by the same parent company in the same building. While his friends were ordering food, Leo wandered around until he found a pocket of cell service, and immediately sent a message to Sal and his dads.

Petey kidnapped me to Las Vegas, I’m trying to get home before we got to the hospital tomorrow.

Just as fast as he’d found it, it vanished, and by sheer luck his message was delivered in time. He set out to wander around again, but the sound of his name being called distracted him. He glanced all about himself, until he barely saw what he assumed was Dustin’s car. Turns out he’d wandered farther than he thought. He yelled back, “awright man, I’m coming, Jesus Christ.”

Justin, having gotten his order finished first since his was the least amount and the least complicated, stepped out of the store to go eat in solitude in the car. He preferred the quiet over the loud and excited screams of children who, just moments ago, were bored out of their minds. He heard some indistinct yelling over by the truck stop a little ways down, and just barely looked over his shoulder to see what if the commotion was anything to worry about. Everything looked fairly normal except…there was Leo walking towards a very concerning looking van, one that was mostly off white save for the few splotches of reddish orange rust dotting the vehicle. Justin sprang to his feet, and ran after the boy, cussing and waving his arms to get his attention. Thankfully Justin, like most of his family, were fast runners so he got within earshot of the moronic shark before he crosses the road.

“Dude what the fuck?” Leo swiveled around, “why’re you trying to scare me like that?”

“I wasn’t- whatever, it’s not important. Why’re you going up to a stranger’s car like that?” Justin frowned.

“Bro come on don’t mess with me like that.”

“I’m serious.”

“Bullshit, I heard you guys calling for me from the car.”

“You mean the green suv over there?” Justin pointed behind them.”

Leo squinted, seeing a colorful blurry mass over by where Justin was pointing.

“Oh. Yeah, uh, must’ve forgot what color it was, sorry.”

Justin frowned harder, “you didn’t actually get lasik last year did you?”

“I did too!”

“Oh yeah?” Justin stepped to the side, “which order are the cars in?”

“I don’t know who the other cars belong to.”

“Do it by color then.”

Leo stared at Justin.

“I’m colorblind.”

Justin threw his hands up in frustration.

“Ok. If you’re gonna get separated from us can you please at least wear your glasses?”

“I don’t wanna look like a geek,” Leo mumbled.

Justin sighed.

“Well too bad, nardo, you already are one. Might as well look the part too.” He joked harshly, pulling Leo close to him in a half hug.

“I got you a burger, I know it’s probably not gonna get cold in this weather, but it’ll get stale quick.”

“Gross you got cooties on it,” Leo stuck his tongue out jokingly, “Good thing I got my larper b gone.”

“Larper b gone?”

“It’s soap and deodorant.” Leo stuck his tongue out.

Justin barked out a laugh. “Oh no! My one weakness!”

[rhetoricandlogic]

Ally

by NALO HOPKINSON

PUBLISHED IN MAY 2018 (ISSUE 68) | 3100 WORDS 

© 2018 by Nalo Hopkinson.

It’d been a warm, sunny spring afternoon. The grass in the cemetery was green, the roses and lavender in the wreaths fragrant. Iqbal’s funeral had been a quiet affair, all things considered.

Our circle was getting too old for the type of soap opera drama that had marked our younger years. We’d lived for enough decades that my friends and I had settled into some kind of rhythm, had dared to allow some of our sharp edges to be burnished smooth.

So by the time of Iqbal’s funeral, Joachim had long since given up staging drunken screaming matches in parking lots with Jésus for stealing Joachim’s boyfriend Steve, lo these many years ago. After all, soon after Steve had left him, Joachim had met and bottomed to Randall at a play party, and they’d been together ever since. Randall had ceased lamenting the flawless beauty of his youth to anyone who would (or wouldn’t) listen. He’d started dating a couple of eager smooth-skinned houseboys, vetted by Joachim. The young men kept Joachim’s and Randall’s boots spit-polished. Randall had let his hair grow in grey, waxed his mustachios, and relaxed into his daddy role.

Munroe had become an actual daddy as a result of a drunken evening with his dyke friend Alice. He ended up sharing custody of the little girl with her—mostly amicably, with some glaring exceptions. “Baby” Tina was twenty-two years old now. She’d attended the service with hugs for all her uncles and me, her aunty. Almost everyone had remembered to call me Sally. After all, it’d been seven years. Pete did slip up and call me “Jack . . . er, Sal,” but I didn’t bite his head off; he was, after all, burying his husband. But it’s been seven fucking years, dude, and you’re still making that mistake?

When I transitioned, Pete’s awkwardness about it had cooled our friendship down quite a bit. So as I stood beside the grave site with the others, watching the coffin being lowered mechanically into the hole and longing to get out of the black pumps that were crushing my toes in two very stylish vises, I was surprised when my phone buzzed with a text from Pete: The bar in an hour? Just you and me?

Well. It’d been years since he and I had hung out like that, but I knew exactly which bar he meant. I texted back, Make it an hour and a half. To underline that I wasn’t going to let him “Jack” me again, I added, Momma needs to slip into something more comfortable.

I only stopped at home long enough to switch my heels for flats and give the hubby a squeeze, but Pete was already waiting when I got to the bar. He was nursing a virgin Manhattan, extra maraschino cherries. Nowadays, sugar was his drug of choice. He looked glumly up at me and kicked out the chair opposite his. The haunted look in his eyes made my heart ache. I sat. He said, “Rye and soda?” I didn’t even need to nod. He knew what I liked, and was already signalling the waitress.

Two women sitting together at the bar gave me the side-eye. They leaned their heads together to talk, scowling at me the whole time. Easy to figure what they had their panties in a twist about. “You okay?” I asked Pete. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

His eyes met mine. “Something happened the other day.”

“With Iqbal?”

He frowned. “Yes. No. I’m not sure.”

I sighed. “Tell me.”

He tried on an ill-fitting smile. “I dunno. It’s dumb. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“‘But you must be mad,’” I quoted. “‘We’re all mad here.’”

Unlike the Cheshire Cat’s, his smile became a little more real as he quoted back: “‘There’s no use trying. One can’t believe impossible things.’” His smiled cracked. “Maybe it was just the stress. Of everything. Of Iqbal . . .”

My drink had arrived. I took a sip, let the bite and chill of it roll around on my tongue, swallowed. “Pete, I’m listening. You know I always will, no matter how crazy the thing you have to tell me.” No matter how hurt I was that we weren’t really friends any more.

His eyes were wet. “You remember Mrs. Richardson.”

It wasn’t a question. Pete and I had known each other since we were teenagers in high school. He was the first person I told outright that I wasn’t a boy. He’d laughed it off, quite gently. But I’d never mentioned it to him again.

And of course I remembered that cunt. She shouldn’t have been allowed near kids, much less allowed to foster young Pete. Meeting a foster kid had been quite the eye-opener for me. Meeting the spinning ball of hatred that was Mrs. Richardson made the skin on my arms crawl, made me almost grateful for my passive-aggressive mother and my transphobic dad.

I said, “One minute she’d be sweet as pie, the next she’d be raging.”

“She wasn’t always like that, though. At some point, she changed.”

I hadn’t known that. “Really? What turned her evil, then?”

“The other way round, Sal.”

Good. I was back to being Sally, or as close as Pete would get to it. “Wait—you mean she used to be worse?”

He nodded. “When I was first placed with her, she’d come at me night and day. She said I was a lost cause, but she would whip me into shape. Once I laid the table with the knives and forks on the wrong side of the plates. She sent me to bed without dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“She made me do all kinds of evening and weekend chores till I was so tired, I fell asleep on top of my homework. Then she punished me for getting bad grades. Took my socks away that fall and winter. Couple of my toes never recovered from the frostbite.”

It felt like the bottom had dropped out of my belly. “We were friends! Why didn’t you tell me?” The Mrs. Richardson I’d met mostly yelled a lot. Vile things, usually variants of “dumbass.” And she’d refused to give permission for Pete to go on any school trips.

“I’d only just met you. It started happening in summer, when you were away at camp. And anyway, it didn’t last long.”

“Lasted long enough for you to get frostbite that winter.”

He shrugged. “What good would telling you have done?”

“We could have told my folks, or the school! Someone would have gotten you out of there!” I was nearly shouting. People near us glanced at us then looked away.

“You’ve never been a foster kid. More likely, no one would have believed us and the investigation would just have made her hate me even more.”

All that time, he’d been suffering. And all this time, he’d kept his secret from me.

“She was careful to only hit me in places the bruises wouldn’t be seen.”

“Jesus.” I sucked back more of my drink and waited for him to continue. But he stayed silent. I prompted him: “What made her get nicer? Or at least, made her stop physically hurting you?”

“I’ve told you about my dad, right?”

Clearly he needed to change the subject. “Yeah, a bit.” Pete’s dad had raised him alone. Got hit by a car and killed when Pete was thirteen. That’s how Pete had ended up in foster care.

“Dad used to let me read Alice in Wonderland to him. He took me fishing, worked on my science fair projects with me. He never raised a hand to me.

“I saw the accident, rode with Dad in the ambulance. He was bleeding, semi-conscious, but he held my hand till he couldn’t any more. He kept saying, ‘I’ll come back to you, Petey. I have to look after you.’ And then of course he didn’t come back. He died. And I was sent to Mrs. Richardson.” Pete clamped his hands around his drink. They were trembling a little. I wondered whether he’d even told Iqbal about Mrs. Richardson.

My drink had gone right through me, and I desperately needed to pee. I knew from past experience this place had segregated washrooms. That’s why—or one of the reasons why—I’d stopped coming to this bar. I crossed my legs and leaned forward in my chair, as Pete clearly had more to say about that bloody bitch.

“One day, she was hitting me—on my legs—and I was trying to act like it wasn’t hurting. She was pissed because of some damned thing she thought I’d done, I don’t even remember what. I do remember I was trying to tell her that I hadn’t done it, and she was shouting, ‘Children should be seen and not heard!’”

I stared at Pete, my mouth open in shock.

“Suddenly she stopped mid-swing, with her hand pulled up, like someone had grabbed her by the wrist. She opened her eyes wide and said, ‘Petey.’ And . . . she stopped hitting me. She dropped to her knees to look at the bruises that were coming up on my thighs. And then she said the strangest thing.”

“What?” I was trying hard to forget my twinging bladder. One of the two TERFy dykes had just gone to the washroom. The other was watching me, her lip curled in disgust.

“She said, ‘What did she do to you?’ You know, talking about herself in the third person? Then she went to hug me! That freaked me the fuck out. I pushed her away. She stood up, looked confused. She asked me where the kitchen was.”

“In her own house? Was she having a stroke, or something?”

“Yeah, maybe. Iqbal was confused too, when he had his first stroke . . .”

“Hey,” I said, “Do you want to get out of here, just go home? Or come back to our place? We have a guest room, you could spend the night.”

But Pete was looking off into the memory distance. He continued, “I pointed to where the kitchen was. She came back with cold water and paper towel. She dabbed my bruises and said she was sorry, that it was such a long way back and she’d brought the water as quickly as she could.”

“Bitch was seriously crazy.”

Pete had the waiter bring us refills. I hoped I could hold my water. In a pinch, I could dash back home, use the toilet there, be back in twenty, thirty minutes tops, and not risk being attacked for the unforgiveable crime of peeing in a public toilet.

“After that,” said Pete, “I never knew whether I was going to get evil Mrs. Richardson or good Mrs. Richardson. It messed with my head. Sometimes she’d just sit in her armchair in front of the TV and mutter, like she was arguing with herself. And sometimes she’d just look scared out of her wits. I was so glad when I was legal to leave.”

I smiled. “I was bigtime envious of you, getting to be on your own when you were sixteen.”

“You were an idiot, then.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“That was no picnic, either.” He sipped his drink, then looked up. “I just remembered something. The day I left, I was just heading out the door when she put her hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. She said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t look after you the whole time. It’s such a long way round.’ Then her hand fell away, and her face just changed. She stepped back. She watched me leave, and the look on her face was the most hatred I’ve ever had directed at me. And that’s saying something. I scrambled down the driveway like the Devil was at my heels.”

I shuddered. “Did you ever see her again?”

“Not her, no. Heard she’d jumped in front of a car, or something. Didn’t care.”

“Pete,” I said gently, “You were telling me about Iqbal?”

He stared into his glass, spoke with his head still down. “We used to fight. Like, knockdown fistfights.”

“Oh, no.”

“’Fraid so. Blood was shed, there were trips to Emergency, the police were called.”

“Police? To a fight between two brown men?”

“Yeah. It’s a miracle we survived.”

When one lives in a world in which large portions of it want one dead, every minute is a triumph, every breath a defiance, and, if one’s jib is cut that way, every statement a manifesto. The everyday vagaries of life and love are just writ that much larger, because they mean that much more. The game of “he said/he said” is raised to a level of artistry rivalled only by the sport of kings. Every breakup is forever, because love may never find one ever again. Every new lover becomes one’s whole life, because one is stealing love from the jaws of hatred. What t-shirt to wear with the perfect jeans to go clubbing is almost as brutally important as what words to write on one’s placard to attend that demonstration against legalizing faith-based homophobia. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It stopped, all the violence between us. One day, Iqbal took his hands from around my throat—”

“Pete!”

“—and he looked at his hands as though he’d never seen them before. He said, ‘No more. I’m not going to fight you anymore.’ I mean, it didn’t end right away. For one thing, I wasn’t ready to stop. Didn’t know how, really. But Iqbal really meant it. He’d changed. Eventually he got me to go to counselling with him. And bit by bit, we figured shit out. Figured out how to be good to each other.” Pete sobbed, once, so loudly that people three tables over stopped to look our way. “God, Sally, I miss him so much.”

“I know, honey.” I took his hand in mine. He jumped at my touch. I tried not to feel hurt.

“You know the last thing he said to me?”

I shook my head.

“He said, “I found my way home to you, Petey. I looked after you. I got better at it, so that I could be with you all the time.” He went unconscious after that, and was gone by the next morning.”

“He loved you very much. That wasn’t strange at all.”

He nodded absently, then pulled his hand away to pick his glass up. He had a sip. “Okay,” he said. “I suppose. But here’s the thing; only my dad ever called me Petey.”

I tried to concentrate through the yammering of my bladder. “No, that’s not right. Didn’t you say that Mrs. Richardson did?”

“Once. The day she stopped hitting me.”

“And Iqbal?”

“Once. The last time he was conscious.” Pete’s hands started shaking so badly that he had to set the glass down. He put his hands in his lap. “So what I’m really asking myself is: who was I married to all those years?”

Something squirmed in the pit of my belly. How could he even think—? “Pete . . .” I whispered.

He jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry, Sal. It’s just been so hard the last couple of days. Losing Iqbal, the funeral, all those people to be polite to while . . .” He stopped, his face pulled into the lineaments of grief. “My head’s just been full of all these weird thoughts.”

“I understand,” I murmured. But I didn’t. “You need to be gentle with yourself this next little while.”

“Let me get the check.” He put some bills on the table.

“Okay, thanks, but first I just need to . . .” I stood, clamping down hard on my aching bladder. Another reason to be thankful I’d diligently done all those post-surgery kegels.

Pete sighed, as one does when one is about to say something difficult for others to hear. “It’s just that . . . well, Mrs. Richardson, Iqbal; people around me keep turning into someone else. You used to be Jack; now you’re Sally.”

The cold burn of betrayal and erasure was just about to tsunami over me, scouring me from skin to bone, when he got a strange look in his eye. In a clear voice, he said, “But Jack is just what people called you. I finally figured it out. You were always Sally. You have always been exactly who you are right now.”

I can be an emo bitch sometimes. When I started weeping, he pulled me into his arms. “Sally, I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick.” For the first time in years, my friend and I held each other like the close companions we used to be.

And then I really, really had to go. I waited, hot-footing, till I was as sure as I could be that there was no one in the Women’s. Pete stood outside the door painted with the stick figure lady in a triangle skirt until I exited safely. He walked me home, hugged me again on the street outside my apartment building. I told him I’d check in on him tomorrow, waved goodbye as he headed off in the direction of the subway station.

Age and a track record of survival can bring poise to a life lived cheek by jowl with the possibility of danger. You might say that one’s trigger becomes less hairy. Nevertheless, one is always watchful for that slight shift, the moment when a situation turns.

That new look in Pete’s eye, the complete change of demeanour. And wasn’t that the first time, he’d called me Sally? Not Jack-er-Sal. Not Sal. Sally.

In the long elevator ride up to my twenty-first floor apartment, I tried not to ask myself whether Pete’s sudden change of heart had been all him. As I kissed my sleeping husband and got ready for bed, I tried not to feel guilty that I didn’t care who had been behind Pete’s eyes. Whoever it was, they were my friend.

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Nalo Hopkinson

Nalo Hopkinson lives in a home filled with books, art supplies, tools, art projects at various stages of unfinished, more books, and brown-skinned mermaids. She has aches, pains, chronic fatigue, and a quirky brain. She has far too much to do, and nowhere near enough time to marathon watch annoying but addictive science fiction TV. She loves dance. She’s working on a novel about a monster carried by a girl who turns into a woman. The girl does, not the monster. She cooks great food (mostly) and mismanages her schedule. She doesn’t answer her phone or check her voice mail messages.

[whipplefilter]

(Just need some emotional headcanons right about now): What if Cruz had a small accident when she's training with Lightning one day and she gets amnesia? How would the RS townies (especially Lightning) react and how would they try to regain all her memories?

Oh no, not Cruz!

Fic: Comeback Story

The headlines have a field day with this–Lightning McQueen’s protege getting electrocuted. (And because Guido and Luigi put the hospital on lockdown, after that first shock the press has nothing to occupy themselves with but an overabundance of their own puns.)

At first, it doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong. The nurses jump her battery and everything comes back online. When her eyes flutter open she sees Lightning and she smiles. She recognizes him. Hamilton needs to be re-installed and–Cruz notes with dismay–her radio pre-sets are scrambled, but that’s not really a problem Lightning can empathize with. She can drive without assistance and and her brakes and transmission all check out. No computer issues. Everything checks out.

“I can’t believe you’re spending so much time with me,” Cruz tells him after the first few days. She bites her lip, looks a little starstruck.

“I mean… Of course,” says Lightning, a little self-conscious. He’s never sure if he’s yet outrun the shadow of who he was his rookie year. Like maybe people still see him as that guy, or maybe when he lets his guard down he is still that guy. “I’m not gonna let you sit in here alone, Cruz.”

“But shouldn’t you be doing your own PT?” she asks.

Lightning cocks a brow.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? At the hospital, I mean. Because of your big crash last week.”

“Cruz, what–” Lightning breaks off. “Cruz, I–”

He stares her down, every bright expectant inch of her. Dread clenches in his heart so hard that it feels like hitting that wall again. “Cruz, it’s–”

His gaze flicks to the doorway, where Luigi and Guido are peering in. “Never mind,” he says tightly. Then he asks Luigi to please go get Cruz’s doctor. 

Now.

–

She doesn’t remember anything. The last eight months are just gone.

It’s lucky, says the doctor. Electrocution can be wild like that–if it doesn’t burn your circuits irreparably to begin with, and kill you outright. In the scheme of things, eight months is very lucky.

The last patient she had in a similar situation? He lost three years. Had an accident working in his garage and woke up to a Lexus he didn’t recognize, thinking it was 2004. Except it wasn’t 2004. It was 2007, and he was in the middle of a divorce and the Lexus–apparently she’s his girlfriend. The girl who broke his marriage and whom he now cannot remember.

“Yeah, but–” Lightning shrugs.

Yeah, but he doesn’t care about that guy. Yeah, but these eight months weren’t like everyone else’s eight months.They were special, they–

“You’re right.” The doctor sighs. “You’re not like everyone else. Because like I said, Ms. Ramirez is lucky.”

She writes Cruz a reference for a number of follow-up appointments with this or that specialist and sends them on their way.

–

“Well, obviously,” says Sally, as she maneuvers a push broom around Wheel Well’s trickier sconces. Lightning is supposed to be washing windows, but he’s even worse at it than usual. He keeps getting lost midway, his thoughts falling back to Cruz and forgetting about the soap suds, which leave aggressive streaks on all the windows.

“Things aren’t the same, so of course acting like they are isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“I don’t know how else to act!” Lightning exclaims. “I thought maybe if I just acted normal, it’d help her–remember, maybe, or something–I don’t know. Am I just supposed to pretend those eight months never happened? She’s not an idiot. She knows that they happened. Or I mean, she knows I know.”

They can’t just start blank slate. Time, memory, whatever you want to call it–it happened, and none of it can be undone. Even if apparently, it can be forgotten. If Lightning could just meet Cruz all over again and start at square one, he’d do it. In a heartbeat. That’s what it had taken after his crash–long months of learning his body again, learning how to make it move. Really move.

That, Lighting can do.

But memory? He and Cruz, it’s like they had their first shot at getting to know each other. There aren’t do-overs. There’s no room for that.

It’s not really memory loss, Lightning figures. Loss implies emptiness which implies a void that can be filled again.

Forgetting takes up too much space.

“Nice job with the windows,” says Sally.

When Lightning snaps to, he’s parked next to an empty bucket and Sally’s the one with the squeegee. He doesn’t remember her taking it.

–

Cruz makes better friends with the town than she ever was before the accident. Part of it’s they’ve spent so much time here. Tex pulled them from the rest of the Cup season, so they haven’t had anywhere to be. It was the right thing to do–a no-brainer, frankly–but part of Lightning still wanted to shout, No!

No, because if everything is different, then she’ll never remember what it was. Nothing will ever go back to normal.

It’s Mater who reminds him that nothing is ever going to be the same. That’s how time works. Living in a junkyard, he gets real contemplative about stuff like that sometimes, he says. He says it comtem-PLATE-ive.

Cruz is laughing with Flo and Ramone. She’s been interested in painting lately, and Ramone is only too happy to send her out to the junkyard with some of his old paints. She misses her old job at the Center; hasn’t said much at all about racing.

She knows, by know, what those eight months had entailed. Or at least, the public beats of it. Being employed to train Lighting, being in the Florida 500. Racing in the Piston Cup. Lightning hasn’t had the willpower to tell her about the beach, or the school bus of death, or rushing through the Carolina forests, all moon dark.

Cruz is already working on trying not to feel guilty about forgetting. About not caring about that stuff–she can’t; she wasn’t there; her brain now wasn’t there, anyway. The last thing she needs is more guilt.

Maybe it’s better this way, Lightning tells himself. Cruz and Sally are becoming fast friends. It’s not that they hadn’t been pleasant to each other before. But Sally’d always been Lightning’s lawyer, Lightning’s girlfriend. Old Cruz had known Radiator Springs through Lightning, and perhaps by virtue of that had always regarded them at a polite remove. Like he’d been in the way, somehow.

Maybe those memories were roadblocks. Maybe he is a roadblock.

Maybe it’s better this way.

–

Tastes, temperament. The doctor nods, tapping her front tire on the ground as she lists things off.

Yes, all of those things can change after an electrocution. Electrocution is–

“Wild. Yes, you said that,” says Lightning, impatient.

Electrocution is wild, and the mind is wilder. Sometimes it changes in utterly random, unpredictable ways. Silly ways. Cruz likes Pearl Jam now. She’s thinking of painting herself green, because she doesn’t know if yellow really feels “like her.”

Not that it’s any of Lightning’s business what color Cruz is, but it’s this kind of stupid stuff that makes him want to drive off a cliff. In lieu of a cliff, he resolves to go red again. He doesn’t think he can handle this otherwise.

–

Lightning feels himself unspooling. Which is unforgivably selfish, because this is Cruz’s issue, this is Cruz’s journey, and this is not about him. But it’s like even his version of those memories begins to fray and tangle. Like maybe now they were only half as real. Like maybe they belonged to some other universe, and their power dwindled as their home planet receded to its outer orbit. (This is a Mater analogy. Something about UFOs. Lightning’s not really sure, but at the time, and in Mater’s words, it had felt like a lot of sense.)

He can feel himself drawing back. Back through the dread, the threat of failure, the frustration. Back to the four months he’d spent sitting in Doc’s garage–Doc’s garage that was still a garage because Lightning hadn’t let them expand the museum, because Lightning is hopelessly slow to let go of things like that.

As the weeks pass and Cruz’s new memories paper ever-thicker over the old ones, Lightning ties his best to keep to that pace.

But he’d needed her. That Cruz. Old Cruz. He’d needed those moments.

He still has them, he reminds himself.

He’s not the one with freaking amnesia.

Sally tells him it’s okay to feel the way he does. “If you really care about someone, and they go through something terrible, it’s natural to feel wrecked, too. Believe me.”

Lightning looks at her, wants to kiss her. Wishes he’d never met her. Wishes he’d never wished about never meeting her, because he knows he cannot live without her. And he knows exactly why Sally might know how he feels. “Sal, I’m so sorry.”

Sally shakes her head. “Stop. I can see you missing the point,“ she says. “Lightning, you have to be kind to yourself.”

–

Cruz may never recover those memories, says the doctor. If she can build a life without them, then maybe that’s for the best.

“She can,” says Lighting, because he believes that Cruz can do anything. Except, maybe, remember. “She is.”

“So, your doctor is nice,” says Lighting, on the drive home.

“Sure,” says Cruz.

“Nice weather.”

“Lightning, come on.”

Lightning, not Mr. McQueen. Because everyone back home calls him Lightning, so now Cruz does, too. He never imagined his own name could sound so awkward, magically less familiar. He hadn’t even liked being called Mr. McQueen. But he’d liked what they’d had. He can’t help that.

He doesn’t know if he can get over that.

“I’m sorry I don’t talk to you so much,” says Cruz, turning him back to the present. “I guess I just– It feels hard, you know? ‘Cause I know that you and I, we– And I just–”

“I know,” says Lightning.

Maybe if he were older, this wouldn’t be so hard. Eight months weighed against a couple decades–that’s nothing. And they have so much more time to make more memories together. And that’s a positive, right? That’s a bright patch, a silver lining.

It doesn’t make Lightning feel bright, though. It makes him feel old. Now he feels too tired to make friends with Cruz all over again.

He wants what they had.

–

One night, Cruz wakes up screaming. She doesn’t remember her nightmare.

What she cries about afterwards is this: What if she does remember? One day, after all the work she’s done to be okay with forgetting. To make some new life. What if she does remember and her whole life turns into a giant fork in the road?

“I’d explode,” she sniffs. “But like, you’re supposed to want your memories back. In the movies, that’s what makes everyone happy.”

In Lightning’s mind that’s what makes everyone happy.

“But I can’t just sit around, hoping that maybe that happens. I’m here, and I gotta just–be me, and not keep trying to hold on to the past. Like, I don’t even have it–I can’t hold onto it. But every memory I make, at the back of my mind I keep wondering, what if I do? What it it happens? And every day, every memory, I know I’m just going to make it worse if it ever does happen. And I just–”

“Shhh,” Lightning murmurs. He nudges her side gently and taps a pleasant vibration against her front tire with his own.

There’s not really anything he can say to her, and it seems foolish to try. He’s her crew chief, not like, her fairy godmother. Or a psychic. Or a time traveler. Or God.

But he stays with her. They sit in the dark together and it doesn’t feel like old times but it doesn’t feel like less.

“I think you’ll be okay,” he says eventually. “And you’re definitely not going to explode. So, uh, there’s that.”

Cruz does not believe him. At all. “What if I remember, and I regret leaving all those memories behind? What if I’m just like, shoot, I should have just waited for them to catch up? What if those memories just turn into one big fiery ball of regrets? And then I explode? I mean, you can’t scientifically prove that won’t happen.”

“Oh, never wait for anything to catch up,” Lightning says immediately. “You start doing that, and life’s just gonna lap you.”

“That’s very sage, Mr. McQueen,” says Cruz.

“I think I meant that really, really literally,” Lightning admits. “Wait, what did you just call me?”

“I called you Mr. McQueen,” Cruz repeats sleepily. “I dunno. It just felt right.”

–

It’s been eight months and thirteen days since Cruz’s accident. The doctor reminds them, once more, that her memories may never return.

But even if they do, there’s no turning back the clock. There’s no “back to normal.” Normal is already here. It’s Cruz’s paintings hanging in Mater’s yard. It’s her late-night jam sessions with Fillmore. It’s being Sally’s best friend. It’s nightmares, all the time, about nothing. It’s that pang of loneliness Lightning feels sometimes, even when Cruz is bouncing right in front of him, even when he’s surrounded by family and friends. It’s that strangeness that never quite leaves.

Because memory is “–wild, I know, you say that every time we come here,” say Lightning and Cruz in unison. The doctor blushes.

There is no going back to the way things were. But, Lightning figures, that’s not what “comeback story” means.

Never has.