#Hey do you remember that one person last lab course?

[thinkinonsense]

Sweet Temptations.

logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: fingering, oral (f receiving), innocence kink, inexperienced reader, darkish!logan

a/n: hi! sorry i've been gone so long! i have plenty of stuff in the works but for now here's this. i'm working on making a mini-series of dark!logan x inexperienced!reader so i hope everyone enjoys! <3

to think, logan almost went out to the bar tonight. almost left to find a one night stand or come home and fuck his hand. tonight could've had so many different outcomes but luckily, he ended up with the best one.

there's a light knock on his bedroom door. he knew it had to have been you since everyone was on a field trip a couple hours away for the night. logan obviously wasn't interested in going and you were busy working on an experiment in the laboratory.

in all reality, logan just wanted an excuse to stay here alone with you overnight. ever since he joined the x-men and met you down in the lab in that cute white coat and pretty smile, he's had a crush on you.

"hi, logan." you smile softly when he opens his door.

"hey, dollface. you need something?" he asks, leaning against his door frame and eyeing that short little nightgown of yours.

"can we talk?"

"sure."

the two of you walk into logan's room and sit on the end of his bed. you sit up on your knees, facing him. he can tell that something is on your mind but you're unsure on if you should confide in him or not.

"is everything alright?" he asks, growing concerned.

you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

"whatcha wanna talk about then, sweets?"

logan's large hand rubs your knee softly, almost coaxing the words out of you.

"would you do me a big favor?" you ask, avoiding his hazel gaze.

"of course."

there's slight hesitation. you were afraid of logan's reaction to your request. after a deep breath, you remind yourself that it's just logan. the same logan who trains with you every morning, the same logan who plays with your hair when he's bord, the same logan who praises you for all your hard work in the laboratory. there was nothing to be afraid of.

"c-can you take my virginity?"

the question almost killed logan. he thought he had died and gone to heaven. you finally look at him with a twinkle in your eyes and he feels the need to adjust the tent growing in his pants.

"where'd this idea come from, sweetheart?"

"well, i was seeing a guy a while ago who acted really weird when i told him i was still a virgin then when i told storm and jean, they told me that if i'm ready to do it, than it should be with someone i trust." you explain so innocently to him. "i just figured since you've always been so gentle with me and i trust you, i was kinda hoping you wouldn't mind."

never in his wildest dreams could logan have imagined this happening. you sitting pretty on his bed, practically begging him to take your virginity. god, logan couldn't even remember the last time he was with a virgin. must've been decades ago.

"that's real sweet, dollface. 'f course i'll do it." he says, watching your smile grow with excitement. "first i need to know what you've already done."

"i've kissed while sitting in someone's lap, given a hickey twice... maybe three times? some nights i'll rub myself against one of my pillows."

even though he knew the answer, he had to ask, "ever fingered yourself?"

"no." you shake your head, almost making logan moan at just the thought of being the first person to do that to you.

"want to try it?"

"s-sure but i thought we were gonna–"

"we will." logan assures. "need to get you loosened up first if you want me to fit inside of you."

a small gasp exists your lips, making him chuckle. logan leans in, testing the waters to see how you kiss. he's a bit shocked by how you pull him closer to deepen it. you moan into his mouth while your hands roam his hair. he sits you in his lap and lets you grind yourself on top of him, showing him what you know.

"let's see if you're nice and wet for me." logan hums, lifting up your nightgown and feeling the wet spot over your underwear. "very good, dollface."

without thinking, you let out a tiny moan next to his ear because of his praise. he can't help but pull your head from its hiding spot in his neck to look at you.

"you like when i tell you how good you're being for me?" he ask, watching your face contort as your hips keep moving. one of his hands rests on your waist, stopping you from moving. "c'mon, you can tell me."

"mhm..." you nod. "love when you praise me."

suddenly, your back is pressed flat against his sheets as he kisses all down your body. leaving little marks here and there until he reaches the waist band of your pretty pink underwear.

"did you wear these just for me, princess?" he asks, placing a kiss right over the cotton covering your button.

"y-you said i looked p-pretty in pink."

as the words stumble out of your mouth, logan feels a warmth spread across his heart. a couple months ago, you were wearing a new pink dress and as logan passed you by, he mentioned how pretty you looked in the color. it meant a lot to you.

"you still do." he says. "can i take these off of you, baby?"

you nod, lifting your hips a little to help him. logan tosses the pink cotton somewhere behind him. lifting up the nightgown to your tummy, eyes glued to the spot in between your legs.

"didn't think you could get any prettier." logan mumbles to himself.

his intense gaze made you feel a bit vulnerable, trying to close your legs but his large hands stop you.

"don't hide from me, princess." he says, capturing your attention. " 'm gonna make you feel good."

logan carefully drags his thumb through your slit, collecting the arousal and circling it around your button. the feather like touch sends your head back and whimpers to fall from your lips. gently, logan pushes his middle finger past your velvet walls, groaning once you clench around him.

"atta girl, princess." he smirks watching you swallow up his finger. "takin' it so good."

logan watches in awe as your head fall back and the arch in your back. slowly he inches his face closer and licks a thick stripe up your fold before sucking softly on your button. you feel logan muffle 'fuck' against you, only resulting in more arousal to spill out of you.

"o-oh, logan." you moan, hips chasing his tongue feverishly.

since this was your first time, logan went easy on you, not making you work for your orgasm. he feels your cunt clench down on his one finger as it hits deep inside of you until you are seeing stars. with logan's other free hand, he paws at your tit and rolls it in his palm.

"need m-more!" you whimper with glossy eyes and lips. "p-please, lo."

in an attempt to give you what you want, logan struggles to hit another finger inside of you. he wasn't sure what he did to deserve this type of heaven but god, was he thankful for it.

"i can't, sweetheart." he groans, kissing your hip bone as he speeds up the finger inside of you. "you're too tight for two of my fingers. there's no way i'll be able to fit inside of you tonight."

before you could whine in protest, this indescribable wave of euphoria washes over you. smooth silky legs wrap tightly around logan's head. thighs covers his ears, blocking out the sweet sounds you were making. logan goes back to sloppily making out with your cunt until you weakly pull him off and drag him up to your lips, tasting your own release on his tongue.

"thanks, lo." you smile in a daze at him.

"anytime." he says. "i think you'll need another lesson soon though if you want to take all of me. do you want that, princess?"

he could feel your heart rate increase eagerly. you blush intensely and avoid his gaze as you nod.

"alright." he chuckles darkly. "but first, you gotta show me how you get off on your pillow."

[chemblrish]

Hey Lena, any tips for how to make friends in uni as a nerdy but introverted/socially anxious girlie? 🥺 thank youu

Hi!

I need you to know I saw this ask and immediately thought, "Did I just get a message from my past self?" 😅 Nerdy and introverted? Check. Used to have very bad social anxiety? Check. I was in therapy though and it was immensely helpful! I'm still a little shy but doing incomparably better, so I can tell you what I've learnt and hopefully some of it can help you too :)

Excuse the language, but first of all, you need to give yourself a fucking break. Shy people, we tend to fixate on ourselves: our looks, our posture, on whether what we just said was weird, and so, all our flaws (both real and imaginary) appear magnified tenfold - but only to us. Because truth is, nobody else is judging you half as harshly as you're judging yourself. Nobody is analyzing all your jokes or the way you walk. If you trip or say something awkward, it genuinely doesn't matter. It happens to everybody sometimes, it's okay. Remember that there's nothing wrong with you. Maybe you're shy, maybe you're easily overwhelmed, maybe you have very little experience making friends - but none of these make you inherently weird. So give yourself a break. You're sincerely doing a lot better than you think, I promise.

Small talk is actually not a bad thing, no matter what some edgelords may try to tell you. I used to spark up a lot of conversations early on in uni by bringing up things like the last test (because most of the time I'd get a mildly pained sigh in response and then we'd bond over how hard it was and how the professor was crazy lol) or the upcoming lab class ("Any interesting exercises in your schedule?") or how my commute to uni that day wrecked me and hey are you a commuter? Oh, you live in a dorm, how do you like it? And many other things of this sort, because if you think about it, uni is a neverending source of conversation topics when you're a student talking to another student.

You know how shy people are advised to just ask questions because everybody loves talking about themselves? That's not a bad advice. The trick is to be genuinely curious about other people. Don't ask just to say something, ask to hear what that other person has to say. This is helpful for two reasons: it takes the focus away from you (which is exactly where shy people shouldn't keep it) by directing it at the other person, and it actually helps to keep the conversation going, because it allows you to find either another thing that might interest you about that person or something to share about yourself.

Maybe it's obvious, but don't hide yourself. I know it's a lot easier to just curl up in a corner with your phone, but you gotta put yourself out there. Hang out with the rest of your course mates outside the lecture hall as you're all waiting for the professor. Take your time packing up afterwards instead of dashing straight for the exit. Don't look for that secluded spot where you can hide safely with a book (even though your introvert instinct tells you to do just that), be where the other students hang out.

Sometimes you have to keep choosing someone. Storytime with a moral: I took a liking to one of my current friends very early in the first semester. She seemed like exactly the kind of person I wanted to stick with in uni. I'd always come up to her and talk to her first but she hardly ever did the same. For some time I'd think, "Welp, clearly she doesn't dislike me, but she doesn't seem to like me much either." Now I can't even remember when that changed, but in an honest conversation we had maybe last month (so after almost two years of knowing each other!!), she told me she often struggles with figuring out whether someone likes her and wants her around or not, so she usually just stays away. You aren't the only introvert out there. Maybe the person you're trying to befriend is also a little anxious and needs a bit more time and effort from you. Don't give up too easily!

Not all people are your people and that's okay. You'll find that trying to talk to someone continuously feels like a chore no matter your good intentions. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with you or with them. Everybody can't click with everybody and that's fine!

And lastly: "different friends for different things" is a liberating philosophy. Maybe there's this one person in this one class that you always sit with and get along with well, but it doesn't seem like either of you wants to take it any further than that. Cool! That's your buddy X from Y class. Not everyone has to be your bestie who knows all your secrets and shares all your interests. Be open to the concept of casual friends, so that you don't miss out on the more meaningful relationships by chasing someone who's just not feelin' it if you know what I mean.

Good luck my fellow introvert. Remember getting better at making friends is a process but also a skill that can be practiced and polished. You got this, I'm rooting for you!

[bizaar]

Endless Summer ✧

Part 3: Band on the Run

Cruel Summer Masterlist

Prev - Next

pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader

warnings: sexual content (18+ minors dni), horny-loser!reader, brief descriptions of sexual fantasies, swearing, and so much pining

word count: 19k

a/n: we're back baybeee! also, if anyone knows the original creator of the gif below, please let me know so I can tag them, I've had these on my laptop for over a year and I've lost all my credits!!

In the three hours it has been since you got home from school, the floor of your bedroom has become almost totally obscured by what is essentially every article of clothing you own. You’d made the mess in a frantic attempt at putting together an outfit out of thin air because you don’t actually own anything cool enough for how you’re planning to spend your night.

You’re supposed to be babysitting, just like every other Tuesday night you’ve spent since you were thirteen years old, but this week, for the first time in history, you did everything in your power to get out of that duty. You’d pulled out all the stops to convince everyone that, despite the perfect health of your earlier day, you’d somehow managed to contract a sudden onset, highly contagious illness sometime between fifth-period chemistry and now (one you intend on making a swift and miraculous recovery from) and for the safety of everyone around you, you should not be disturbed under any circumstances.

You blame it on how you’d spent four hours out in the cold, taking Dustin and his friends around to trick-or-treat last night, though all that does is get your mother on your case about how she “told you to wear a coat”, but would you listen? No.  

 It took almost a full hour of debate, all the tricks you’d ever seen employed in movies to fake sickness, and what you like to think of as an Oscar-worthy performance on your part, but your parents eventually gave in and called across the street to deliver the news. Part of you feels like it was only because they didn’t want to argue with you anymore, but in any case you got what you wanted.  

Dustin was going to the Wheelers, your parents were going to their weekly Tuesday night extracurriculars, and (unbeknownst to everyone else) you were going to see a band play at the Hideout.

Though not just any band.

The only reason you’ve gone to such lengths to get out of all your previous plans is because you’ve been personally invited to go and see Corroded Coffin play — Eddie’s band. 

Of course, you didn't know that at the time of the initial invitation, which came through Gareth, just as the school bell was finishing its cacophonous ringing to signify the end of fifth-period chemistry. 

“Hey, so, what are you doing tonight?” he asked, leaning less than casually on his elbow to peer down the length of his nose at you.  

You remember thinking that the way he was twisting at the waist looked terribly uncomfortable, but you were only half conscious of anything going on around you as you began the arduous task of orienting yourself toward your original plans for the night.  

“Homework.” You replied in an absent monotone, trying for the millionth time not to get sucked back into the memory of the lunch period spent “swapping eyes” with Eddie Munson. 

It’s been five days since then, but who’s counting?

Certainly not you and all the assignments piling up in your locker, waiting on the promise of “later” you’ve been making since the moment you finally managed to drag yourself out of those woods.

You were vaguely aware of Gareth answering with some kind of a droll response – which was entirely on brand for the likes of him – but you hardly heard him say it.

 You had a lot of other things on your mind, all of which seemed much more important than divulging your wholly uninteresting after-school plans to your lab partner.

Tonight, you’ll be sitting at the Henderson’s kitchen table doing all your overdue assignments while your prepubescent charge plays Atari, nothing more, nothing less. 

Talk about a rip-roaring good time, right? 

Still, it beats the “casual hangout” in Steve Harrington’s backyard Carol had tried to coerce you into attending under threat of major bodily harm. Not that being forced to sit around a pool in early November, fifth wheeling while everyone around you sucks face doesn’t sound like just the most fun a girl could have, but you told Carol the same thing you told Gareth about your plans for that night – you’ve got to do your homework, and it’s not even a lie. 

Normally, you like to think you’re a much better student, and while you’re not entirely sure that line of thinking is warranted (as is evidenced by your last report card, which saw you pulling straight C’s) you know for a fact that any and all thoughts of academia flew right out the window the moment Eddie put himself in the seat across from you in the lunchroom. 

And aren’t you so incandescently glad he did? 

It is a sentiment your teachers do not share. That morning (the first day back after a long weekend spent miserably pining) you’d even received the dreaded summons from your guidance counselor, who sat you down and asked if “everything was fine at home”. 

Why? You’d wanted to ask – because you were seen slinking off to the woods with Eddie Munson or because he wasn’t in school the next day and you haven’t turned in a single assignment since? You might remind them that with the long weekend, there are only technically two days of work missing, but you know they don’t want to hear that because this isn’t really about the homework.  

This is about you following Eddie out into the woods.

How are you supposed to think about things like formulas and essays when you can still see him gazing back at you from across the picnic bench every time you close your eyes? With that dreamy look on his face? 

And more to the point, how are you meant to explain to an adult that everything is fine, it’s only just you haven’t seen him in nearly a week and, not to be dramatic or hideously cliche, but you can’t seem to eat, sleep, or concentrate on anything so banal as homework when you’re fairly certain he was getting ready to kiss you out in those woods before the bell rang?

You’re not positive that’s where things were headed, but you’re pretty damn sure, and it's enough to get your girlish libido ringing the warning bells of your imminent demise with every day that passes out of Eddie’s presence. 

No, you can’t explain that to an educational professional or Carol, or anyone else without raising some serious alarms. Because you’re not even supposed to be talking to Eddie Munson, let alone sneaking off to the woods to become as completely captivated by him as you are. 

And he didn’t even kiss you… 

God, how you wish he would have just kissed you, especially after the way he seemed to make himself scarce the moment you took your eyes off him. 

You’d put quite a lot of time and energy after you got home that Thursday evening into wondering what it would have taken to get Eddie to lean over that table, and quite a bit more into wondering whether you ought to have bucked up and done it yourself. 

Not that it mattered, because he didn’t kiss you and you didn’t kiss him, and there you remain, unkissed and suddenly the topic of everyone’s conversation.

Because on top of everything else, there is that side of it. 

Like somehow a spell had been broken that afternoon you followed Eddie out of the lunchroom, everybody and their mother is suddenly keenly interested in you. People who have never given you the time of day suddenly know your name, and they want to know all the intimate details of what you did with Eddie Munson out in the woods, or rather, what he did to you. 

You probably should have known that was coming.

Still, you hate to indulge them with any kind of answer, even if it happens to be a big fat nothing. They only want to know so they can wrinkle their noses and sneer and shout about how “fucking nasty” that is — shacking up with the Freak King — just like Carol did in the lunchroom the day before all your dreams came true. 

You would spare yourself that humiliation if you could, but more than that, you’re struck by how you don’t want them talking about Eddie that way. 

You have become inordinately fond of him since that afternoon, more than you already were, and in a very specific way. Somehow, you can’t help but feel that, even though your conversation lasted less than twenty minutes altogether, you understand each other now.

You’re simpatico.

You might even venture to say that you’re almost friends. 

Strange how a little quiet intimacy was all you needed to curb the rabid edge of your obsession. Eddie is still all you think about, but in a decidedly calmer way, because he thinks you’re nice and approachable, and you think the same about him.

Still, in the five agonizing days it’s been since that big fat nothing happened, the questions have not stopped. Part of you wants to give them an answer if only to shut them up, but somehow you don’t think “he captivated me” is going to satisfy the people’s ravenous appetite for gossip. 

You’re certain everyone has already made up their mind about what they think happened, anyway. In the food chain of high school social constructs, it doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen, it only matters what people say happened. and you’re absolutely certain that you’re going to hear all about it sooner or later.

You realize now that’s probably why Carol was so desperate to get you to come out and fifth wheel tonight when she knows you have to babysit. She keeps telling you that you owe her because you didn’t go to Tina’s Halloween party, but somehow you’re not convinced she was that upset to have missed you.

Maybe it’s just that she doesn’t trust you not to lie to her about where you’re going to be and who you’ll be with, who will see you with them, and how that will come back to reflect on her. Guilty by association is the law of the land at Hawkins High, after all.

With all that weighing heavy on your mind, you ignored any further questions Gareth had about your after-school plans and shoved your books into your bag, ready to submit yourself to the quiet death of study hall. 

Ugh… study hall… you’d rather eat glass. Then again, you’d also rather not have to spend your summer watching the sweat beading on Mrs. O’Donnell’s upper lip in summer school, so down the hall you went, headed against the flow of traffic in the busy hallway.

Somehow, it feels like overt symbolism bashing you over the head – you’ve always hated a cliché.  

Lucky for you and your impending academic doom, Gareth was not so easily deterred and scrambled to follow you out the door.

“Why don’t you come out tonight instead?” He asked innocently, like it was the most casual thing in the world and he wasn’t struggling to keep pace with you as all your classmates shoved past.

The question hit you square in the back, punching your lungs flat and wrenching you out of your thoughts with enough force to make your head spin.

“Excuse me?” You gasped, pulling to a stop and whipping around so suddenly that Gareth, who you hadn’t realized was skirting along at your elbow, nearly took a blow to the solar plexus in his attempt to keep up. 

Your insides clenched and forced your heart up into your throat, but before you had the time to decide whether or not Gareth had just asked you out, his eyes went comically wide, and he began to backpedal as if his life depended upon it. 

Then again, it might have, if what he said was true and word got back around to Eddie.

“Not like a date!” He yelped, throwing his hands up and showing you his palms in a way that flooded you with a strange and instant relief, “Just as friends—”

Oh, thank God for that. 

You could barely wrap your head around the concept that Eddie feels any sort of intimate way about you —and you’re still not entirely convinced about that — but to suddenly learn that you are the object of two affections? That’s too much revelation for one week, and you can only thank that dim lucky star that so infrequently passes you over that it had been nothing but a misunderstanding. 

Not like a date, Gareth said, Just as friends, and you’re fine with that.

From there, he had your full attention as he went on to explain that his band was doing a set down at the Hideout, and he was extending you a personal invitation to come and see them play. You had no idea Gareth was in a band, though that was perhaps stupid on your part based solely on the boy’s appearance – of course, Gareth is in a band, and of course, that band’s name is Corroded Coffin (which you’re only slightly ashamed about giggle-snorting over when he told you) Between that and the location, your gut reaction was to refuse. 

Gareth is great, especially when he’s playing the herald to all your hopes and dreams, and especially when he isn’t asking you out, but no.

Absolutely not. 

You would not be going to see Corroded Coffin tonight.

Lucky for you, you’ve had the perfect excuse to get out of anything and everything that sounds like a colossal bore since you were thirteen years old, and you were all too happy to trot it out.

“Oh man, I wish I could,” you began, trying to mask the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in your tone with an apologetic scrunch of your features, “...but I’m babysitting tonight.”

And you would have been content for the conversation to end there, but you didn’t count on Gareth having an ace in the hole, one he was all too happy to knock you upside the head with and send your brains splattering all over the crusty school linoleum.

“Aw, really? Damn, that’s a bummer,” he hummed, “I know Eddie would’ve been stoked to see you.” 

Your heart skipped a beat and you had to fight to stop yourself from seizing Gareth by the front of his shirt.

If you had, you would have shaken him like a ragdoll and demanded he tell you everything he knows. Instead, you did your best to remain calm as you stared back at him and the look of smug self-satisfaction he suddenly had plastered across his face.  

For some reason, it made you think of the message you’d promised to take back out of the woods last week.

“Tell the smug bastard to mind his own business,” Eddie said, and you didn’t, because Gareth never asked you how it went. He just gave you a sly smug look, the same one he was currently giving you right there in the hallway five days later. 

“Oh,” You said, feeling about as casual as a heart attack, “Is Eddie going to be there?” 

Your voice hitched and wavered as you did your best to casually skip over his name. You were cool, calm, collected, and definitely not internally shrieking with the sudden potential of a “part two” of last Thursday…

The potent spike of desperation that thought sent rocketing through your midsection was enough to drive color bleeding up into your cheeks and a cold sweat beading across your brow.

It is a reaction you are certain Gareth was not unwise to as he continued without missing a beat. 

“Yeah, he’s our frontman,” He explained, knowing full well what he was doing dropping that kind of information, “Technically it’s his band – he started it back when he was in Middle School or something,” 

Well, put me in a fucking chokehold why don’t you? Something inside of you screamed to have had such a treasure trove of lore opened up to you.

Like the blessed hand of deus-ex-machina — cheap bitch that she is — opportunity comes a-knocking.

A personal invitation has been extended to you and you’ve never been more anxious, because you? 

At a rock show? 

At the Hideout? 

Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve never been to a concert – which is not an astounding statement to make in and of itself considering your inclination toward introversion – so you have no idea what to expect.

There are a great many things you’ve never done. For instance: you’ve never lied to your parents to get out of babysitting, so you can sneak off and go to a rock concert in a dingy dive bar you’re not legally old enough to get into, to see a boy you are strictly forbidden from speaking to.  

You’ve got no business being involved with any of that and as the school day came to a close and the final pieces of your plan steadily fell into place, you had to ask yourself whether you were seriously going to go to such lengths, just to see Eddie?

The answer was a resounding yes. 

You’re going to see Corroded Coffin perform tonight if it kills you.

As you stand there looking back at yourself in the mirror, dressed in the fifth outfit you’ve tried on in as many minutes, you begin to wonder if it might just do that.  

Your parents have been gone less than five minutes, and you’re already getting cold feet.

Yet another thing you’ve never done is try to approximate dressing to impress someone, let alone the boy you regularly spend your nights and mornings fantasizing over with all the ravenous fervor of a pack of hungry wolves.

You have no idea where to start. 

What are you supposed to wear to a rock show in a dingy dive bar? Jeans and a band-tee, maybe? And if so, what kind of jeans, and which band-tee?

It occurs to you that you ought to try and match the vibe of the band, but you have no idea whether they skew toward Credence Clearwater Revival or Judas Priest. 

Then again, with a name like Corroded Coffin, you can’t help but feel it is probably the latter, but you’ve been wrong before. 

So, maybe jeans and a t-shirt is too casual and you ought to try something a little more risqué. 

Maybe a little denim skirt and the pair of ripped nylons you haven’t gotten around to throwing out… or is that too risqué? How exactly does one strike the right balance between sultry and slutty without outright screaming “I want to feel you in my guts?”

You remember then how you once skimmed an article in Cosmopolitan Magazine about the prospective power of underwear, so you go digging through your top dresser drawer and are very quickly dismayed to find that you don’t have a hidden stash of lacy panties carefully concealed beneath your days-of-the-week underwear. 

Of course, the fact that you’re even considering what kind of underwear you ought to be wearing tonight on the very far-off chance that someone is going to see them is enough to send you into a fit of hot-faced embarrassment. 

No, not just anyone – the fact that you’re considering the far-off chance that Eddie Munson is going to see what kind of underwear you’re wearing is almost enough to give you heart palpitations. 

Christ on a fucking bike.  

And then just like that, you’re imagining how gentle he’d be. 

Laying you back on a tufted leather couch as he kneels before you and reaches up with long, dexterous fingers to unbutton your jeans — should you wear jeans tonight? — and carefully, oh so gently, peels them down your legs at an agonizing pace while puffs of warm breath fan the bare skin at the top of your thighs. 

Then again maybe not, maybe he’ll be fast and rough with you. Maybe he’ll manhandle you and throw you around like a doll, and you’ll like it.

Crowding you against the cold brick of a wall and holding you there, his body pressed flush against your back as stone bites your palms and the side of your face. You gasp when he tears at the back seam of your skirt — oh, okay so you are wearing the skirt — ripping both it and your nylons in half, exposing you to the cold air and the hard strike of his palm as he brings it down on the tender skin of your— 

You’re blushing so violently that you have to go to your hall bath and splash cold water on your face. Even after you’ve calmed enough to wander back to the black hole of mess that is your bedroom, you still have no idea what to wear. 

It’s times like this that you curse Carol for shirking her duties as your best friend. Between the two of you, she’s the expert at dressing to attract male attention, she ought to be here helping you with something like this. 

But she’s not here, she’s sitting out at the pool at Steve Harrington’s playing tonsil hockey with Tommy. That’s where you ought to be, too – sitting at the pool, trying to look anywhere but at them, going at it.

That’s where you belong, in Carol’s shadow or perched on the plush sofa at the Henderson’s with your knees up and Speed Racer reruns steadily turning your brain into soup.

It occurs to you that you might be a bad person, or at least a very selfish one – if you’re going to skip out on Dustin like this, you might as well do it to hang out with your friends, not to try and carve out a brand-new cherry-flavored personality for yourself in a crowd you don’t belong to.

You’re not equipped for something like this. You have no business with rock shows and dive bars and people like Eddie Munson – you’re just a boring, midwestern babysitter from a town no one has ever heard of, and you would do well to remember that there is no changing lanes in a place like Hawkins. 

You’re just about ready to admit defeat and march yourself across the street with your tail tucked firmly between your legs when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. 

Plain-Jane, boring little you, with the same haircut you’ve always had, same silhouette, same clothes, same as it ever was, and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about what Eddie said to you out in the woods…

“You’re not what I expected…” He’d said, twisting the rings on his thick fingers and looking at you so wistfully, in a way you’d convinced yourself was full of hope and an expectation you desperately wanted to meet.

You still want it. You want so badly to be the girl he expects to see at the show tonight, not some trussed-up idealized version of what you imagine might impress him. 

He likes you for you, after all, just the way you are, and it’s enough to stoke the fires of your courage, even if it doesn’t help you decide between the jeans and the skirt. 

By the time you finally throw something on that you’re halfway happy with, you’ve spent too much time wondering about hypotheticals and outfits and whether– in the event of an intimate collision – you would actually like to be spanked. Before you know it, you’re running late. 

You’ve almost convinced yourself that it’s fashionably so as you snatch up your keys, fly out of the house, and down your front steps. All the coolest people are fashionably late … at least that’s what Cosmopolitan Magazine says.

It’s only a short jaunt down Cornwallis to the Hideout, and when you get there, there is a semi-shitty Chevrolet van parked crooked across two spaces with the back doors flung open wide. 

It’s vaguely familiar, the way all vans of its type are, though perhaps you only think you’ve seen it before because of the posse of boys meandering around it, moving gear between the vehicle and the curb. 

Your headlights briefly illuminate the familiar faces of the group before passing them over as you pull into the first parking spot you see.

There is Gareth, of course, alongside Adam and Jeff, who you only actually know by reputation and the quick debriefing of the band he’d given you earlier that afternoon, but you cannot help but notice that there is conspicuously no sign of Eddie among them. 

You try not to be too immediately disappointed by that as you kill the engine and unbuckle your seatbelt.

Oh, will you relax already? A voice chides you from somewhere in the back of your mind. Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not here.

Across the tiny lot, Gareth drops the end of the amp he’s got propped between himself and Adam (you think) and skips over to meet you as you steal one final look at yourself in the inset mirror of your sun visor.

You’re not a natural when it comes to applying makeup — yet another thing you could have used Carol’s help with tonight — but you did your best to look presentable.

You imagine if there is anything glaringly clownish about the way you look, it will be easily obscured by the dark and dingy atmosphere of the venue. Bar. Whatever.  

And then the crisp November evening air comes rushing in to flash freeze you with goosebumps as Gareth opens your driver's side door and stands practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. 

You brace yourself against the cold and suddenly cannot imagine trying to endure sitting out at the Harrington’s pool on a night like this. 

“You made it!” Gareth cries as you slide out of your trusty little Toyota Corolla and it strikes you with just how nice it is to have someone glad to see you show up for once. 

Your friends are typically less enthusiastic about that. 

Still, you don’t want to appear overly eager, so you can’t help but try and mask it by pulling a face – you’d told him you’d be there, after all. 

“Was that ever in doubt?” You ask, shouldering your bag.

You shut the door and twist your keys in the lock before quickly stashing them. 

“Well, you never know.” Gareth says, shrugging, “People get busy.” 

Yeah, and people also bend over backward to get out of prior obligations to keep their word. 

And then, you find yourself wondering if it’s totally weird that you jumped through so many hoops just to make sure you could keep yours. 

Lying to your parents, lying to Mrs. Henderson, lying to Carol (who called you ten minutes before you left and demanded once more that you come out before cursing you when you declined again).

Somehow you can’t help but get the sense that if anyone knew, if anyone could have been a fly on the wall of your life this afternoon, you might come across as desperate, especially considering you could take or leave the band. 

You’d gone through all that effort just to see Eddie, who so far as you can tell is not even here.

Shit — you’re starting to wonder if tonight is going to be a huge bummer when Gareth brings you back. 

“Come over and meet the guys,” he says eagerly with a hand at your elbow to guide you across the darkened pavement. 

Every step leads you closer to the van, to the band, to the impending night, and you find yourself second-guessing your outfit for the umpteenth time that day. You wonder if you’re underdressed, and whether you should have cowboyed up and opted for the skirt, which you’d decided was a bit much for the occasion.

Was it the skirt or the fantasy that went with it? 

The world may never know.

“Guys!” Gareth calls once you get within distance, “You know–” when he says your name, their heads snap to tandem attention in a way that reminds you of meerkats.

It might have been funny if it wasn’t for the way they stand there gawping at you, eyes big as dinner plates and out on stalks. 

The silence that hangs between you is deafening, and standing there under such intense scrutiny you can’t help but feel suddenly like you’ve made a terrible mistake.

You twist your fingers out of nervous habit and shift from foot to foot, wondering if you’re allowed to be here, or whether Gareth remembered to mention that he’d invited you out tonight.

“Well, say something, for Christ’s sake,” Gareth says through his teeth. 

“Oh, r-right… hi–” Jeff stammers, tripping over your name like it’s a hot coal sitting on his tongue.

Adam is not so smooth.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, like he absolutely cannot fathom that you, of all people would coincidentally be here at the same time as them, and certainly not for their benefit. 

It makes you feel frighteningly out of place and you have to force yourself to put down roots to stop yourself from turning right around and going back to your car. 

Before Gareth can finish telling him to shut the fuck up, a figure appears from the shadowy depths of the van and your lungs go flat. 

Lo and behold — Eddie Munson, in the flesh. 

Just the sight of him makes every part of your brain light up like a cathedral and chant his name as if it were singing Hallelujah. 

Eddie Eddie Eddie!

He’s halfway through some tirade and stumbling over a thick black cord that he has somehow become hopelessly tangled in.

“Hey – you assholes are doing a lot of standing around and yapping for–” he is saying before he looks up, sees you, and cuts himself off with a startled yelp of your name.

Despite the semi-comical octave to which he speaks your name, your insides flood with warmth as he practically falls out of the van. He skips over, dragging what you quickly come to realize is a microphone with him in his simultaneous attempt to free himself and close the distance between you.

It goes about as well as anyone could expect.

Before you know it, you’re standing toe to toe in the span of a heartbeat, and like a balm to your worries, you forget that you were ever nervous about being here tonight. You forget the awkwardness of Gareth’s friends, your stress over your outfit, and the lengths you went to be here, because here he is, staring back at you like everything else has melted away. 

All is once again right in the world. 

“Hi!” He says, quickly wiping his grimy hands down the front of the ridiculously tight jeans he’s wearing, the ones you’re desperately trying not to notice or wonder just how he’d managed to get into. 

“Hi, Eddie,” You purr, feeling the muscles in your cheeks already beginning to pull for how wide you’re smiling at him. 

Eddie Eddie Eddie. 

Had you been looking, you might have noticed the way the rest of the band was watching you, exchanging looks of varying degrees, throwing elbows and shushing each other, but you’re not looking, not at anything but the beautiful boy standing before you. 

His hair is wild, like always, but tonight Eddie’s got what looks like dark kohl liner smudged messily around his eyes and half rubbed off, like he’d tried something new and immediately second guessed it. It’s so incredibly endearing that it makes your heart throb in the stupid cupid fashion you’ve been chasing ever since that Thursday in the woods. 

Your veins flood with ecstasy and just like that, you’ve got the fix you’ve been itching for all week. 

With his tight jeans, the thick studded belt bursting out of its loops, all his chains and rings, steel-toed boots, and the faded band tee cropped at the waist and shoulders you can see him wearing underneath his jacket, he looks like something off the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.

He’s dressed like the guy who would push you up against the wall and rip your skirt off, and you’ve never felt more like a stupid girl with a silly little crush than you do now.

It might almost be intimidating if it weren’t for the way that he’s looking right back at you, as if you hung the moon and the stars and were personally responsible for the shining magic of the cosmos. 

Like the guy who would take his time unbuttoning your jeans. 

You look at him, and he looks right back at you, and you feel something begin to flutter in the space behind your lungs — something warm and frantic, like the beating of a tiny bird’s wings. 

Right now, standing in this parking lot, you could be the only two people in the world, and you’d be just fine with it. 

And then, there is a cough, a conspicuously cleared throat, and the spell is broken.

Eddie shakes his head, like waking from a trance and simultaneously pulling you from yours. 

“What - uh- what are you doing here?” He asks – it hits you like a fist to the gut. “Not that it isn’t great to see you… it’s just— I didn't expect to see you.”

Oh.

You can feel the corners of your mouth twitch where your smile begins to falter. 

“I came to see your show,” You say quietly, fighting a losing battle against the tide of your nerves as they come rushing back in with enough force to sweep you under.

Eddie’s dark ringed eyes go wide and his mouth falls open, and you feel a cold lump drop into the pit of your stomach with a hollow thump. 

“You did?” he gasps, voice lilting up into that comical octave again, “Really?”

Oh, great. So, nobody knew you were coming.

For as mortifying as that is, it doesn’t sting half as badly as the disappointment battering you over how you’d spent your afternoon thinking Eddie was as excited to see you as you were to see him.

He didn’t even know you were coming — stupid Gareth. 

Suddenly, your subconscious is whispering horrible things to you: maybe he doesn’t like you as much as he’d originally let on. Maybe that moment you shared out in the woods was all in your head, maybe you’d misread the signs and he was just being nice for the sake of the loser virgin, tripping over herself to try and win the affections of the local drug dealer.

It makes you feel particularly stupid about how you’d sat there at a soggy picnic bench out in the woods, desperately waiting for Eddie to kiss you – why the fuck would he kiss you? He doesn’t even know you.   

You can’t even touch how embarrassed you are about how much time you’d spent fantasizing about him undressing you. 

Christ, you’re pathetic. But you’re also here, and you ought to at least try to make an effort to appear like you’re not the socially inept loser everybody seems to think you are.

“Oh, y-yeah… I mean, it’s no big deal.” you fumble to explain, gesturing vaguely like it’s going to help smooth over the growing awkwardness of this moment

Maybe if you keep talking, nobody will get the chance to say anything that sounds too much like a rejection.  

You give your best approximation of a casual shrug and continue.

“Gareth invited me.” You say, and somehow it feels oddly accusatory, “He said it was cool… unless…”

Uncertainty makes you strangely brave, brave enough to lean into the awkwardness of the moment at least – if there’s one thing you’ve learned after years of being Carol’s punching bag, it’s that if you can’t beat the joke, join in.

“…Unless?” Eddie prompts.

You furrow your brow.

“Unless he conveniently failed to mention that I was coming?”

Of course, the moment your gaze snaps over to regard him with a harsh, unforgiving glare is when Gareth conveniently decides it’s time to get back to hauling gear.

With a fistful of each of their shirts, he drags the others away, spouting some bullshit about “call times” and “sound check” and leaves you standing there with Eddie in the chasm of the awkward silence fighting tooth and nail to settle snugly between you.

You refuse to give it the satisfaction as you watch them retreat, and you make a displeased sound.

Bastard coward sons of bitches. A pox on all their houses.

“Well,” you start, “This is awkward, I don’t mind saying…” 

Once the rest of the band has circled around to disappear beyond the far side of the van, you begin to feel the faintest hint of that same warmth from the woods settling over you, and you take a chance to lean into Eddie’s space. 

“Hey, listen,” you say dropping your tone, “It was great seeing you — really, it was … but if it’s totally weird that I’m here I can take off—”

“Oh, no!” Eddie says a tad too loud. His voice rings out and echoes across the empty spaces before he reigns his enthusiasm in, “No – it’s not weird! You should totally stay!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, for sure. You should definitely stay, right guys?” You look just in time to see a nondescript door set into a wall of the bar slamming shut, leaving the two of you alone in the cold, “…Whatever, forget those assholes — I’m glad you’re here.” 

And there you go grinning your face off again.

“You are?”

“Yeah, are you kidding? It’s awesome to see you. Also, nobody’s ever actually come to see us play, so that makes you the closest thing to a fan we’ve got.” 

“Oh, good.” You say. 

“Great.” 

“Excellent.” 

“Fan-tastic.” He says, stretching the word lyrically and moving to shut the back doors of the van with a hard THUNK, “Only you gotta do something for me if you’re gonna stick around,”

You move quickly to fall into step as Eddie starts toward the side door set in between a stack of pallets and a dumpster. The same one the others had only just slipped through. 

“What’s that?” You ask, doing your best to pretend that you don’t smell the toxic waste that is bar trash permeating the air.  

He yanks the door open and reveals the murky interior of the Hideout, waiting just beyond like the portal to another world. 

The smell of wet trash is quickly overwhelmed by the strong tang of smoke and alcohol, hitting you in a wave of thick, roiling air. You grit your teeth as it washes over you, accompanied by the tinny din of a Jimmy Buffett song playing over the jukebox.

“You have to promise you’re gonna cheer super loud to balance out all the booing,” he says, holding the door open for you, “We aren’t exactly what you’d call popular with the local wildlife.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from telling him that Gareth already warned you of that during his earlier sales pitch. 

Something along the lines of “we’re terrible, please come see us play,” had been uttered as a backdrop to your giggling over learning the name of the band, back when it was only a silly anecdote and you knew nothing of the gravity of the invitation. 

You banish the thought to the back of your mind and bite down harder on your cheek to try and distract from the way you can feel your heart beating against your ribs as Eddie’s hand comes up to hover at the small of your back, ushering you inside. 

“I can do that.” You say with a quick nod.

“Perfect – after you, M’lady.” 

You almost don’t remember to be worried about getting into the bar when Eddie guides you over the threshold with a short, sweeping gesture. 

The side door deposits you at the far end of the bar, and despite only the slightest change in atmosphere, it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the neon signage and overhead bulbs.

All your fears of bouncers and fake IDs dissipate when you arrive and there is no one waiting to card you on the other side. 

You do your best to breathe as subtle a sigh of relief as you can, because you made it, you’re in, whatever that means for the rest of your night.  

The Hideout is a full-on hick dive, as much as you expected. Booth seating, pool tables, and the vaguest suggestion of a bandstand in the far back corner next to the jukebox where you finally see Gareth and the others again. They’re busying themselves with the task of setting up amps and instruments beneath a slapdash Corroded Coffin banner hung crookedly over the drumkit. 

It’s clearly homemade and looks very much like it has been spray painted, black over red on a stained white bed sheet. It’s incredibly tacky in the most endearing way.

The bar is not too terribly full for seven-forty-five on a Tuesday night, though in taking in the faces of the blue-collar working-class patrons, the general décor, and the type of music shuffling through the jukebox as the track turns over to play Loretta Lynn, you can’t help but feel that this is not really their crowd.

Not really your crowd, you tell yourself, not that you have the experience to know such a thing. 

If you thought you felt out of place before, standing among the band, the feeling is amplified tenfold as you begin to notice the way half a dozen people have turned around to gawp curiously at you. 

Of course, it doesn’t occur to you that the reason they’re staring is that you’re standing there tucked in against Eddie Munson, who you also had not realized was standing so close to you.

You erupt into a fever of goosebumps as you rock back on your heels and feel the contours of his chest graze your shoulder blades. Eddie’s hand comes up to grip you kindly by the shoulder as he guides you further into the dingy building and starts to give you the rundown. 

You do your best to focus on his words to keep yourself grounded, trying to assure yourself that you’re allowed to be here. 

If he’s not nervous, you’re not nervous.

“We’re gonna go on soonish,” he says, depositing you at an empty barstool, separated from where a handful of patrons sit nursing their drinks, “– we’ll probably play for like half an hour, maybe longer depending on how many songs they let us play.”

“How many songs do they usually let you play?” You ask, having to project your voice to be heard over the din of the bar.

You do your best to hop up onto the stool in a way that is cool and elegant as you have almost perfected with your squat metal seat back in Mr. Kapz’s class. This one is taller than you’d estimated, however, and you immediately find yourself struggling to get up over the lip of the polished wood.

Eddie, ever the gentleman, doesn’t hesitate to help you up and steady you. 

“Three or four,” He hums without missing a beat. “Our record is six, but that was only one time, so I wouldn’t hold my breath for that many with this crowd. Also, don’t be surprised if they pull the plug on us — like, literally kill the power.”

“You’re kidding…”

“It’s no big deal, it’s just something they like to do in this fine establishment.”

He says it like it's funny, but suddenly you can’t help but think back to Gareth’s plea that you come and watch them play. For the first time since he’d invited you that afternoon, you are suddenly struck wondering just what you have really gotten yourself into – you have no idea what kind of music they play, whether they’re halfway decent or as terrible as Gareth let on.

You have to work to remind yourself that, regardless of the quality of Corroded Coffin, you’re here to support your friends. 

Which is only really half true – you’re here for Eddie.

You’re watching him closely when another body appears at his side and claps a loud, forceful hand down on his shoulder. Your heart spasms in tandem with the way Eddie jumps under the sudden contact, and you brace yourself for whatever is coming as his head whips around to address his assailant. 

Then, much to your patent relief, his features light up and his face splits into a wide grin. 

“Oh, hey! Wayne!” He yelps with a rush of boyish excitement, “What’re you doing here? Are you gonna watch us play?”

The man – evidently Wayne – wheezes out a chuckle that is a little too sarcastic to be kind before answering, speaking in a thick Appalachian drawl that is bizarrely out of place in this town. 

“I get enough of y’all’s music at home, thanks very much. Just sayin’ hi on my way out,” he rasps, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder with an unmistakable affection before turning his bright blue eyes on you, “Who’s yer friend?”

Eddie makes quick introductions, and once names have been traded back and forth, Wayne touches the brim of his faded ballcap. 

“Pleased to meet you,”

“Oh – sure. I mean, likewise,” you stammer, stiffening your spine to keep yourself from wilting under the intensity of the man’s gaze.

It’s almost intrusive, and makes you feel like you need to go home and put on another layer of clothing just to keep him from seeing your deepest, darkest, inner most thoughts and feelings. 

X-ray specs got nothing on this man’s penatrative gaze, and when it's just about enough to send you crawling out of your skin, then there goes Eddie saving your life again.

“Isn’t it bad luck to wear a hat indoors?” He asks with a mischievous smirk.

Wayne catches him expertly by the wrist as he reaches for the hat, like he’s a certified expert at avoiding such a motion, and guides Eddie’s ring-bedecked digits safely away from his headwear.

“Bad luck to put a hat on a bed.” Wayne corrects, “Bad luck to open an umbrella indoors.”

Eddie snorts as he takes his hand back and nudges you with his elbow, gentlemanly letting you in on the joke. 

“Wayne’s a nut for that kinda stuff.” He says, gesturing to the older man with no small amount of humor, like it’s simply the goofiest thing anyone has ever heard. “Real superstitious,”

It doesn’t feel mean, so much as a deep set rapport built over a lifetime of back and forth like this. 

Wayne makes a thick, gravelly sound in the back of his throat which you recognize as the beginning rattle of a smoker’s cough. 

“Least I know where the bad luck’s comin’ from when it shows up,” The man hums, “Anyways. What time are y’all goin’ on?”

“In a few minutes. Why?”

In lieu of answering, Wayne just hums again, thoughtfully so this time. Then that bright gaze slides back over to you.  

“They got earplugs behind the bar if you ask for ‘em,” Wayne says with a clipped gesture, “Just so’s you know.” 

“Hey—!” Eddie begins with all the moody indignance of a child.

Wayne cuts him off with raised hands, begging no offense. 

“Just tryin’ to be neighborly in case yer friend don’t know what she’s gettin’ into,” He stresses, “Y’ever heard these fellers play?” 

“Uh, well— no, actually, I—” you start,

Wayne’s brows jump. 

“Like skinnin’ a cat,” 

It sends you right back to the incident in the quad the week before, to what Eddie had said about Carol’s screeching tirade, and suddenly the look Wayne is giving you is so familiar it’s almost eerie.

You realize with a start that it’s the exact same look Eddie gave you out in the quad.

The resemblance is uncanny. The joke, however, does not land.

“Well, it was nice seeing you, Wayne,” Eddie fumes, clapping the man on the shoulder in a stilted mirror image of the way he’d done a moment before and maneuvering him past you.

If you didn’t know better, you might have said that the faintest flush of color had bled into Eddie’s cheeks, but you tell yourself you don’t as he pushes Wayne past you and attempts to maneuver him out. 

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” 

Wayne stops short then, turns, and gives Eddie a very stern look, thrusting a finger up at him in a way that feels oddly paternal as he warns him with a low utterance of, “Hey now,”.

You know that look well enough from having seen it on your father. It means “watch your tone”, and it does the job it’s meant to.

You watch as Eddie puts his hands up and retreats a step, and the tension dissipates before it’s even had the chance to settle. 

 Suddenly, they’re friends again and your brain is crawling out of your skull with curiosity over who this man is to Eddie – what a strange dynamic they have, decidedly charged with something but clearly softened by a kind of underlying affection.

Almost like family – exactly like family, you realize. 

If you didn’t know better, you might almost guess that this man was Eddie’s father, but of course that couldn’t be true, because you know exactly where Al Munson is meant to be, and it’s not here at the Hideout.  

After a quick back and forth that you only catch bits and pieces of, Wayne gives you one last parting look, brows jumping.

“I’m serious about them earplugs.” He says, then claps Eddie on the back as he takes his leave. “See you at home, Bud,”

“Yeah, okay… later.” He mutters – he gestures after the man once he’s gone, “My uncle.” Eddie explains, and suddenly everything makes a little more sense.

You just had the pleasure of meeting the elusive other Munson, who you’d heard talk of around town, but whose reputation (or lack thereof) has been vastly overshadowed by the likes of his brother and nephew.   

“He seems nice.” You offer for lack of anything better to say. 

“Yeah, he thinks he’s real funny with those earplugs – weird seeing him here though, he usually drinks out at The Attic on — hey, what’s the matter?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows creeping toward one another to form a deep crease of concern between them, “You’re not scared are you?” 

You swallow hard and try not to stare at him, suddenly backed in a multicolor glow as the stage lights come on, leaving him looking like some kind of ethereal rock god. 

“No.” You lie. 

Eddie grins at you like he knows you’re fibbing, and he reaches up to touch your arm. 

You do your best to suppress a shiver under the way he gently squeezes you there.

“Hey, you showing up like this? Biggest thing anybody’s ever done for me. Y’think I’d let anything happen to you after that?”

He barely gives you time to read into the sentiment before something over your head draws his attention and the moment ends. 

“Anyway, you’re perfectly safe. Laverne here’s gonna look after you,” He gestures to the space behind you, “Right Laverne?” 

You turn to see the woman behind the bar that he is speaking to, face split into that big, winning smile of his — a little sleazier than it was a moment before — and are suddenly struck by the knowledge that this is the second person Eddie has introduced you to in this place in less than two minutes. 

You catch yourself wondering just how much time he spends skulking around this bar as a tall, middle-aged woman with a big cloud of frizzy hair dyed a red so deep it’s nearly purple comes into view.

Laverne — the bartender, evidently.

She’s got a blown-out tattoo on her bicep that you think must have been a snake at one point in time, and her massive, freckled breasts are just about spilling out of the top of her too-tight tank top, stretching the name of the bar until it’s almost illegible. She looks entirely too rock and roll for this place, like some kind of a transplant from a seedy biker joint on the Sunset Strip.

By the way she’s glaring at Eddie, you can tell that she is immune to his attempts at charm.

“I don’t pay you to stand around flirting.” Laverne drawls, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward what you can only imagine is the back of house, “An’ you left a whole pile’a dishes stacked up back there when you ran out to put yer makeup on.”

Eddie’s grin wavers under the impromptu lecture and you can’t help but feel your insides squirm on his behalf.

“Gee, Laverne, I never knew you liked me so much,” he tries, but she is not done. 

“Don’t you think for one second I’m gonna cover yer ass so’s you can cut out early an’ go diddle yourself or whatever it is you do on your own time. When yer here, yer on my time, an’ I don’t appreciate my time bein’ wasted,  so, who d’you reckon is gonna do them dishes, Junior?”

All the sleazy charm ekes right out of him and you watch as Eddie goes white as a sheet. 

“Green around the gills” is what a distant relative of yours would have called the look on his face, and you can’t say you disagree.  

You have to resist the urge to reach out and put a steadying hand on him, purely on babysitting instinct, because if you didn’t know any better – which you don’t – you’d think he was about to keel over, and it’s almost startling.

Based on his schooltime bravado, part of you imagines Eddie would be made of stronger stuff in the face of such ire, but you’re quickly beginning to understand that the Eddie you know from school is not an accurate depiction of the man behind the mask. Then again, you’re not certain you know anyone who would be able to stand there and take a dressing down like that, so maybe Eddie is made of that elusive “stronger stuff” after all.

Suddenly, you can’t help but imagine what would have happened in the alternate universe where Carol found herself here with you, standing in his place. You’d like to see her try running her mouth then, face to face with the likes of Madam Hideout. 

Back in the real world, Eddie casts a wary gaze in your direction before answering the woman who you have quickly come to realize is his boss. 

“I’ll do ‘em after,” he mumbles, suddenly much less an ethereal rock god and more a sullen child.

The muscle in Laverne’s jaw flexes as she grits her teeth, and you can suddenly see her right at home standing behind a great oak bar in a saloon, eyes shaded in a big Stetson, spitting a fat gob of dark, rotten chaw to the sawdust floor as she chews through her thick Texan drawl. 

“They shoulda been done b’fore you punched out.” She spits in the tobacco-less, non-Old West version of herself. 

“I’ll do them after, Laverne.” Eddie insists, sliding back into the boyish indignance from before. 

She rolls her eyes and stalks off, muttering something unintelligibly rude as she goes, and an indiscernible emotion wells painfully in your chest. It is deeply offended on Eddie’s behalf, whatever it is, and moves you to want to protect him, though you don’t know how you would manage to do that. 

You don’t typically feel this way about anyone over the age of twelve, and don’t know whether to try and pick a fight with Laverne or to drag Eddie out to the parking lot where you’ll be safe from the ire of rude bartenders – that’s what you would have done with Dustin had you encountered a bully somewhere out in the wild, but somehow you can’t imagine either scenario going over well with Eddie swapped for Dustin. 

The lack of options leaves you paralyzed, and by the time Eddie is talking again, you’ve gone and said nothing in his defense. 

The indignant emotion deflates and leaves you feeling cold and guilty.

“Yeah, that Laverne…” he says, “She’s a real peach.”

You watch the woman saunter to lean over the end of the bar furthest from you, and once you are almost certain she is out of earshot, you lean in close.   

“Do you work here?” You ask in a stage whisper, if only to be heard over the din of the music and murmuring conversations. 

Eddie’s gaze snaps back down to you and you watch as he grows suddenly and strangely shy. You can see his guard cautiously slipping into place as he reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck and offers you a lopsided shrug. 

“Few nights a week, yeah.” He admits, almost like he’s embarrassed to have been caught in the conundrum of playing a set in the place where he works, “Pays the bills, y’know?” 

You wonder how much of the interaction with Wayne followed directly by the one with Laverne is coloring this moment, and you’re mortified to have put him in this situation.

If you weren’t here, he would be up on the bandstand with the rest of the guys instead of looking after you, and both interactions may very well have been avoided entirely. Suddenly, you’re desperate to take responsibility for your presence and put him at ease. 

“That’s cool.” You tell him, and for once, it is exactly the right thing to say.  

Eddie immediately brightens. 

“You think so?” He asks.

You nod, because if you’re not nervous, then he doesn’t have to be, right? Suddenly, this interaction feels a lot like babysitting, and you take no small amount of comfort in the familiarity of it, even if Eddie is most certainly the one babysitting you here at the bar. 

“Totally! You’re basically getting paid to play a gig every week – do you know how many bands would kill for that?” 

Eddie’s face splits up into that big, toothy grin.

“Yeah, exactly!” He starts before second-guessing his tone and attempting to reign in his enthusiasm, “I mean – hey, it’s not Saturday night at the Garden, but a gig’s a gig. At least until we can get the band off the ground and get a record–” 

Over the rumble of the bar, you hear somebody shouting from the direction of the bandstand – Jeff, you think. His voice is laced with annoyance as if this is the third or fourth time he’s called Eddie, and he is quickly losing his patience.

“MUNSON!” He shouts, “LET’S GO!”

Eddie twists at the sound of his name and you watch as he pulls a face, almost like he’d forgotten there was a greater purpose to being here other than standing around chatting you up at the bar.

“Whoopsie – guess that’s my cue.” He says, shrugging out of his jacket as he turns back to you, “Hold on to this for me, will you?”

Your heart rockets up into your throat and you hope that Eddie can’t see how your fingers are trembling as you accept his jacket and hold it against you.

You clench your teeth to keep something cheesy from floating up past your lips like you’ll guard it with your life.  

You think you must be making a face, then, one Eddie mistakes for anxiety as he gives you a soft look and his voice turns gentle. 

“You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” He assures you, “You’re with the band, remember? Fan numero uno.”

He raises a finger to emphasize the notion, and you nod, watching him turn and trying to beat back the spike of fear that surges in you when he leaves you sitting at the bar. 

He’s fine if you’re fine, and you’re fine if he’s fine, but only so long as you’re enveloped in the safety blanket of his presence – but you remind yourself that you’re a big girl.

If you can lie to everyone you know and sneak out of the house to slip into a bar to see a band, you can sit alone in a room full of strangers for a few minutes before the band starts to play. 

And yet, sitting there, watching Eddie move into the crowd, you’re suddenly struck with the sensation of how stridently you don’t want to be left alone in this place where you so clearly don’t belong. But you don’t have to be so overt about it, so you shout at Eddie’s back in the far-off hope that it will make him turn around and look at you once more. 

“Y’know, you keep saying that,” you start, “But I haven’t even heard you play!”

He turns on his heel and shoots you full of holes with that big, goofy grin of his. 

“Oh man, you’re gonna love us!” He calls back, and you can’t help but snort out an undainty laughter. 

“That’s not what Gareth said!” 

Eddie pulls a face and cups a hand at his ear like he didn’t hear you before throwing a shrug and disappearing into the throng of people milling about the pool tables. 

You take great comfort in the fact that for as cool as you think he is, you are starting to understand that he is an incredible dork. That makes things so much easier, especially with how you want so desperately for him to like you as much as you like him. 

And you like him so, so much. 

Too much – it doesn’t feel like just a schoolyard crush anymore, not since the moment you shared out in the woods, and again back in the parking lot, and just now, here at the bar.

Sitting here, with a big dopey look on your face and hearts in your eyes, you think you could very easily fall for Eddie as you watch him jump up onto the bandstand and exchange an indiscernible something with Gareth, grinning wolfishly as he does.  

You’re almost too busy sifting for gems through the last five minutes of conversation to realize what you just told yourself – you think you could fall pretty hard for Eddie Munson.

The thought startles you enough that you have to move to try and escape the way it makes you feel, twisting on the stool to face the bar. You sit there, letting the din of the environment wash over you in sickly waves of overstimulation, and you remind yourself of what Gareth originally assured you about this outing. 

Not like a date. He said. Just as friends. 

In the wake of your most recent revelation, the idea stings just a little bit more than you are prepared to endure.

Then, there is the abrasive sound of a throat being cleared. It’s only then that you look up and find yourself face-to-face with Madam Hideout herself.

Laverne gives you a hard side eye from where she stands at the tap directly to your right, pouring a tall pint of foamy beer.

If you’re blushing, you hope she can’t tell under the deep, colored lighting.

You try to smile at her, but it’s little more than a flattening of your lips as your mouth stretches horizontally, and somehow you know it isn’t coming across as polite as you’d intended. She doesn’t reciprocate.

Behind you, an amp flares with staticky feedback that makes your hair stand on end as someone plugs in a guitar. 

The sound of a dozen disgruntled barflies rumbles through the room as the band finishes setting up, and you find yourself witness to a sudden mass exodus. You twist in your seat again and watch as at least half of the patrons very quickly make their way out into the parking lot, following Wayne Munson’s lead after the fact.

By the time the herd has been thinned, the room is not empty by any means, but you can suddenly see the bandstand at the far end of the room where you couldn’t before. It gives you the perfect vantage of Eddie.

Corroded Coffin has similarly noticed how the room has cleared out, much to their own varying degrees of chagrin. Eddie is fumbling with the strap on his guitar, adjusting the length as he scans the room with a furrowed brow – then, as he finds you, right where he left you, his face splits into that same wide grin.

Suddenly shy under the cast of his attention, you gesture to the state of the room – get a load of these guys – and give an overexaggerated shrug. He responds in kind by sticking his tongue out at you and you feel your insides go tight and squirmy.

You don’t even realize how you’ve been grinning back at him until your face starts to hurt, and as quickly as the spotlight finds you, it’s gone again when Jeff leans over to say something to Eddie, snatching his attention away and leaving you sitting there alone on your stool again.

Brimming with what you would argue is too many feelings to process all at once, you reach around to grip the bar and spin yourself in a tight circle, hoping that maybe a little gravity will help sort out those big scary emotions.

“Quit that spinnin’.” Laverne snaps. “I ain’t moppin’ your little brains up off this floor if you fall.”

“Sorry.” You say immediately, bracing yourself on the bar to stop from going around once more – tragically, it leaves you facing her and the apparent disdain she holds for you, simply by way of association.

You avert your gaze.

Somewhere, you can hear the theme to Cheers playing distantly over the muted rumbling of half a dozen conversations.

…sometimes you wanna go, where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came… 

Some less than others. 

When you work up the courage to chance a look, you find that Laverne is still staring daggers at you. More than that, a cursory glance reveals that most of the people still sitting down the length of the bar are stealing curious looks at you. 

You can feel your throat going dry under the attention of so many strange eyes. It’s not that you’re necessarily an inherently shy person, only that without Eddie to bolster you, the feeling of being somewhere you clearly do not belong is attempting to crush you flat.

You do your best to make yourself as small as humanly possible as the beginning of a beat gets thumped out on the drum set before abruptly stopping.

Soundcheck.

Your mouth is suddenly full of cobwebs, and you muster your courage to steal one more look at Laverne, whose eyes you can still feel burning holes into the top of your skull. 

You peek up at her, hoping her ire will have eased, as if miraculously in the last thirty-seconds you’d done something to earn her respect.

No dice.

“Do you think I could get a coke?” You ask, cringing inwardly as your voice wavers and cracks.

You don’t really want the overpriced, watered-down soda she’s bound to give you, but you’re willing to do anything to distract from how much you stick out among the half-drunk onlookers pressing their faces in on you like kids at the zoo.

Thank God for the shield of Eddie’s jacket, you are once again so thankful you’d foregone the tight little skirt and boots combo.

Laverne gives you a hard look, and you feel a twinge of sudden bravery begin worming its way through your midsection. This time, you stare back at her. 

Then, she throws a dish towel over her shoulder as she makes her way to you, chunky Doc Marten’s thumping hard on the spongy mat behind the bar.

As uncomfortable as you are to be sitting there under her gaze, some nagging part of you at the back of your tongue meets the annoyed twinge steadily rising in you, and together, they wish she would climb down out of your ass already.  

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she pulls the trigger on the soda nozzle and fills a dark red, textured glass to the brim – no ice.

She sets the drink on the bar in front of you with a hard thump and you watch the foam leap up over the brim of the cup and spill down the side before dissipating with a soft hissing. 

Laverne pops a straw into the cup and somehow it feels like an insult, like something Carol would have done. 

You’re supposed to inhale, Dummy! pared down to a simple gesture with that same patent disdain. 

Still, you’re nothing if not fatally imbued with unflinching manners, and the words are tumbling out over your lips before you can stop them.

“Thank you,” you mumble, and the nagging little voice on the back of your tongue cries out at your treachery. 

Laverne grunts out a response and quirks a thin, penciled brow at you. 

It takes her forever to speak, and you wish the band would just start playing already so that you would have an excuse to turn your back to her.

“The Chief’s been known to frequent this place,” she begins, and in a brief moment of deep confusion, all you can do is stare at her, waiting for her to clarify, “Of Police.”

You have no idea what to do with that information.

“Oh,” you say dumbly, “You don’t say,”

She nods.

“Might even be inclined to call him a regular customer,” 

Somehow, you can’t help but get the sense that it’s less a statement of fact than it is a threat, and if that is the case, you can’t deny that it’s more or less effective.

The last thing you need right now is to find yourself sitting, wilting under the gaze of Chief Hopper while he reads you the riot act and lists in detail everything you’ve ever done to make you such a terrible person — faking sickness and sneaking out to go and see a boy you’re sweet on in a bar you’re not old enough to be sitting in when by all rights you should be sitting on the Henderson’s couch watching He-Man.  

For lack of a better response, you twist idly on your chair, nice and slow so Laverne can see you do it and come all the way back around to the other side.

The phrase, “if looks could kill” passes through your mind for a brief, yet terrifying second – something in the back of your mind is inexorably calm as it assures you that you haven’t done anything wrong. 

You’re supposed to be here. You’re with the band, no matter how anyone may happen to feel about that.

Leaning over the bar and taking a long, innocent sip from your straw, you make a show of swallowing, smack your lips, and shrug. 

 “Funny. I don’t see him.”  

In spite of all your affected cool, you feel your guts twinge with anxiety when Laverne levels you with a hard look and crosses her thick, tattooed arms over her generous bosom. Suddenly you’re half worried you’re about to be “bounced” or whatever the official term for being forcibly ejected from a bar is – one more for the list in your long night of firsts. 

Then, in a shocking turn of events, the corner of the woman’s lip twitches in the faintest hint of a smile, violently suppressed, of course. 

You’re oddly pleased, in the way only a goody-two-shoes like yourself can be under the attention of anyone who could even remotely be perceived as a figure of authority. 

“How old are you?” Laverne demands.

Just like that, the twinge blossoms to a nagging feeling of angry defiance, lurking far in the back of your throat. 

Stupid question. You think, biting the inside of your cheek, because it’s not like you’d tried to order a beer. 

“Forty-five.” You say, matter-of-factly, suddenly unable to adjust your tone as you remember how rudely she’d spoken to Eddie before.    

She holds you in that hard, deadpan gaze.

“That’s funny,” She sniffs, “Bet your rock star boyfriend thinks you’re real funny too.” She hurls it at you like a slur and your heart spasms and lurches up into your throat.

“Oh, he’s not my—” but the bartender is already walking away, so you clamp your mouth shut and hum out your annoyance.

You swallow hard.

Boyfriend.

The word clangs around in your ribcage, and you wonder if that’s what people assume when they see you and Eddie together. 

Just like that, you’re feeling breathless again.

No wonder your teachers are all so freaked out – you don’t get the time to worry about that before Eddie’s voice cuts through the room and strikes you square in the back. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight–” he says smoothly into the microphone, “Before we start the show, we’d just like to say one thing…” 

You turn in your seat and find yourself immediately locked in his gaze. Even across the room, it sends a chill up your spine and goosebumps flashing across the expanse of your body. 

You’re gripped in the feeling that suddenly, you’re the only two people in this room, that no matter what happens next, it will be for your eyes only, and you’ll cherish that to the end of time. 

Eddie leans in, grips the microphone and looks you dead in the eye.

“This one goes out to all the ladies.”

Oh. Nevermind. 

“Oh, my God,” You say under your breath. 

Boo. Hiss. 

He’s so uncool, you can’t stand how much you like him. 

The strike of sticks on cymbals masks the agonized groan that rumbles throughout the bar and with the first few hard chords, the show begins. 

Corroded Coffin is not the greatest band in the world, but they’re also far from the worst.

It was an over-exaggeration on Gareth’s part to say that they’re terrible; they can carry a tune, they’re mostly on key and in sync, and that’s more than you can say you expected from how you’d been prepared.

You find that they mostly play covers of metal songs – the likes of Judas Priest and Black Sabbath – which garners a general disinterest from the bar, save for one sloppy drunk biker who just about loses his mind when they go into a crunchy rendition of War Pigs. 

You’re certainly losing your mind and falling a little bit harder than you’d expected you would be when you woke up that morning.

Eddie Munson in front of a cafeteria audience is one thing, but Eddie Munson on stage, a real-life honest-to-God stage is another animal entirely. As far as you are concerned, he was born and bred for the stage, and you’re enraptured, watching him move under the lights. The way he grips the neck of his guitar as he teases a melody out of the taught strings and growls into the microphone settles in your bones in a way you know is going to linger for months if not years to come.

It is mesmerizing in the most intoxicating way. If you thought tearing your eyes from him at school was difficult, you’re fairly certain you don’t blink from the start of their set to their less-than-grand finish.

They play a whopping five songs before someone unceremoniously kills the power, just as Eddie had prophesized.

“Bummer.” You hear someone groan out of the dark from the direction of the stage.

Luckily, it’s a total blackout to the whole bar, and not just the stage, saving the band any overt embarrassment in the face of their less-than-adoring public.

Your ears are ringing in the sudden absence of sound and the darkness lingers only a moment before the power comes back on again.

Loggins and Messina are back on the jukebox in an instant, the patrons turn back to their drinks, and just like that, your introduction to Corroded Coffin is cut short, one song shy of their record. 

With the lights on and free from the cloying miasma that can only come from standing in the crowd at a rock show, you manage to claw your way back to your senses enough to remember your parking lot promise.

You surprise even yourself by erupting into a cacophony of thunderous applause, whooping, and hollering just like any self respecting number one fan would do. Then again, if you’re being completely honest, and if the drunk biker hollering unevenly doesn’t put up too much of a fight, you might happily accept the title.

It doesn’t take much effort to shoulder your way through the meager crowd, particularly with the way it is steadily thinning. Evidently, the end to the show was enough to call for an end to the night for a good number of people here at the Hideout.  

You cross the room in a hop, skip, and a jump that deposits you at the foot of the bandstand, where you stand craning your head back nearly to the point of pain just to look up at the object of your affection. 

You hold Eddie’s jacket clutched reverently against your chest and imagine your steadily beating heart imbuing it with all kinds of emotion — super-charging it with what Huey Lewis and the News is now telling you must be the power of love. 

“You didn’t tell me you were good!” You cry, and are almost immediately chagrined.

You’re half deaf from the set and even through your screaming ears, you know you must be shouting. Worse than that is how you would dare to say something so incredibly awkward.

Why can’t you be cool for once in your stupid life?

Eddie is positively slick with sweat, pushing his hair back from his face and grinning again as he comes down to your level.

He drops into a squat you’re half surprised he can manage with just how tight his jeans are — the other half of you is too busy noticing how now that he’s down here, you’re almost nose to nose. 

You try not to stare at his jeans, or the sweat dripping down from his hairline to grace the curve of his cheekbones and drip off the sharp line of his jaw. His shirt has gone semi-translucent and is clinging to his chest like a lover as you force yourself to meet his honey-warm gaze. 

“You guys are great.” You try again, hoping it comes out sounding a little cooler this time around.

No such luck. 

“Yeah? Well, what’d you expect, Sweetheart?” Eddie drawls, showing you his teeth in a way that makes your insides go tight — he tilts his head over to press his ear to his shoulder, “They don’t let just anyone up on this stage, you know.”

“Yes, they do.” Jeff counters from somewhere behind him, and you watch Eddie’s brows come down in aggravation, “Remember when they let that guy do forty minutes of close-up magic?”

Somewhere, very far away, Gareth is shrugging his shoulders from where he still sits, comfortably perched behind his drumkit.

“That guy wasn’t half bad.” he posits, much to the chagrin of his bandmates.

“That dude was wearing a cape.” Eddie scoffs.

“And you’re saying you wouldn’t?” Jeff snorts.

You’re too caught up in the way your heart is beating itself senseless against your ribs to hear the back and forth continue between them because Eddie called you Sweetheart.

Normally, you like to think such a pet name would leave you roiling in disgust, but nothing about the way you feel about Eddie is normal. 

And you’re not being any shade of normal about this. Forget whatever bullshit it says on your birth certificate, forget all the little pet names anyone has ever given you — Eddie Munson reached down and christened you Sweetheart, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s your name now. 

You feel like your head is going to crack open and burst with electric light as the name rattles around and around in your skull until it finds a tight little corner to wedge itself into and stay forever. 

Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart.

Sweetheart and Eddie.

Sweetheart Munson. 

It’s so goddamn saccharine you’re almost surprised when your teeth don’t come tumbling out of your head. 

As you get lost further down the road of delusional fancy, the band’s bickering carries on without you. 

“I dunno… d’you guys think we should invest in capes?” Adam posits, and it’s almost enough to send Eddie into apoplectic shock.

“Corroded Coffin does not wear capes!” He snarls, and an intrusive little voice can’t help but beg to differ, because to you, Corroded Coffin sounds exactly like the type of band who would come out on stage wearing capes. 

“At least he had style.” Gareth huffs, “And the crowd liked him a whole lot better than they like us, maybe we can learn something from Magical Marve.” 

“Jesus Christ, you guys — you’re blowing it in front of our number one fan!” Eddie gestures to you as he says it and you blush bright red, suddenly terrified that you’ve been caught with hearts in your eyes as the rest of the band’s attention snaps over to you — their apparent number one fan. 

In a few years, when you would read Misery, you would spend a full week brimming with resentment that Stephen King would dare to suggest that it could be anything but a term of endearment. But that was a thought for the future, and only because he wasn’t there to see Eddie Munson dub you Sweetheart. 

Right here and now, you are just happy to be included. Because it’s like Eddie said before, you're with the band… who is still bickering as they go about the quick and dirty business of breaking down their equipment. 

It takes a solid twenty minutes, even with you fumbling to try and help anyway you can. Your vision goes briefly spotty when Eddie hands you his guitar and asks you to “hold her a sec”, briefly — accidentally — hooking his pinky finger with yours in the exchange. A promise of something yet untold — his jacket, his guitar, anything he gives you, you’ll guard with your life. 

It sounds just as stupid as you feared when you can’t stop yourself from saying it this time, but the way he laughs eases the sting of your embarrassment, if only a little. 

When everything is more or less put away, moods have not yet recovered from the previous moment’s tiff, but Gareth is never one to be deterred. 

“Come on, you guys. Why the long faces? That’s the longest set we’ve played in a while!” he says, nudging you with his elbow, “I’d say that’s reason enough to celebrate.”

It’s perhaps the first suggestion that night which isn’t immediately met with a dissenting chorus of booing and hissing. 

“Yeah, what do you say, fellas?” Jeff throws a neighborly arm over Eddie’s shoulder and gives him a shake for good measure, “The Palace’ll still be open for a few hours, how’s about we order a couple pizzas, get a six pack and go for a few rounds of Dragon’s Lair? Quarters are on me.” 

It sounds about as fun as any average Tuesday with Dustin and his friends, not nearly as special as anything you would do to celebrate such a monumental night as this, but being the guest here, you defer to the group. You look to their leader to gauge the appropriate reaction to Jeff’s suggestion, and you notice with a start that he does not share his friend’s enthusiasm. 

Call it babysitter’s intuition, but you seem to be the only one who has noticed that Eddie’s mood has taken a sudden and immediate nosedive into the creaky laminate flooring.

Everyone else is too busy listening to Gareth get his feathers ruffled over the plan to notice Eddie’s exchanged look with Laverne, still tucked in at the back of the bar with her arms crossed. 

You watch all of this happen with the privilege of blessed invisibility, preserving both the excitement of the moment and Eddie’s dignity as a decision is quietly made.

He’s not going. 

Your heart sinks. 

“Oh, so you’re just gonna oh-so-graciously offer to pay for the cheapest part of that plan?” Gareth snaps.

Jeff fishes a ring of keys from the front pocket of his jeans and jingles it in the other boy’s face.

If Eddie’s not going, you don’t want to go either, but you don’t dare embarrass yourself by saying that out loud, so you keep your mouth shut.

“I’m also gonna drive. You can be a cheap prick too when you get your license, Freshman.” Jeff says with no small amount of smugness, “What d’you say, Eddie? You in?”

He does his best to approximate an apologetic smile, then shakes his head, sweat damp curls bouncing as he does. 

“Not tonight, I’ve got some stuff I gotta finish up here.”

He does his best not to look directly at you as he says it, but you’re starting to learn that if there is one thing Eddie has a hard time doing, it’s not looking at you. You aren’t sure how to process that information and for a brief yet terrifying moment, it swells inside you to the point of pain. 

“You sure?” Gareth presses, glancing less than subtly between you and stretching his words past the point of pain, “Big night. Worth celebrating.”

You level him with an unimpressed look. 

Real smooth Gareth, why not just spell it out for him?

Still, you suppose you have to give him Brownie points for trying because you wouldn't even be here if it weren't for him. 

Eddie is already retreating when he gives his final answer, waving you off in a way that feels almost painfully casual. 

“Yeah, no, you guys go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

You watch him go, and he watches you watching him. You can’t tell for certain, but it feels almost as if something significant is passing you by, a moment you’ll never be able to get back if you don’t snatch it out of the air before it’s gone.

It fills you with a stinging burst of panic, especially when Eddie turns and lets you out of his sight. 

You came here tonight to see him. You’re only here for him. 

You’re almost shocked to hear your name being spoken then, and when you snap back over to reality, Jeff and Gareth are looking expectantly at you — Adam, who could evidently not care less who comes or stays, is already halfway to the door.

They had him at pizzas and a six-pack.

“—how ‘bout it?”

You blink back at them stupidly.

“Me?”

Jeff shrugs. 

“Sure, it’s like the man said, you’re our biggest fan, you ought to share in the glory too.” 

Strange how you had assumed that invitation would not be extended to you, stranger still is how you’re suddenly considering it.

Pizza and beer at the arcade is not the worst way you’ve ever spent a Tuesday night, but there is something nagging at you, stopping you from immediately accepting. It’s that same feeling as before, opportunity slipping past you and an incredibly powerful pull asking you whether you ought to stay as you turn back to watch Laverne step aside to make room for Eddie as he rounds the bar. 

Stay? At a bar?

Where you have been so summarily informed that the chief of police is likely to pop up at any moment like a cheap jump scare in a bad horror movie?

It’s certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had. 

It’s not even the worst idea you’ve had all day. 

“I think…” you start, “Actually, I think I’m gonna pass… it’s been a lot of excitement ...and my curfew is coming up soon.”

It’s not expressly untrue, but you feel a sharp pang of regret when Jeff shrugs and so willingly accepts your polite decline.

Part of you wishes that they would have fought a little harder to get you to come out – even Carol won’t take no for an answer the first time around – but that part of you is very quickly whipped back into shape.

You’re not here to hang out with Adam and Jeff and Gareth. 

“Suit yourself,” he says flippantly, then claps Gareth on the back, “C’mon G.” 

He doesn’t follow right away. Gareth, never one to miss a quiet exchange, remains, giving you a pointed look.

“What’s up?” He asks quietly, “You good?” 

You wait for Jeff to get out of earshot, then lean in.

“...Do you think I should stay?” You ask.

Gareth’s brows furrow in a confusion that you can only imagine must be the mirrored echo of your own previous thoughts. You can almost hear him warning you that Chief Hopper hangs around here, and then something like realization flashes across his features as he glances past you. 

You follow his gaze over to where Eddie is disappearing into the back, tying a dingy apron around his waist. 

“Yes,” He says quickly, with a wide stretch of his mouth, “I think that’s exactly what you should do.”

“You do?”

“Yes, absolutely – you stay, and I’ll see you tomorrow,”

You watch Gareth disappear out the front doors and linger a moment beneath the multi-colored lights.

The jukebox has since flipped over to play Dusty Springfield, and she is warning you that being good isn’t always easy, no matter how hard you try, and it gives you courage enough to slink back to the bar, where your soda sits long empty.

“You’re not getting a refill, so don’t even ask.” Laverne snaps, startling you. 

“I just wanted to pay for it.” 

She makes a gruff sound in the hollow of her throat and begins wiping down the bar. 

“It’s paid for.” She says reluctantly.

Before you can ask what that could possibly mean, she continues. 

“So, I reckon you’re stayin’ behind.” It’s not exactly a question, so you don’t feel pressed to answer, and when you don’t, she hefts a tub of dishes up onto the flattop. “Why don’t you take this back to Junior, since you’re so keen on hangin’ around. Save me the trip.”  

You look from Laverne to the dishes, and back again, feeling the wheels of your brain creaking under the duress of trying to see the invisible pitfall ahead of you. 

“...Am I allowed to do that?” you finally manage to ask, and for half a moment Laverne stares back at you like it was the dumbest thing she's ever heard anyone say. 

“I don’t give a shit” She finally huffs, “You do what you want, I’m goin’ out for a smoke.” 

She’s gone out the side door in a flash, and it takes you far too long to work out the pieces – Eddie paid for your drink, and she’s giving you an excuse to go back and see him. 

Boy, are you dense sometimes. 

Still, you can’t help but wonder if it’s all some clunky ploy to get you thrown out of the bar. You also can’t help but wonder who is going to watch the bar while Laverne is gone, but you decide that isn’t your problem as you seize the plastic tub and heft it down to brace against your hip. 

When you slip behind the bar and into the back, Eddie’s standing at the sink, elbow deep in suds and glaring at them like they’d personally wronged him. 

You linger in the doorway, selfishly taking in as much of this candid moment as you can steal, and scrounging around for what is left of your courage. 

“Hiya.” You say, once you find your voice. 

It startles him bad enough to send him leaping back from the sink. 

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, stumbling over your name in a way that makes your insides go tight, “I – uh – I thought you left with the guys.”

“Nope.”

“What are you–?”

You tilt the dishtub toward him and jostle it in a way that is less tantalizing than you mean for it to be with the way the dishware shifts dangerously.

“Special delivery.”

Eddie’s brows come down over his eyes and his shoulders sag.  

“...Oh, great. Thanks,” he says, then gestures to the metal surface piled high with dishes. “Just put ‘em wherever you can.” 

The task is daunting. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen as many dishes in your life – it’s going to take him hours to get through them.

You tentatively shove the plastic bin in where you can fit it, careful not to disturb the topsyturvy stacking method that has been employed here, and linger idly as Eddie wipes his soapy hands on his jeans. 

A measured silence settles  between you, through which you can still hear the muted sounds of the bar trilling distantly on.  

“What happened?” Eddie finally asks, “How come you didn’t go with the guys?”

“Oh, well…” you start, electing to fib a little rather than do something so embarrassing as tell him the only reason you’re here tonight, “You know, as thrilling as sitting around in a parking lot drinking cheap beer sounds, I figured somebody ought to stay behind and keep you company. And I figured since you bought me a drink and all, it ought to be me.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. 

“Lucky me.” 

You try not to let the biting sarcasm of the response dig its teeth in as you continue. 

“...That was sneaky, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

Eddie shrugs, and rests a hand on the curved metal lip of the three-basin sink.  

“Least I could do for our biggest fan.”  

He sounds less enthusiastic about that this time around and it is enough to make your stomach clench.

“...You guys were great, by the way.” You try again, for lack of anything better to say.

Eddie shakes his head. 

“Nah, we weren’t. We were actually pretty rough, I’m surprised they let us play as long as they did … but thanks for making the effort, though.” 

“Well… you were great.” You press, folding your hands behind your back and taking a step closer, “I mean, you were pretty much the best part of the show.”

Distantly, you see his eyebrows jump beneath the sweaty fringe drying tacky to his forehead. The corner of his mouth twitches. 

“You keep stroking my ego like that and I’m gonna have to buy you dinner to go with that drink,” Eddie warns you, and something inside of you shrieks with unabashed hormonal joy.

You cannot think of anything more tantalizing than that … except for maybe one of your two fantasies from earlier in the evening, but neither of those scenarios is on the table for tonight.

At least, you’re fairly certain they aren’t. 

You thank your lucky stars he’s so fixated on washing dishes that he can’t see the way you turn bright crimson.

“I’m serious. You were great, Eddie.” 

It’s enough to finally make him look at you again.

“You think so?”

And of course, now that you have his attention, you can’t help but go embarrassing yourself. 

“Yeah, absolutely. You’re a goddamn rockstar…” 

He grins. 

“D’you kiss your mother with that mouth, Sailor?”

You curl your lips in past your teeth on instinct and drop your gaze to your sneakers as the suggestion sends you hurtling back to the picnic bench in the woods behind school. 

You’re so sure Eddie was going to kiss you out there – you watched his eyes go heavy and lidded as his gaze slid down to your lips. You saw the shift in his posture, the oh-so-subtle way he tilted forward, curling his hands into fists, moist pink tongue darting out to wet the plush spread of his lips. 

He’s not looking at you like that now, and it’s the worst goddamn thing in the world. You have to force yourself to think of something – anything else to stop it from completely destroying you as you stand there, listening to Eddie washing the dishes. 

Oddly, there is only one thing that comes to mind. 

“...Can I ask you a question?”

The lewd soapy sounds of suds on ceramic sends a chill up your spine. 

“Sure, hit me.” 

“Before you went on, when we were standing at the bar... why did Laverne call you Junior?” You ask, and the question seems to catch him off guard, so you elaborate to fill the awkward silence before it can settle between you, “She did it again just outside when she told me to bring these back to you… I was just wondering about it…”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, and you’re just about ready to tell him to forget it by the time he opens his mouth to speak.

“Ah… hmm,” he hesitates, “… it’s a … it’s a little inside joke some folks around town like to roll out.” Eddie explains, then after a beat of silence, he gestures vaguely, “Munson Junior.”

“...Oh.” You say lamely – the subtext is not lost on you, and suddenly you’re sorry you asked.  

A heavy silence settled between you, and then Eddie clears his throat in the prelude to what you'd feared was coming all night long.

“Hey, listen … it was real nice of you to stay behind…”

Uh oh. Here comes that dreaded rejection. 

It was nice of you to stay but it’s actually super weird that you’re here at all and you should probably go home before you embarrass yourself more than you already have. 

You do your best to stamp that line of thinking out before it can settle and elect to fold your hands behind your back, rocking on your heels and doing your utmost to look carefree. 

“But…?”

You don’t care if he’s about to ask you to leave, but you hope to any God out there listening that he doesn’t. 

“But… you should probably head out.” Eddie sighs.

Okay, so you lied. You care so much, and you can feel the corners of your mouth tremble as your smile begins to waver. 

Eddie continues.  

“This is gonna take a while, Sweetheart… and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than stand around watching me play in dish water.” 

Sweetheart. The nickname fills you with foolish courage, and suddenly you’re taking another step closer. 

“Not really,” You admit, “I actually cancelled some plans to be here tonight…” 

He breathes a halfhearted laugh out through his nose.

“Betcha wish you hadn’t.”  

Oh, how wrong he is. If only he knew just how far you’d gone to make sure you could be here tonight.

“...Can I help?” You ask tentatively, forcing yourself not to look away when Eddie’s gaze snaps up and he clocks your sudden proximity with a soft, strangled sound in the hollow of his throat.

You pretend not to hear it for both your sake, “...it’ll speed things up. And... and then you can buy me dinner, right?”

You watch him stare back at you and can practically see the cogs turning in his brain, as if he absolutely cannot fathom the request you’d just made of him. When he continues to fail to answer, you try again.

“Here, let me help.” 

You reach for the rumpled dish rag, but Eddie catches your hand.

Your lungs spasm and go flat and for the brief moment you exist under his touch, you forget how to breathe. 

He shakes his head and tries to lead you away from the sink, releasing you entirely too soon for your liking. 

“No, you don’t have to do that.” he says, and for half a moment you’re afraid that nothing you say is going to convince him to let you stay. 

Then again, it’s not exactly like you’re asking for his permission. 

“I know…” You hum, feeling your tongue go fat in your mouth and taking another step toward him, “But I want to.”

Eddie doesn’t retreat from your advance, but he calls your bluff with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow.

“You wanna waste your night doing dishes in the back of a bar?” he deadpans.

Of course you do. 

You want to tell him that you want to do every trivial task under the sun if it means you get to do it with him. You’d happily sit and watch paint dry if Eddie was going to be there with you, but somehow you’re not certain that is going to do anything to make you sound cool and attractive.  

“Sure, why not?” you shrug, rolling your sleeves up as far past your elbows as they will go and sidling up so you’re standing nearly hip to hip.

Your heart is hammering behind your ribs when you dare to steal a cautious, casual glance up at him, “I don’t have anything better to do right now.” 

Eddie stares back at you, brows furrowed quizzically before he shakes his head, mutters something unintelligible to himself, then reaches into a milk crate sitting beneath the sink that you hadn’t noticed until he fishes out a pair of oversized yellow dish gloves and hands them to you. 

“Yeah, okay – since you’ve got nothing better to do – put these on. We don’t want those fingers going prune.”  

It takes you much longer to get through the dishes than you anticipated when you originally offered your services.

Two hours later, your sweater is soaked down the front, you’ve got suds in your sleeves, and you can smell the faintest hint of budding mildew wafting off of you, but you finish the dishes in half the time you imagine it would have taken Eddie to do them on his own. 

When you’re done, you bid Laverne a cheerful farewell, one she does not acknowledge, and you leave the bar together. 

Eddie has been talking animatedly about a hundred different subjects the whole time, though the last five minutes of conversation have been allotted to his guitar – which he tells you is an N.J. Warlock series, and you have no idea what that means.

You don’t mind though, you’ve been listening quietly without interjection because your newest revelation is just how much you like to listen to Eddie talk when he gets going. Not the heated preaching you’ve witnessed a hundred times in the lunchroom, but an excitable deep dive into something he is clearly very passionate about. 

In your deepest flights of fancy, you imagine him talking to someone about you like this, and as you cross the parking lot and arrive at the back of his van, it makes your insides flutter with a girlish excitement.  

Unfortunately, he mistakes your silence over the past few minutes for disinterest and grows sheepish.

“...Anyway, I didn’t mean to talk your ear off like that,” Eddie says, rolling his shoulders. “When I get going it’s hard to shut me up sometimes … sorry.” 

You shake your head.

“No, not at all! I didn’t want to interrupt your flow, I just don’t really know anything about guitars.”

A look of patent relief flashes across Eddie’s face and is very quickly replaced with something sly as he pops open the back doors to the van. Inside sits half a dozen pieces of Gareth’s drum kit, two amps, and a sleek, black, rectangular case.

Eddie rests a hand on the hood of the case with a thump and you watch his gaze slide over to you. 

“You wanna meet her?” he asks. 

You don’t respond right away, if only because you don’t know who he could possibly mean, here in this deserted parking lot, but he doesn’t give you the opportunity to linger in the limbo of that unknowing. 

He pops open the hinges and flips the lid up, revealing the angular crimson body of the guitar. Eddie lifts the instrument carefully from its crushed velvet bed and presents it to you with all the reverence of a lover. 

You reach out tentatively to trace the smooth resin of her body with your finger pads and suddenly the moment feels supercharged with something heavy. The air is thick with it, whatever it is, and it settles in your lungs with a cloying film. You can’t be certain as to why, but you can suddenly feel your heart beating in your stomach.

“This is Sweetheart,” Eddie says, voice dripping with an admiration that makes your insides clench.

The heady atmosphere dissipates almost immediately, and you drop your hand back to your side to try and mask the way it makes you flinch to hear him call the guitar that.

Sweetheart?! No, it most certainly is not. 

You’re Sweetheart. That’s your name now, remember? He only went and gave you the goddamn thing, now here he is telling you it’s just some random term of endearment he slaps on anything shiny and new that happens to catch his eye?

Fucking lame. 

“Oh. Wow. It’s pretty.” You force yourself to say, because it’s not untrue, even if you are suddenly gripped in a ridiculous burning jealousy over his relationship toward an instrument. “Really pretty.” 

And then Eddie pulls a face of sheer and total mock offense.

“Hey now,” he warns you gently, “Show a little respect for the love of my life here, will ya?” 

You glance up at him and for half a moment aren't entirely sure you’re in the mood to meet him there. But it’s stupid to be jealous of an inanimate object. That would be like finding out Eddie was jealous of your vibrator or something stupid … which also suggests he’s fucking his guitar, so no, maybe it’s not like that at all.

Still, the thought manifests an image, which immediately sears itself into your frontal lobe and sends the blood rushing to your head so quickly you’re half surprised it doesn’t pop.

“...she’s pretty?” you hum, feeling suddenly like you’re about to faint. 

Eddie gives you a satisfied smile – one you don’t see for how your vision has briefly gone spotty – and nods. 

“Damn right she is," he says, laying her back in her case and snapping the lid shut.

If you’d been looking, and not feeling a stupid sense of satisfaction to see her get so summarily shut away, you would have seen Eddie go suddenly shy as his eyes slide over to peek at you from his peripheral.

“...Second prettiest girl in the room tonight.”

It hits you like a slap in the face and is oddly grounding. Your vision clears, your ears stop roaring, and just like that everything goes back to normal. Just you and Eddie standing in an empty parking lot with the echo of his attempt at a smooth line lingering between you. 

Your mouth falls open and you choke on a loud bark of startled laughter. 

Ha! Take that, Sweetheart.

Eddie wrinkles his nose and pulls a face like he immediately wishes he could take it back, not knowing that you’d strike him dead before he would even dare. He’s a total fucking dork, and that’s yours now. There will be no takebacks. Not now, not ever.  

“Damn,” he mutters, squeezing an eye shut and reaching up to scratch at his brow, “That was super fucking corny, wasn’t it? Not my best effort – sorry.” 

You press your lips together in a tight seal in a desperate attempt to keep a hideously giddy sound of animalistic joy from bleating up out of you, and you shake your head. 

“That’s okay.” You start, dismissing the thick layer of cheese with a flippant wave, “I’m sure Laverne would be flattered to hear you say that about her.” 

It takes him a moment to catch on, but when he does he snorts and rolls his eyes, mumbling something under his breath about Laverne. He doesn’t correct you, and you let the moment die with dignity because you know what matters.

Eddie Munson thinks you’re pretty, and that will forever be etched on the front of your brain, whether he likes it or not. 

“So,” Eddie begins, shutting the van up again and leaning back against the door. He fishes a rumpled pack of camels from his jacket pocket, and you elect not to say anything about that, “It’s a little late for dinner… but how would you feel about a midnight snack?”

You know the muscles in your face are going to be sore in the morning for how widely you’ve been grinning back at him all night, and you nod, hoping you don’t look too overeager, but also not giving a damn if you do. 

“What did you have in mind?”

He pops a cigarette between his teeth and goes looking for his lighter.  

“Let’s see. I think Fosters might still be open. You could get a milkshake, chili dog, banana split, – whatever your heart desires, Sweet Thing. Your wish is my command.” 

The thought of riding out to Foster’s Freeze on the far end of town with Eddie Munson is tantalizing in the best possible way. You’re beaming as you bring your wrist up to glance at your watch and try to visualize what you can stomach so late.

All thoughts of your growling stomach sail right out of your head as your heart rockets up into your throat before dropping into a free fall because it’s nearly midnight. 

“Jesus Christ!” You gasp, head snapping up to share your horrified look with the class. 

Eddie blinks back at you.

“Nope, just me–” 

“Can I see your watch?” You’re taking hold of his wrist and pulling it up to stare into the digital face of his Casio before he can answer, “Oh, God – it’s so late.”

“What’s the matter, you turning into a pumpkin or something?” He teases, lighting his cigarette with his free hand.

“My curfew was like half an hour ago,” You say quickly, dropping his wrist and nearly upending your bag in the frantic search for your keys.  

“Oh… shit,” Eddie mumbles, “Well, d’you need a ride? I’ll get you home lickety-split–” 

You elect to ignore any intended innuendo there in lieu of your mounting panic.

“No, thanks, I’ve got my car – listen, I really gotta go,” You say, “But let’s do a raincheck, okay?” 

You don’t wait for him to answer before you turn and bolt for your car shouting back to him as you go.  

“I mean it, Munson! You owe me that midnight snack!” 

You’re fumbling with your keys in the lock and whipping your door open with a harsh creak before you remember yourself and spin on your heel.  

“Oh— Eddie, wait!” He’s circled around to the driver’s side and is standing on the runner, already half way up into his seat when his head snaps up, and you grow suddenly shy, “Thank you for this, it was – I mean, you’re – I had fun tonight. More fun than I would have had sitting at home, anyway.” 

He gives you a strange look.  

“...you really mean that, don’t you?” He asks after a moment, “Truly. Dishes and all?”

You nod, and you watch him shaking his head in a way you imagine must be accompanied by a good-humored chuckle as he takes a final drag on his cigarette and tosses it.    

“Well, bless you for saying so.” He says, “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Absolutely. I’ll do the dishes with you anytime.” Oh my God, why the fuck did you just say that? You’re cheesy and boring and stupid – just a stupid girl with a stupid crush. 

And Eddie is laughing. 

“Get home safe, Sweetheart.” he calls, “Wear your seatbelt.”

“Yeah, you too… goodnight, Eddie.”  

Despite the traded goodbyes, you both linger a moment longer, looking back at one another halfway into your respective cars and so reluctant to part despite the ticking time bomb hurtling toward you at breakneck speed.

You need to get home, and yet…?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Eddie calls, and you feel yourself flush. 

“It’s just… you know … what Shakespeare said…”

Across the lot, he steps down from the van and nods. 

“Sure. Good ol’ Willy Shakes.” and when you don’t elaborate, he gently prompts you, “What’s Shakespeare say, Sweetness?”

The saccharine twist on your new nickname has a lump forming in your throat, one you almost don’t get the words around as it swells and threatens to strangle you.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” you sigh. 

It’s perhaps the uncoolest thing you’ve said all night, and you don’t even have the good sense to be embarrassed about it, because it’s also the truest thing you’ve said all night, and suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest.

You really, really have to go, but you don’t want to. 

Eddie crosses his arms and leans back against the van.

“Yeah… it sure is.” 

The silence endures, and as the seconds tick by, you continue to fail to tear yourself away. The last time you left him like this, you didn’t see him again for five days, and after tonight you’re not sure you can survive another five days without Eddie in your life.

Maybe you can stand to miss your curfew. Maybe your parents won’t notice your car is gone and won’t come to check in on you. Maybe you can sneak in after midnight or stay out all night … maybe you can just stand here saying goodnight over and over until the sun comes up and never have to get to the parting part. 

“Go home, Sweetheart.” Eddie says then, “I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” 

The sentiment causes the lump in your throat to swell, and you have to force yourself to breathe out slowly to ease the pressure it puts on you.

You watch him climb up into the van and feel your heart thumping again. One of you had to go first, you suppose. Last time it was you, this time it’s only fair it’s him. 

“Bye Eddie.” You call, and when you still fail to get into your car, he heaves a long-suffering sigh, which is a little too fond to be just that.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” He asks, “It’s like I told you – lickety split.”  

Don’t make a promise you can’t keep. You want to warn him, but all you can manage is a smile.

Then you slide in behind the wheel of your car and shut the door behind you. You linger a moment longer and when you feel that lump threatening to return – one you quickly realize is the prelude to melancholy – you can’t help but steal one last look out your window, back at the van.

Eddie is still there, and better still, he seems to have had the same thought as you, because when you look, there he is looking at you again.

It fills you with a bright and warming sense of satisfaction. It's not so easy to tear yourself away, is it?

Then, as if to answer, Eddie waves.

You grin, return the gesture, and start your cars at the same time. It only takes a short dosey-do around each other to exit the parking lot side by side. You turn left, he turns right, and you watch in your rearview mirror until his taillights fade into the dark.

Yeah, you think you might have fallen pretty hard tonight, and you’re going to have a very hard time getting up again.

[mixelation]

have some reborn au i wrote last night. itachi pov, both double times as the start to tori's book club adventures and itachi's fake dates

there's a joke about not microwaving styrofoam.... i just wanted to note before someone "corrects" me that i know there are some supposedly microwave safe styrofoams (like, for example, some types of cup noodles) but in general i would avoid microwaving styrofoam because they can leech toxins into your food and like. melt.

--

Itachi was relieved when Tori pitched an idea for their first date herself. 

“Hey,” she said, snagging his arm in the ANBU breakroom. ANBU Rat looked up from intently watching her lunch in the microwave. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Itachi told her, although part of him was pleased. Gossip in ANBU ran fast. Rat would surely be telling everyone about Tori spontaneously appearing to talk to him. 

He didn’t ask about how she’d gotten into ANBU. If Tori decided she was going somewhere, she went there. She had her lab coat on, which meant she’d probably just wandered over there from R&D. Tori loved talking about how people just listened to people in lab coats, and no warning signs or fancy fuinjutsu was going to stop her. 

“And you make yourself hard to find,” Tori countered. 

This comment was undoubtedly bad for their budding relationship’s PR. Itachi quickly course-corrected. 

“Why don’t we talk over dinner?” he suggested. “I get off at six.”

Tori’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. The microwave dinged and ANBU Rat removed a take-away box. 

“My treat,” Itachi offered. “We haven’t caught up in a while.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tori agreed. She’d always been easy to bribe with a free meal. She turned on her heel and pointed accusingly at ANBU Rat. With evident disgust in her voice, she asked, “Did you just microwave styrofoam?”

Itachi decided Rat would be a valuable witness, as she’d be able to report Itachi neither chastised Tori for sneaking in nor did he do anything to prevent her from telling Rat off over her microwaving etiquette. This was clear favoritism. 

Itachi’s shift ended late, which wasn’t unusual, and he found Tori in one of the chunin breakrooms flipping through a book catalog. She filled him in on her conundrum on their walk over the restaurant: she’d enjoyed her trip to the fan convention, and wanted to start her own fan club in Konoha to recapitulate the sort of mindless fun only a group of people united in love for bad genre fiction could share. 

“Kakashi said he’d join whatever club, but he refuses to talk Icha Icha with me and the Konoha chapter won’t let me in anyway,” she complained. She flapped the catalog at him. “So I have to find a different series.”

Itachi chose a restaurant with outdoor seating along a busy street. Through some minor genjutsu, he convinced a couple to leave early and then a waiter to clear their table immediately so they could be in full view of the passing crowds. If Tori noticed, she was too busy gesticulating with the catalog and reciting prices to say anything. 

It was true that Itachi was a connoisseur of bad ninja fiction, a hobby cultured over long days of uninterrupted travel with Akatsuki. He hadn’t allowed himself much time in this lifetime to read, but he still remembered his favorite inane plots and ridiculous depictions of ninja. It would be interesting to see if his old favorites had stayed the same or not in this timeline, and he found himself missing his old hobby. 

“I’d be happy to join,” he said, perfectly sincere, when the waiter left them with their menus. 

“Oh, good,” Tori replied, eyes brightening. “Okay, so we have three people. Do you think we could convince Deidara?”

Deidara had… mixed opinions on consuming bad art intentionally. As far as Itachi could tell, Deidara was in a constant tug-of-war between his artistic principles and his own personality, and the appeal of bad media seemed to go completely over his head unless he were in the mood to be mean about something. This was fine for a bad movie night, but maybe not the mood Tori was looking for with her little book club. Then again, Itachi was fairly confident he could simply tell Deidara a single opinion on art, and this would incite a lively debate lasting hours. 

“I figured if we host it at our place, he’ll be forced to join,” Tori said, drumming her fingers on the table in thought. 

“That could backfire,” Itachi pointed out. Deidara was so dedicated to his art that he often didn’t care if he lost his own possessions to it. “You can’t expect Deidara to let a quiet evening continue to be quiet if he even suspects he’s been manipulated into it.” 

“Well, maybe we should pick a series first,” Tori backtracked. 

They ordered, and Itachi leafed through the catalog while they waited for food. Tori told some story he could barely follow about how when she was growing up, some books would come with cheap costume jewelry attached to them, and she always begged for those books even though she knew she wouldn’t like the story. 

“They were always about unicorns, and unicorns are just fantasy horses. And I am not a horse girl, Itachi,” she said very seriously.

Itachi assumed she was talking about her previous life. When Tori shared details of her childhood in this timeline, they were usually more disturbing, but at least they made sense. 

“Although it was a great marketing tactic,” Tori continued, picking up her chopsticks and clicking them together thoughtfully. “Imagine if Icha Icha did that. ‘Free anal beads included with every purchase’--”

The waiter chose this moment to arrive with their food, and Tori’s cheeks went pink. Itachi had to duck his head to hide a smile. 

“I thought you said Jiraiya was afraid of anything anal,” Itachi said when the waiter left. That had been one of her favorite rants. Apparently Jiraiya’s homoerotic obsession with Orochimaru manifested as internalized homophobia or something, according to Tori. 

“Ugh,” Tori replied, performatively holding a hand over her eyes. “Listen, just tell me what PG-13 series we could read so I don’t embarrass myself in public again.”

“So do you want me to exclude the ones with horses…?”

Itachi eventually suggested a series which was one of his personal favorites. The first installment lent its name to the whole of the series, and was called Kitty Girl Stabby Ninja. The plot followed a kunoichi sent to assassinate a male missing-nin from her village, but a jutsu gone wrong turned the kunoichi into a cat instead. She was then adopted by the missing-nin, and shenanigans ensued. It was, as far as Itachi had gathered from interviews with the author, written as an inside joke among friends, and she’d simply kept going when the book had received unexpected popularity, writing about increasingly absurd scenarios about people (and once, the concept of a ninjutsu itself) being turned into cats. In Itachi’s opinion, what made the ridiculous shinobi-themed adventures fun rather than puzzlingly inaccurate, was that the narrative never once took itself seriously, except in a handful of a character interactions and emotional beats. The overall result was that the series was a light, charming read. 

“There’s four books out now,” Itachi said, watching Tori’s face as he talked, “and I believe a fifth one should be out soon. I haven’t been following it recently.”

By “recently” he meant “in this timeline.”

Tori had been listening to him with the sort of intense concentration she used when listening to mission briefings, her brows furrowed and her gaze focused on the food in front of her. It was one of her funnier quirks, how seriously she could take relatively unimportant things like a book club. Itachi had thought it made her seem flighty and bad at prioritizing when he first met her, but given it seemed to incur no cost to her ability to concentrate on her actual job, he’d decided it was more endearing, the way Kakashi’s perpetual lateness could seem almost charming after you’d just accepted it as part of personality. 

“No, you’re right,” she told him. “The catalog had a full-page advertisement for the new one. I guess it is pretty popular.”

“I believe it spurred several sister series,” Itachi said. “And the author started hiring ghost writers at some point, so there will always be a new book a few months away.”

Tori hummed, pleased. 

“That means the lore must be intricate,” she said. “That always makes for good fannish activity. Bonus points if it’s also slightly incohesive– that’s what really gets people fixated.”

Itachi didn’t know how to comment on that. But Tori seemed happy about the idea, so he held back a comment about the drop in quality that also happened with the introduction of ghost writers. 

“Alright, I’m convinced,” Tori declared. “We’ll start a Kitty Girl Stabby Ninja book club. I wonder if there are official clubs? I know Ebisu somehow got their Icha Icha club to be officially sanctioned despite the whole secretive ninja village thing, but that one seems a little different because… well, you know…”

When the waiter cleared their plates, Itachi asked for a dessert menu. 

“I think we should share this,” he said, pointing at an item at the bottom of the menu. It was their special house sundae, which he had been coveting for months now. It had three types of ice cream, every in-season fruit you could think of, and both white and dark chocolate shavings. The only thing that had prevented him from ordering it sooner was that it was too much for one person, even him.  

“Ah, I see your game,” Tori said, eyeing him knowingly. “Sure, I’ll help you eat your weight in dessert.”

Itachi could feel the tips of his ears going pink, but it wasn’t like he’d invited her out just to have an excuse to order a sundae. No, he’d just concluded that sharing an ice cream in public would be an undeniably romantic thing to do and also sufficiently in-character for him for his parents to believe it. The fact that he’d also once had a dream about the sundae was simply an added perk. 

“How many people do you want to recruit?” Itachi asked while they waited for their dessert monstrosity. 

“Ten people or fewer, I think,” Toro replied. “Too many and then the discussion can’t be as good. But I figure the first few meetings will have more, and people will drop out because they don’t like the book or they don’t have time or, like, Deidara will scream at someone. And then eventually we’ll get it down to a few dedicated people.”

Itachi thought it would be equally likely that Tori herself would assert something like Only a moron would microwave styrofoam and rub someone the wrong way, or Kakashi would be so intentionally annoying at someone that they’d hide from public for the rest of the week. He held himself back from saying anything, though, even though he’d be entirely correct, because their dessert arrived. 

The ice cream’s size was so great that the waiter needed both hands and they had to clear a space on the table themselves. Tori’s eyebrows rose only slightly as she took it in. A woman at the table next to them grinned knowingly at them. Good, good. 

“Your place is too small for ten people,” Itachi observed, grabbing his spoon.  

Tori seemed to think this over for a few moments. Then she said, “But there’s nowhere else, unless you want to volunteer your place.”

Itachi held back a wince. His parents would probably agree, but then he’d have to go through the awful process of navigating his parents’ attempts to monitor his personal life, and then also dodging the inevitably of Sasuke wanting to join and him having to say no. No, this would suck any ounce of joy he might find in a silly activity like a book club. 

“I thought so,” Tori said, without him having to verbalize any of this. “Maybe we could pressure Kakashi into it, but I don’t think he has much space either. Plus he’d be tempted to like… lock us out on purpose or something and pretend he forgot.”

This seemed plausible. 

“Kushina-sensei would let us,” Itachi offered. Tori immediately made a face. 

“No one’s going to want to meet at the Hokage’s residence,” she protested. 

“Why not?” Itachi asked. 

“Because the Hokage could be there,” she said, and Itachi noted she’d only eaten a single strawberry off the sundae. “No one’s going to want to talk about their dumb headcanons under threat of the Hokage overhearing.”

“None of the potential members you listed will care,” Itachi pointed out. 

Tori frowned, very carefully shaving off ice cream with her spoon in some sort of exact ratio with chocolate. Itachi was right, of course. If anything, Kakashi would be more open at Kushina-sensei’s house, and no one from Team 4 would care. Hokage-sama was a less intimidating host than Itachi’s parents, anyway. 

“But I want to recruit normal people,” Tori said eventually. “Random career chunin. Civilians. You know, new people.” 

“Alright,” Itachi said. “Like who?”

Tori stared back at him. She held her gaze while he had several bites of ice cream, her face slowly screwing up as she wracked her brain for “normal” people she thought she could conceivably approach about a book club. Itachi was fairly certain she wasn’t going to think of anyone. 

“Perhaps one of your labmates?” he suggested. 

Tori averted her gaze, looking mildly peeved. So she was still failing to make friends with anyone in lab. 

“I don’t think it being at the Hokage’s residence will be more of a deterrent than the presence of any of your other members,” Itachi said slowly. “You picked… an intimidating group.”

Tori actually rolled her eyes. “Like you’re all that intimidating,” she said.

“My performance review says I’m unapproachable and mean and my reputation prevents people from commenting on it in pursuit of a solution,” Itachi countered, which actually provoked a laugh from Tori. He didn’t think this review was very fair, because he was almost always correct so why would anyone need to argue with him, but he acknowledged Hokage-sama kept having increasingly stressed talks with him about it.

“Okay, so you’re awful,” she allowed, “but Kakashi? Please. Anyone who’s met him knows he’s just a weird dog man.” 

“I think your perspective might be skewed,” Itachi told her. 

He did not point out that Tori herself had an extremely strong personality, and that the only reason she didn’t already have her own reputation was that forbidden jutsu were by necessity kept secret, so very few people knew how routinely she churned them out. It wasn’t as obvious as his or Kakashi’s or Deidara’s because she was a smiley fifteen year old girl who intentionally carried herself like a civilian, but once you peeled back the several layers of facade, Tori was someone who’d crafted her personality under Orochimaru and the Akatsuki. It was probably why she wasn’t good at making friends– the other shinobi in R&D could undoubtedly sense there was something deeply wrong with what was going on with Tori under the surface. 

Part of what was deeply wrong with her was that she wanted to rope a bunch of normal, unsuspecting people into a book club where she’d probably start spouting conspiracy theories, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Are you trying to use this club to pretend you’re still clinging to your civilian life, because you feel that’s what your normal should be?” Itachi asked. 

Tori’s lips thinned. In a perfect deadpan, she said, “What the fuck, Itachi.”

Too far then, okay. Probably something he shouldn’t push in public, especially when he was pretending to be on an extremely romantic date. 

(This meant he was right, though.)

He deflected by saying, “Have you considered Kushina-sensei and Hokage-sama might want to join?”

Tori groaned loudly. “I just said–” she started. 

She didn’t want any commanding officers at the club. Itachi pointed out her only guaranteed members right now were himself and Kakashi, who were both celebrated Jounin and ANBU captains. Deidara was also a rather infamous Jounin. Tori seemed to get frustrated with his completely sound logic, and switched to asking him what snacks he thought they should have. 

“I think I’ll have to come up with discussion questions too,” she said. “Do you want to help with that?”

“Discussion questions? Why?” Itachi asked. 

Tori’s lips quirked up. “I forgot,” she teased. “You’re uneducated.”

Itachi didn’t think this was fair. The Tori of this timeline had never had any sort of formal schooling. 

“Don’t pout,” Tori told him, performatively sticking her nose up. “You know it’s true. Anyway, the point of discussion questions would be to provoke conversation and keep people from going off topic. We wouldn’t necessarily use them all, but they’d be there for structural purposes.” 

Itachi ended up eating most of the ice cream himself, and he felt uncomfortably full as he offered to walk Tori home. She shot him a confused look.

“Why?” she asked. “I’m out of your way.”

“I want to…” Itachi started. Mostly he wanted to be seen with her, doing boyfriend-like things. “I want to walk off…”

She laughed at him again, needing no further context to understand what he meant. It wasn’t mocking, but rather that she found his predicament genuinely funny. 

“Fine, let’s go along the river, then,” she decided. 

It was a slightly longer walk, but it was undeniably prettier, with the promenade lined by trees. The sun was setting, and the orange glow reflected back at them from the water. It was much more romantic too, he decided. Couples in romance novels were always walking along bodies of water.

That wasn’t bad at all, Itachi decided when he left Tori at the corner of her street. It had been fun, even. That had really been no different from spending time with her as a friend, although perhaps next time he should come up with an excuse to hold her hand. Itachi very rarely had time to spend casually with friends, but he always enjoyed quiet time spent with Shisui, and, he supposed when he thought about it, he did largely enjoy time with Team 4. 

Why didn’t everyone just date their friends? This was the best idea he’d had in a while.

[southstardrabbles]

storm front #1 - a new normal

content: very brief mentions of violence/cannibalism, mentions of a previous lab setting, some implications of human experimentation

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

For weeks, hunger has been the only constant. Gnawing and restless and bone-deep, a particularly strong pang of it forces Nightfall awake. He cracks an eye open as if hoping that his surroundings might have changed while he slept. 

The only change, of course, is the light. The last rays of sun filter through the trees, casting long shadows over the forest floor as daylight slips away. He lays there and watches it for a moment, curled in on himself to conserve warmth.

At times, he’s wondered if he should go back to the lab, if they’d even allow him. Could he just crawl back and hope the guards wouldn’t shoot him on sight? Could he limp back to safety with his tail between his legs and submit himself to their judgment again? Something ugly in his chest twists at the idea—whether it’s because he’s too proud or too stubborn, he refuses to entertain the thought for too long. Regardless, Nightfall remembers enough of the carnage from that night to know that even if they accepted him, things could never be the same.

But even when he resigns himself to this new existence, it still leaves the question of survival. In the weeks that have passed since his escape he’s only eaten twice: the unfortunate nurse who tried to stick him with a sedative, and then weeks later, an injured deer on the side of some nameless country road. All that matters is that it hasn’t been enough. He’s running on fumes as it is. 

Everything is only made worse when he's forced to confront the fact that he underestimated how difficult it would be to find food. He’s long since lost his taste for plants, and hunting is even worse. He’s yet to get used to this strange body, a body primed for violence but lacking the speed and agility he needs to fend for himself. 

But his senses are still sharp. While he’s still breathing, he’s still alive. He can pull himself together one more time.

It takes him a moment to recognize the sound of footsteps, then a second longer for his reflexes to decide whether he should consider it food or danger. By the time he’s even sat up, though, the stranger comes into sight. Though he instinctively pulls down the hood of his jacket to keep some sense of normalcy—pass himself off as some homeless person looking for a place to sleep—she’s already gotten a look at his face and he’s gotten a look at hers. 

The stranger is a tall, slender figure with warm brown eyes. Unlike him, she’s dressed for the weather—a thick jacket, gloves, and a scarf draped loosely around her shoulders like a contingency. A large knife sits in a leather sheath at her hip. She looks at him and she smiles. 

“Hey… are you alright?” 

He stares at her blankly. Is he hallucinating? 

“Sorry, I was just passing through... you look pretty rough. Do you need help?”

His answer is a simple reflex. “Do you have anything to eat?” His mouth is hopelessly dry—when he speaks it's hardly even a whisper. But if she has anything, anything to eat, even just a few scraps, he’s more than happy to overlook her total disregard for his appearance. 

“Not here,” she says with a shake of her head, “but I have plenty back at my house.” She pauses, looks him over, and adds, “You can come with me if you’d like. You must be freezing.” 

“Please.” He sounds a lot more desperate than he’d like to admit, but she’s already offering him a hand—a hand he readily accepts, the first human contact he's felt in months. 

“Alright, alright, come with me.” She chuckles and helps Nightfall to his feet, then keeps walking without even bothering to give him a second glance over her shoulder. 

He follows her, of course. How could he not? Trailing along behind her like a massive shadow, he stares at the back of her head and thinks. She’s something different yet so familiar, something he vaguely remembers from a lifetime ago—a lifetime of faces and voices that have since been erased, leaving nothing for him but the most basic idea of how to be a person. 

He’s not a person anymore, not really. He’s been relegated to his instincts, hiding away from prying eyes, but even as an animal he doesn’t know how to live. Maybe she sees that in him, the need for some kind of foothold. If he can just start again, get a better hand dealt to him…

“Mind if I ask your name, by the way?” The stranger’s voice is soft, but it cuts through the silence like a razor. 

He stops, thinks, sorts through his memories and comes back with nothing. All that remains is the most basic identification they gave him—a project name and a number branded into his skin with red ink. But it’s all he has. 

“Nightfall,” he finally murmurs. “You can call me Nightfall.”

She hums and nods in approval, tucking her hands into her pockets. “I’m Rain. Nice to meet you.”

“I… yeah.” He itches with the urge to reach out, shake her hand or something, remind himself that this is real, but she’s keeping a pace that won’t let him hesitate for a moment without falling behind. “Nice to meet you too.”

---

There’s effectively no conversation for the rest of the walk—for Nightfall it’s agonizing, but Rain seems comfortable enough in the silence. When she unlocks the door to the front of her house and lets him in, it suddenly occurs to him how long it’s been since he’s been inside a house at all. He stands there, waiting, as Rain shuts the door behind them and drops her keys on a small table nearby. 

For a house in effectively the middle of nowhere, it’s a pretty nice place: warm, spacious, well-furnished. It smells of wood and fresh spices and at least from the entryway, everything seems spotless. Nothing out of place. 

“Don’t just stand there,” Rain chuckles with a gentle nudge to his arm, “come on. Settle down and I’ll get you something to eat, okay?”

It’s tough for Nightfall to pinpoint, but that might be the exact moment that everything kicks in. After weeks of clinging on by a thread, after countless days of trying to go through the motions, it’s over. His body practically moves on autopilot as he walks to the living room and collapses onto the couch. 

Even though he’s only been awake for a short while, the exhaustion in his system is nothing short of bone-deep. It’s the kind he knows sleep can’t fix, a tiredness he remembers from a lifetime ago, perhaps one that never left him to begin with. Sleep still tempts him, but he forces himself to stare at the ceiling and listen to the sounds of Rain preparing something in the adjacent room. She hums quietly to herself, some tune he doesn’t recognize accompanied by the occasional sound of dishes or silverware clinking. 

After a few minutes Rain comes back into the living room—the meal she’s prepared is simple to say the least, but Nightfall is willing to take whatever he's given. She hands him a bowl of soup and sets a glass of water on a side table, then sits on the other side of the couch to keep a comfortable distance. 

“Don’t eat too fast,” she advises him. “I’m sure you’re starving, but if you have too much you’ll get sick.” 

It's difficult to take her advice—god is it difficult, but he forces himself to pick away at the food bit by bit. Better to eat slowly than fuck it up and end up worse than he started. It doesn’t help that Rain is silent the entire time, just watching him eat. It's only once he finishes eating and starts nursing his drink at a more sensible pace that she finally says anything. 

“So… what brings you around here?” 

The answer comes from him a little too easily. “Didn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

“Homeless?”

“Something like that.” 

She hums thoughtfully and nods. “Well, you're welcome to crash here if you need a place to stay. I'd hate to let you freeze to death out there.”

Nightfall isn't sure if he's physically able to freeze to death, what with all the weird new features of his physiology, but he can't refuse the offer. He’d be an idiot to waste his one shot at a half-civilized life. Not to mention Rain seems… different. He still can’t figure out why the sight of him hasn’t scared her off. Maybe she knows something else that can help him. 

“That… would be nice,” he finally whispers. 

Rain smiles, leans over, and pats him on the shoulder. “Then you’re welcome to stay for as long as you’d like.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem. Let’s go ahead and get you settled in, alright?” Rain stands up and gestures for him to follow. “I have a guest room ready upstairs that you’re free to use.” 

The second floor of Rain’s house is just as meticulously kept as the first, small paintings and photographs hung throughout the hallways. Most of the doors here are shut, but the one at the end of the hall is slightly ajar and seems to open into some kind of office—Nightfall tries to get a better look inside, but Rain’s already leading him down a different turn before he gets to see anything. She stops in front of another open door, a large but sparsely decorated bedroom. 

“I know it’s not much, but…” She smiles, looking a little embarrassed. “It should be fine for now. I can always go into town and fetch some decorations if you want.” 

Nightfall stands in the doorway for a few long seconds. This, by all his standards, is all he could ever ask for. It’s a far cry from the shared quarters he used to be familiar with, dozens of people and dozens of bunk beds lined up in one long room. The idea that this is his, entirely private…

“It’s perfect,” he murmurs. “Thank you.” 

“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” she tells him, starting to turn away. “I have a bit of work to finish up, but come talk to me if you need something, alright? I’ll be right down the hall.” Once he nods in agreement, she leaves without another word. 

The first thing Nightfall does with his newfound free time is shower. 

He sits under the spray for what feels like an eternity, dirt and grime slowly coming free from his hair, his skin, under the nails he’s let grow and sharpen into claws. He lets the water run until the heat colors his skin with blotches of red and the air thickens with steam, right on the verge of too much but still within the realm of comfort. 

He feels lighter when he finally shuts the water off and steps out of the tub, wiping the condensation from the mirror. The figure that looks back at him… he had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t this. He stares at the marks littering his body, the huge Y of silvery scar tissue sprawling across his chest. Though he can’t see the source of it in this lighting, he still feels the slow pulse of magic through his veins like a second heartbeat. For as long as he can clearly remember, it’s always been there. Always present. Always radiating a power he can’t hope to control. 

He dries himself off and walks back to his room. The door to Rain’s office is closed now, but he can hear the faint murmur of conversation from behind it. He leaves it be.

With the sun finally sinking below the horizon outside, the only thing he can manage to do is lay down on his bed and close his eyes—just a bit of rest, he tells himself. 

A few hours later, he wakes to the sound of shattering glass from downstairs.

[dansconcepts]

Everything's Coming Up Hajime

The following drabbles (they're little scenes of different things with some more detailed than others because a fic was too ambitious for me :'>>>) completely and wholly inspired by and dedicated to @gliittergelpens for their headcanon post on Hajime (found here) and also the connected follow up interaction here. Go check 'em out :D! And I hope you enjoy this :).

Bleary lights. Bright. Dreary. 

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

NO!

Bolt, bolted, he can’t move, why can’t he move? Everything’s not okay, why is he here again? Where are they? Get to the corner, get to the corner, he can’t move he can’t move!- (why is he prolonging the inevitable? He hasn’t done that in so long)

Pressure starts compounding on his chest. He shakes. He doesn’t want to go again, it’s going to be another round of tests again, he didn’t know he agreed to this! Let go, let go, let GO!

“Hajime.”

They never call him that. He is the subject, their project, the plaything to rip apart because he is nothing more than an experiment. He is not a person. He is not Hajime.

“Hajime.” They repeat. “It’s Makoto.”

Makoto?

He doesn’t recognize-

Makoto Naegi.

He blinks. His body slumps. As if his body was lead, his head slowly turns toward the source.

“Makoto Naegi” was never one of the researcher’s names. He knows, because he remembered each and every one, even if he didn’t want to. No, Makoto Naegi is someone else entirely, someone who isn’t associated with the Project. 

Sage-coloured irises meet his gaze first. They are warmer than any of the researchers’ eyes. 

…He isn’t in a lab, is he?

“Muh-” He winces. His voice sounds terrible. 

“Hey, drink up.” Makoto commands, not unkindly. “I know you’ve been in there for a while, but try your best.”

A glass of water is held to his lips and once they hit, his lips burn, but he downs it gratefully anyway. His throat protests in agony.

“Do you know where you are and what happened, Hajime?” 

Hajime stretches, pops coming from all his atrophied joints. “W-we- ugh, Jabberwock Island. K-cough-illing game.” The Killing Game. At the reminder, adrenaline starts coursing through him, and he immediately lurches out of the pod.

Makoto gently pushes him back.

“Yes. The other survivors are awake, but they do not hold the memories you do.”

“W-what about everyone else? What happened to them?”

“They’re still in the pods.” He tries jumping out again. “BUT!” Makoto blurts out. “BUT they’re okay. They’re not in the killing game right now. They seem to have created their own worlds-”

“What can I do to wake them up?” He quickly interrupts. 

“Oh, um, I was going to get to that part.” A small smile stretches on his face. “I knew you’d want to help. I would’ve been the same.” 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Darkness. 

He feels so tired.

He hasn’t felt this tired in… so long. Everything… is so tiring.

Lights threaten to blind him. 

No. 

Let him sleep.

Let him sleep…

“Hey, Nagito... it’s Hajime.” 

He stirs. Hajime?

He looks at the tanned skin, eyeing the scars on the undersides of his eyes, further littered over his arms, and then tracing back to his equally scarred lips, that were currently sipping on a cup in his hands.

“Ha-jime.” He croaks. Wordlessly, Hajime provides him some water. With weak hands, he reaches out toward the cup, and manages to squeeze enough of a firm grasp on it. Hajime continues sipping while he slowly gulps down the offered water. 

“Ahem,” He coughs. “Hinata, my apologies. …What happened?”

“You’re one of the last few to wake up, Komaeda.” Hajime replies, and notably, provides no context. “What do you remember?”

The question sparks his silence. His mouth purses into a deeply thin line. He eyes the man in front of him. Is there something he must have forgotten? “...Nothing particularly pleasant.” He decides on.

Hajime scrutinizes him. He stays quiet. Hajime slumps over with a sigh. “Okay, fair enough. Your pod opened, but you wouldn’t wake up. You’re in the hospital now.”

He looks around. Yes, he gathered that. The white walls and bright fluorescent lighting weren't foreign to him, he would recognize such a place no matter where he was. He could voice that, but there are more pressing concerns.

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand. How did I get here?”

“We went through a rehabilitation program.”

“Ah.” The memories are hitting him now. “Yes, sorry, I do remember us Remnants being captured for such a thing, although I don't remember much else.” He hums, looking the other up and down. “It worked, then?”

“That depends. How do you feel? About, you know, hope and despair and all that.”

“Well,” He chuckles, “if you’re worried I’m going to blow up this hospital in the pursuit of ‘a greater hope’, you would be greatly mistaken.”

Hajime breathes out a sigh of relief. “But I imagine my luck could affect that greatly. It's very fortunate you could balance it out.” The other gazes away from him, looking down in thought. How curious. Was it something he said?

He subtly tilts his head. The brunet covertly glances around, as if he was watching for something. Piercing eyes returns to meet his. “You can't get up to any crazy shit just because I can do that.” The other jokingly chastises, but his eyes remained guarded.

He nods with an smile. “Oh, I would never.” To anyone, it would simply be him teasing. However, he can tell Hajime's trying to hide something about his talents, and someone here is watching them. He wonders who would cause such paranoia.

Hajime fills him in on what occurred, being saved by the "Future Foundation" (oh, it's them.) and particularly specific members (Makoto! As in Makoto Naegi, The Ultimate Hope Makoto? Yes Komaeda, just keep it in your pants.), as well as explaining Nagito’s status, his mental and physical state (still affected by his pre-existing conditions, albeit less so), and the new addition to his body.

He turns it. He didn't even notice he had a new arm. It feels seamless, although the metal is strange to feel underneath his fingertips.

“I had to replace it.” Hajime explains. “The dead tissue was threatening to spread to the rest of your body if it was kept there. It was fine when we were hooked up to the pods since that was preserving it, but since you went into a coma, we had to act fast.”

“Hmm.” He curls his newfound metallic fingers. He sends him a smile. “It seems I owe a lot of my gratitude to you, Hinata, for helping trash like me.”

There's a pause. “We'll work on that,” is the response Hajime settles with. “...Do you want to meet everyone else?”

He freezes. Everyone else?

Although he doesn't know why, he feels himself pale completely and his body shivers. Everything in him feels cold, as if the temperature dropped, as if his whole body rejected the very idea of something he was otherwise only semi-wary about. He knows he had many reasons before to feel apprehensive around his former classmates, given his past transgressions during his time as a Remnant and theirs, but this feels... bone-chilling. Buried deep within his psyche, perhaps connected to the memories he doesn't have.

“What happened in the program.” He bluntly states, rather than asks.

“No one else remembers too, if that helps.” Hajime starts. It doesn't. “Even I barely remember it. Everyone has felt snippets though, things they avoid subconsciously, or they experience nightmares about it.” He wonders if Hajime has nightmares. He wonders what Hajime avoids. “It was broadcast-”

“I want to watch it.”

Hajime's jaw tightens. “It wasn't that type of broadcast. It wasn't recorded, it was just shown to Makoto and the other survivors. Besides, it's best you don't anyway. You're going to remember something about it.”

“How cynical. What if all I remember are pleasant things?” Nagito inquires, even if he knows the likelihood of that is so astronomically low. He is aware of himself. He knows being put into a situation like the Killing Game would just mean he'd have made very elaborate plans and schemes. Thinking that, a sharp pain in his abdomen sears through him, and he winces. It's a whisper of a feeling, but it felt... real.

Hajime merely lets out a defeated sigh. “I hope it is, Komaeda, I hope it is.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Throughout everything, this was the last thing he thought about. 

The scars. 

For the longest time, he forgot about the scars. For the briefest of moments, his complexion wasn’t completely covered by raised bumps, of angry red tissue, of the careless abandon from scientists who dissected him to fit their molds of perfection. 

And now he’s left looking into the mirror, tracing. His fingers feel the ridges. He remembers the scalpel digging into his eye, even if he didn’t feel the pain of it. He looks at the angry lines along his muscles, his thighs, and he knows with certainty it can be traced down to his feet, the bathroom counter being the only reason he can’t see the reflection of it. He remembers exactly what they forcibly fused together, being haunted by the ghosts of the sutures that were once there.

This is who he sees looking back at him.

…Mikan cleans the glass away from his fist.

[He could’ve done it himself, but it would’ve been a messier job, much like with anything else he would try nowadays.]

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Hajime is out training with Nekomaru, alongside Akane, and casually working out with them.

Nekomaru points out the bandages that suddenly replace his glove, and he waves them off. “Just an accident.” 

After a decent workout, he starts heading back to his cabin to shower when he spots Fuyuhiko to the side, relaxing against a wall.

“Hey.” He greets.  

“Yo.” The former yakuza head nods.

They watch those on the beach, a tall orange blurb chases after a red one, their laughter filling the air as suddenly they're jumped by an even louder multicoloured blurb cackling with mischief. He can hear Hiyoko's distant cursing while Mikan rushes over, fretting. He snorts.

Fuyuhiko crosses his arms, a smile on his face at the scene. “Can’t believe we get to have this.” 

“I know.” He agrees. He’d do anything to ensure everyone here stayed happy like this. Speaking of, he has to make sure to check on the next shipment of supplies afterward. He refuses to have those Future Foundation workers anywhere near the Island otherwise. But first, shower.

He's about to leave when-

“What’s with the bandages?” The former yakuza asks.

He contemplates lying. The last thing he wants is for everyone to start worrying about him. As if aware of his thoughts, Fuyuhiko sends him a particularly scathing glare, menacing even with the eyepatch. He fesses up immediately. 

“I punched a mirror.”

“Why?”

“My scars-” He starts. 

Fuyuhiko quickly interjects. “There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“Part of me understands that, but I look at them and just see…” Hope's Peak. The Hope Cultivation Project. The Remnants of Despair. He squeezes his bandaged hand. “...bad memories.”

“Yeah, I feel that.” Almost subconsciously, Hajime glances at Fuyuhiko’s scar, hidden behind black cloth. Fuyuhiko meets his gaze, unflinching. “I hate thinking about having that bitch’s eye in me.”

“How do you do it?” How do you look at yourself in the mirror? How do you live with yourself? How do you not hate yourself? 

“Being a former yakuza, scars were symbols of respect. This scar?” He gestures to it. “It’s a reminder I’m not some psychotic fuck anymore under that bitch’s heel.

I know I’m not you, Hajime. I don’t have the amount you have. But know that your scars show that you’ve survived, and you’ve made it out the other side. That’s admirable.

And ain’t nobody here went through the type of shit you did. We all look up to you. You’ve had this whole thing on your shoulders. Nobody thinks you’re damaged goods with those scars. Hell, we think of them as a reminder that you’re the strongest out of all of us.” 

“...Thanks, Fuyuhiko.”

“No problem. Now you should go take a shower, you smell like shit.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Hajime waits in front of the screen. In no time, Chiaki's grinning face pops up. “Hey Hajime. It's nice to see you. How're you doing today?”

They talk amicably. Even though she wasn't his former friend, the reminder of her AI was comforting, and in the few pleasant dreams he had, he remembered her presence (and in the worser ones, he remembered her death).

“-There's a call for you by the way, I think. It's from Makoto.” He nods. “Thanks Chiaki.”

She patches him through, and he finds it so striking the difference between now and the tentativeness from the beginning, back when they were still establishing Jabberwock Island. Signal seemed daunting, and they (him, Makoto, and Byakuya) were still trying to get Chiaki's AI booted back up. He remembers when they first suggested she try to call the Future Foundation (particularly Aoi, since Hajime refused to have the new Future Foundation head or some random member appear on the screen, since he'd contemplate breaking the nice monitor in half from sheer rage). “It's not what I’m programmed to do,” Chiaki had said, “but… I can try.”

Of course, Makoto and himself exchange pleasantries and talk for a bit, but then it derails into... less pleasant topics. “I'm hoping to finish up the layout for Hope's Peak.”

He tightens a hand over his glove, pursing his lips. “Makoto. I’m glad you want to reclaim yourself, but Hope’s Peak? Really?” He hisses, and Makoto sighs, as if they had this same argument over and over again. 

They have, by the way. Relentlessly. He is NOT getting over this, not by a long shot. He already knows how much Makoto invested into the project, but he’s still of the very firm belief he should’ve invested zero. Of course, he wouldn’t taint their rare ability to chat with one another about it, but he isn’t above reminding Makoto if he brings it up, just to be petty.

But being TRAUMATIZED WATCHING YOUR FRIENDS GET MURDERED is one of the many valid reasons for having absolutely NO interest in seeing the place that tortured him, everyone he cares about, Makoto, everyone Makoto cares about, and basically THE WHOLE DAMN WORLD, come back to existence. 

He loves Makoto, he does, and he knows Makoto’s a good guy, but… 

The idea of Hope’s Peak not being some fucked up breeding ground for hope and despair? It doesn’t seem possible. Part of the problem in the first place was the idea of pitting students against each other, forcibly defining people's significance based on whether they had “talent” or not. As well, they really sucked at developing talented people's talent, giving arbitrary assignments (from what he heard) and no actual practicality applied. He would know. His body is literally littered with their failure.

And the Future Foundation providing a substantial amount of the funds for this project? Hajime has no doubt in his mind that there’s something underlying their generosity. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It's looking to be another sleepless night, despite the weight under his eyes begging for relief. Hajime just stares at the ceiling. He feels the body beside him shift the bed, creaking it ever so slightly, and in his peripherals Nagito faces him. Nagito has always been a bit of a restless sleeper (not that he blames him), so he isn't surprised to hear him ask, “What’s on your mind, Hajime?”

He sighs. “I’m just worried about the whole Hope's Peak idea.”

“You don’t believe in Makoto?”

He quickly flips onto his side to frown at Komaeda for the sheer idea. “I believe in him, I don’t believe in anyone else.”

“Well, I can’t help but feel a little hurt…”

“You know how I feel about you.”

Nagito hums. “Do I?” He smirks. “How do you feel, Hajime?” 

Why is he turned this way again? He flips back around, ignoring the way his ears start to warm up.

“...Shut up and go to sleep already.” 

He hears Nagito chuckle behind his back. It settles eventually though. Ah, Nagito finally went to bed.

“You know,” Nagito's voice pipes up, still awake after all. His voice sounds a little whimsical, as if nearly about to sleep. “I don't necessarily disagree with you. I thought it was a place of great hope, and the fact it's being run by the Ultimate Hope is quite amazing. But...

There's you. And the hope in you has been shining so brightly this whole time.”

He freezes. Did he just-?

The words spark something in him. As if they sounded familiar.

He gets a rush that tea- nor even caffeine back when it did anything for him- has never achieved. When he eventually does sleep that night, his dreams are pleasant.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It's one of those rare instances Makoto lands on Jabberwock Island and can say hi to everyone. They meet at the small restaurant on the Island where Hajime prepares some tea for himself. He offers it to Makoto, who takes it gratefully.

Much like their video chats, the start talking about what's currently going on when Makoto- once again- mentions Hope's Peak.

Hajime lowers his cup.

“I'm going to be reinstating talents at Hope’s Peak.”

His fingers clutch his glove. He digs them in, sharp and quick, his lips immediately pulling down into a frown.

“Did… someone force you to do this?”

“Uh, no?” Makoto averts his gaze. “I’ve consulted with basically everyone since you’ve started getting me a little paranoid…”

“You should be. The Future Foundation doesn’t deserve you. You’re way too good for them.”

“They're trying to change.” Makoto states, with not much conviction.

Hajime hums skeptically. Sure they are. “Just watch out for yourself, yeah? Because the first thing I’ll do is leave this island just to kick their asses. I don’t need an Ultimate to make them into ragdolls.”

Makoto chuckles, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “...You must’ve practiced that.”

“Being around Fuyuhiko and Akane tends to give you some badass lines.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It starts like a regular day. Things break, people fight, problems arise, he deals with it. When he sees the broadcast, he doesn't know how to deal with it.

“Oh, Makoto's on TV. How exciting.” Nagito mentions offhandedly, as if it was something as casual as the weather. It decidedly is NOT. Is Makoto okay? Why would he be broadcasted? Is this another...?

“-ing Hope's Peak,” He catches the tail end of. “In this world, there's nothing more important than banding together to fix the Tragedy that occurred. Rejoice with me as your new headmaster. Alongside the Future Foundation, we'll bring forth a new hope together!” Hajime cringes, and cringes hard. This doesn't sound like Makoto at all. The Future Foundation logo is the last image of this blatant ad, what the fuck, but he's seen enough.

He knows exactly how to deal with this.

He strolls into the new Future Foundation headquarters (although that may be underselling it). Instantly, upon seeing him, people start shrieking and running. Red lights blink in and out. He brushes it off. It’s the last of his damn worries right now.

He's rushed by armoured guys. He suddenly feels like he should've thought this through, but he continues on. He slips himself into the old Remnant persona like an ill-fitting jacket, paired with a little Ultimate Actor prowess. “Let me through or I'll make sure your families have nothing to put into a casket.” Okay, not his best work, but it's enough for them to back off. They watch him. He even hears one guy cowering in fear from behind. It's that which allows him to catch the guy's arm and dislocate it. Everyone jumps at the sudden violence, and the guy screeches.

He knows it's fixable, but he still feels bad. The mask he wears threatens to slip, but he keeps going until he gets to the new Future Foundation head. (Hajime met her before through a forced video call, with them threatening to interfere at Jabberwock Island if he wasn't capable enough. “I am Sumiko Hatanaka,” they introduced themselves. “Ultimate Administrator. Given the circumstances the Future Foundation is currently in, I have become appointed as the temporary replacement head provided my previous experience and commitment to my work.”)

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.” He sneers.

“How are you here?” She asks. “What are you doing here?”

“That wasn’t my question.” 

He sees a sheen of nervousness across their forehead, but they don't let up their frown.

“Why are you here, Hajime Hinata, Remnant of Despair?” 

Why is he here? Why is he HERE?

“What gave you the right to use Makoto for some ad for Hope's Peak? What the hell are you doing, exposing him further to the public? Do you know what this could do to him?”

“I assure you, I have no vested interest in letting a valued employee be defaced in any way, shape, or form. His mental faculties are highly important to this company. Meanwhile, you are jeopardizing the very people you wished to protect by coming here. Was it worth it?”

He growls, “Leave Makoto the fuck alone, or I’ll remind you why I was a Remnant.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Makoto’s Hope’s Peak is in full operation. He doesn't know if he'll ever visit. So instead, Hajime is left pondering the future, and living on the Island with the rest of his classmates.

He genuinely hopes nothing bad will happen, but...

He wouldn't bet that it won't.

[cdyssey]

Wreck

Summary: When Melissa's nana dies, Barbara is there for her.

CW: Death Discussion; Heavy Grief

AO3 Link

Melissa smooths her to-do list across her kitchen island with trembling fingers. Having been folded and unfolded several times over, marked upon profusely, tossed into her purse, crammed into her back pocket, unceremoniously stuffed into her bra at least twice, and probably stained with some cheap Chardonnay that her kid cousin picked up from Dollar General, the tear-out from a yellow legal pad has certainly seen better days.

But, hey, that’s nothin’ special.

She guesses she looks like a shit piece of paper too, all crinkled and creased, smudged and barely fit for perusal anymore.

Someone load her ass in a garbage truck and cart her off to the dump because she’s a wreck: fucked up, overwhelmed, annihilated, undone.

She doesn’t even feel like a human anymore.

Her nana died just around two days ago now, passing from the world about as peacefully as one could dare to imagine for a woman who’d been sick for the last ten months of her life. It was quiet in the end, as simple and as easy as falling asleep after a long, hard day. And the doctor-on-call promised that the sedative he was giving her would ensure that it was painless, which was a relief perhaps only because everything else leading up to that day had been so goddamn painful: the sickness, the waiting, the wrenching, bone-heavy grief.

(It was entirely possible to grieve someone who was still alive—to look at their utterly wasted body and understand that what was left was just a tangible echo, a breathing ghost.)

Melissa held her bony hand during that last hour and told her that it was okay to go—she’d be fine—and it was the first and only lie she’d ever told that saint of a woman in the entirety of her life.

She didn’t exactly ask forgiveness for doing so either.

She thought that if God knew anything about mercy, He’d understand and grant her this one sin: comforting that comfortless woman.

Nana had been ready to go, of course—sure, yeah, absolutely—she had known that it was her time for far longer than any of her headstrong relatives had been willing to admit. But she was so scared too: scared of leaving all her loved ones without their resilient matriarch, scared of their eventual (and perhaps inevitable) in-fighting, scared of a fractious future that she wouldn’t be around to mend with a homemade ziti dish and warm, jam-filled pie. She made Melissa promise—over and over again, ad infinitum—that she’d keep the Schemmenti clan together long after she was gone.

“Family’s all that we’ve got, Melly,” she once said. In the same way that Joe was the only person to call her Lissa, Nana was the only one to ever know her as Melly. It was a bit childish, maybe, but Melissa didn't mind. She always felt like she was twelve again when she was in her grandmother's presence: gap-toothed, impertinent, a hellion in patched overalls. “You gotta swear to me, on your Papa’s grave, that you’ll always remember that—no matter how balorde some of your aunts and uncles can be.”

“Nana!”She’d belly laughed at the time, bracing her hands on the edge of Nana’s steel-basin sink. They’d been in the kitchen together, as they so often were, peeling russet potatoes for her famous gnocchi recipe. This was at the very beginning of those long ten months when they both thought she just was just having bad arthritis flare-ups, perhaps. Her doctor was supposed to call sometime in the next few days with the results from her most recent labs...

“Those are your kids. You can’t just call ‘em stupid.”

(Even if it was expressly true.)

“Yeah, I can! I pushed them outta me, every one of ‘em eight or nine pounds a pop! Apple doesn’t fall far from the bush is what I say!”

It was the kind of statement that only her grandmother could pull off, something that made her want to snort and cry at the exact same time. She was outrageously funny, that stout, little woman, but she never seemed to think much of herself, especially when it came to education. She had to drop out of high school to work and help her parents raise their endless passel of kids, and then, before she knew it, she was poppin’ out little redheaded Sicilian Catholics of her own—Melissa’s own ma included.

Nana was so proud of her for making it through college and becoming a teacher, telling her as much every opportunity that she got, and constantly bragging about her accomplishments to her canasta group. She’d known how hard it was for Melissa at times.

Reading had always been a little challenging for her.

Taking exams could be a goddamn nightmare.

“Would you quit flippin’ saying that?” Melissa had rebutted, both exasperated and fond all at once, attempting to discipline her smirk into a reproving frown. “You’re not dumb either, Nana. Alright? Capito?"

She was the smartest person Melissa knew, high school diploma or not, for education was far from the same as intelligence in her book. There were plenty of eggheads out there with degrees coming out of their asses who didn't know how to haggle for the best cuts of beef or stay clear of certain Philly streets at night or change a flat with a crying kid on one hip and three more bouncin' around in the car. Before she had ever decided to become an elementary school teacher, those sorts of things were her only measures of how clever a person really was, and her grandmother had been the golden standard of them all—competent in a world that could be so arbitrary, needlessly complicated, and cruel.

At this, her sweet nana suddenly smiled, her dark eyes warmed by the golden light leaning in from the window above the sink. It was a sad smile and a profound one—the kind that little, old ladies always gave in the movies before they up and died, kickstarting the next act. It was accompanied by a slow shake of the head. She had her green rollers in; they shivered in time with the movement.

“Good God, I love you, Melissa,” she had murmured softly, each syllable laden with a certain gravity, as though she already suspected something about her health that Melissa didn’t, as though she had an inkling of what awaited her in the coming days, weeks, and months upon godawful, medicine and machine-filled months. Maybe Melissa should have known then herself—by that rare usage of her Christian name, by the way her stubborn-as-hell grandmother didn’t argue back—that something was horribly wrong.

But she hadn't.

Just ten months and some spare change ago, it was impossible for her to fathom a world where her nana wasn't in it.

She just accepted that love, basked in it, took it for granted even, and now, a little less than a year later, as she pores over a checklist of all the shit she’s gotta do to bury that precious lady—(so much, too flipping much)—she racks her exhausted brain and wonders if she’d said it back that time.

I love you too, Nana. 

Of course, she’s said it about a gazillion times since then. Never left a conversation with the woman without doing so in case it was their last. But all the times she didn’t reciprocate those three words and every other missed or botched opportunity besides tangibly aches her chest, pounds upon it, like fists against an awful drum. Missed calls. Canceled lunch dates. Squandered chances to ask her about her storied life. The endless thank you she didn’t give that woman for practically raising her.

It’s irrational, of course, so goddamn stupid; she loved that woman endlessly and proved it in a thousand different ways.

But even still, what she wouldn’t give for one last tomorrow with her to tell her again and again.

Unbidden, unwanted, totally out-of-line and out-of-the-blue, tears threaten to spill over Melissa’s lashes and onto that yellow paper that’s already been to hell and back. She furiously swipes them away with the heel of her hand, doesn’t have the time to cry.

She’s still gotta call the Social Security Office and get Nana’s checks to stop comin’ through the mail. And after that, she has to take Joe’s suit to the dry cleaner ‘cuz her useless lump of a husband keeps forgetting. And when she gets back home—at who knows what time because she’s really gotta stop at the store and grab a few necessities—she desperately needs to go through Nana’s files again to see if she’s got that damn burial policy in there somewhere. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to pay for the service and the cremation out of pocket, even if she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the funeral director, who can only get them an okay deal, which is fine.

It'll help, or at the very least, it won't hurt, but the crux of the sordid matter—the bottom line at the end of the shitty day—is that dying is so freakin' expensive.

“Fuck,” she groans, sliding her hand down until she’s palming her mouth. “Shit.”

No one ever talks about how the aftermath of death is just one cold bureaucracy after another: files, papers, tasks, and duties.

It’s unbearable.

Melissa alone has to bear it.

Her ma’s gone. Her remaining aunts and uncles are fragile. Her cousins aren’t any good with this kind of organizational crap. Her own goddamn sister’s been AWOL ever since the diagnosis, and the rest of her younger siblings haven’t done jack squat either.

It’s up to Melissa.

It always is.

That doesn't change just because someone she loved died.

The responsibilities simply take up the same air as the grief.

Just as she’s about to get started, though, reaching for her phone to start looking up numbers, her one saving grace walks in through the arched entranceway of the kitchen. Elegant as ever in a floral print blouse and black slacks, a plastic bag hanging off one arm, her comically huge purse on the other, is none other than—

“Barb,” she croaks, overwhelmed and overcome, weak-kneed with a relief that she just as immediately tries to hide. Vulnerability utterly terrifies her; it is one of the few house guests that she doesn’t know how to capably entertain.

“You don’t… y’know, you don’t have to come every day.”

But her best friend unfailingly has, bringing over various dishes and groceries, helping Melissa keep track of all the shit she needs to do, and oftentimes, just sitting next to her on her plastic-covered couch and holding her hand, palm-to-palm, their ten fingers intertwined. If Melissa has known any modicum of peace in this hellish last week, it’s only because Barbara Howard has deigned to carve out some for her, offering it to her like an alm. 

God bless her—she even showed up before her nana passed away, when family and friends were just congregating in Melissa’s house, filtering in and out of the guest bedroom where Nana’s hospital bed was to say their goodbyes. And when death finally lifted Nana away—arriving as gently as a mother carrying her child to bed—Barbara’s warm arms were the first around Melissa, holding her so tightly, her lone defenses against collapsing into a million goddamn pieces on the floor.

Barbara would never let that happen, though.

She had her.

She would cradle all her shrapnel; she would salvage her from abyssal ruins.

“And you,sweetheart, know better than to think that’ll stop me,” Barbara laughs kindly, setting her purse and plastic bag on the kitchen island. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, a lovely playfulness curving her plum-colored lips. “I do as I please.”

“Stubborn fool,” Melissa chuckles hoarsely, a sudden thickness in the column of her throat. She’s always on the verge of crying over nothing nowadays: spilled wine on the counter, a sad headline on the news, smelling something in the kitchen that reminds her of her grandmother, being joked with, having companionship, being loved.

She knows that she’s been caught, too, by the way her friend gingerly skims her fingertips against her forearm.

It’s the lightest touch imaginable.

It nearly shatters her where she stands.

“Yes,” Barbara hums in gentle agreement, “that’s why we get along like two peas in an unshelled pod.”

“Hah,” she tries to smile. Her entire mouth feels like concrete. “Some pod.”

“Extraordinary peas, though, if I do say so myself,” the older woman declares with an air of finality as she starts to busy herself, pulling out a white takeout container and some utensils from the plastic bag. Even before she sees the familiar logo of a happy chef wedged in-between some blocky lettering, Melissa knows the rich, homely smell of fried chicken.

And not just any fried chicken, but—

“Danny's Wok?” Her eyebrows lift at least three inches from their exhausted lids. “Jesus, Barb, that’s all the way across town. You didn’t have to—“

But Barbara cuts her off with a raised hand, a familiar teacher pose. “But I wanted to and so I did. Now park your fine derrière on a stool and tell me what you would like to drink, girlfriend.”

“I’ve got things to do,” she protests weakly, gesturing at the to-do list still laying pathetically on the counter. She doesn't know why she's being so obstinate. Maybe it's just instinct; her immediate reaction to people offering help has always been a deep, gut-felt shame: shame that she can't do something by herself; shame that she's so weak, and someone else is stronger; shame that she isn't enough. (One of her deepest fears is that she's never been enough) Or maybe it's because she just doesn't want to think about the way that Barbara saying she had a nice ass made the contents of her stomach do a loop de loop.

“I can eat later.”

It’s not a sentence she’s said very often in her lifetime, and Barbara peers at her skeptically, damn well knowing this.

“But when’s the last time you did have a bite, Melissa? You look pale.”

“I had a piece of toast this morning,” she grunts uncomfortably, more than aware that it’s not sufficient by either of their standards. That was hours ago. According to the digital clock on her oven, it’s nearly five o’clock now.

But all truth being told, she hasn’t been particularly hungry in a while, not since the hospice worker sat her down a few days before Nana died and said that it’d be soon.Food has lost a lot of its flavor. Nausea is constantly doing laps around her digestive tract. She doesn’t know how to care about eating when this grief is taking up so much real estate in her body and never paying any of the rent.

“Hardly enough,” Barbara scolds predictably, first pushing the styrofoam tray in her direction, now shuffling towards the stainless steel fridge, no nonsense and all productivity. It's how she shows her love. “You need to put something substantial in your stomach, sweetheart. You'll be of no use to your list if you keel over on top of it."

“Okay, Ma,” she huffs, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it because she obediently unlatches the box anyway. She knows that Barbara is right, as she usually—(sometimes annoyingly)—is. 

“Ma is correct,” the older woman hums, undeterred. “Someone needs to be responsible for you.”

It's hard not to feel chastised by such a statement, as though she's being patronized—a little kid in her own damn home; she attempts a weak smile anyway. It wobbles like a tricycle across the chapped line of her mouth.

“‘Cause I’m doing a shit job at it, yeah?”

Of course she is; she's a disaster with good hair.

“Absolutely not,” comes an exceedingly gentle reply, thrown over the other teacher's shoulder, landing as gently as a kiss. “It’s just that you seem to think it’s your God-given duty to be responsible for everyone else in this world except for yourself. Let me—no, wait, I insist upon—doing the same for you, Melissa."

A new lump surfaces to Melissa’s throat as she digests this unadulterated tenderness; it’s unfamiliar to her, even after so many years of receiving it from the angelic woman standing in her kitchen. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She holds it in her like a rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour.

“It’s scary that you have my number like this,” she finally says, and it’s the type of thing that she’s not supposed to mention aloud—she knows. She’s well aware. She’s spent an entire lifetime avoiding emotional honesty like it’s a summons for jury duty. But sometimes—if only sometimes, and usually only when a hell of a lot of booze is involved—she and Barbara can transcend their mutual understanding to never talk about the way they secretly look at each other when they think no one is watching and arrive at the undoctored truth of their shared experiences.

They know each other.

They love each other.

Far more intimately than should be allowed.

Barbara freezes where she stands, shoulders squared, hand gripping one of the fridge handles; she doesn’t turn around, possibly can't.

“Well... that’s what friends are for,” she returns in a stilted voice, picking her way around each individual phoneme like it's a landmine. It’s a warning tone even, begging Melissa not to press, and so Melissa doesn’t, swallowing painfully—just as submissive as a dog and far more devoted.

The sticky moment passes—it always does. Barbara retrieves a half-empty jug of sweet tea from the fridge, and Melissa slowly legs herself onto a stool next to the island. Her feet ache—her head, her chest, her entire goddamn body—but when Barbara joins her a few moments later, having poured them glasses of tea and grabbed napkins and condiments, both of them proceed as though nothing happened at all. Melissa picks at the chicken in an exercise of politeness, tearing off a little piece here or there and trying to chew it in slow, methodical bites.

It tastes like burnt rubber.

She attempts to wash it down with her drink, but the sickly sweetness of the tea just as quickly nauseates her.

Barbara can’t keep up the ruse of not paying attention to this sad ritual for very long.

“I can make you soup,” she offers pleadingly, already halfway off her own stool. "Potato? Broccoli-and-cheese? Vegetable?" Melissa places a hand on her leg to force her to sit down again.

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” she says firmly. “I... just don’t have it in me right now, Barb.”

And without flinching or glancing away, though every nerve in her body itches to bundle her present fragility away from view, she allows the other woman to search her face and confirm this unsavory truth. She bares every line and gaunt shadow; they surely adorn the curvature of her face like bruises.

“You can only do what you can do,” the older woman replies reluctantly, as though it’s the thing she knows she’s supposedto say and not necessarily what she actually believes. Melissa almost smiles at that assessment, smug in her assurance that it's the correct one. Barbara’s never been exceptionally good at hiding her feelings. People think that she is. Hell, even Barbara herself thinks she has others fooled.

But Melissa can see right through her, all those hundreds of things that she doesn’t say, that she entraps behind those tightly pursed lips for fear of being construed as ungodly. She thumbs through the Book of Barbara almost daily—with all the reverence that such a project deserves—and her diligence has rewarded her with all the beautiful fine print.

“Advice you gotta listen to yourself, hon,” she muses fondly, patting Barbara’s leg again before finally withdrawing her hand. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me these past few days. It’s not your fault I’ve got a sick stomach right now.”

“I know,” she admits in that same grudging tone, “but still, I’d do anything to make things better for you, Melissa, to relieve the burden on your shoulders even the tiniest bit.”

She gestures emphatically at the to-do list between them with one of her manicured friends.

“It’s far from fair that you’re in charge of all this when I know for a fact that you have other family members who are perfectly capable of helping to lighten the load. For instance”—she picks the paper up, scanning it briefly—”Joseph’s dry-cleaning! Why in God’s precious name isn’t your husband doing his own dry-cleaning?”

“He’s busy,” Melissa says in a clipped voice, less offended that Barbara is criticizing her husband than she is annoyed that her friend arrived at the same question that she did so easily. “At work. Fightin’ fires.”

Spending his paychecks on booze and scratchers and God only knows what else. Sometimes, he comes home smelling like strange perfume.

The kindergarten teacher emphatically shakes her head. “That doesn’t abscond him of his duty of being a responsible adult in a time of crisis.”

“Yeah, well—” She starts to defend him and then just as abruptly stops, suddenly cornered and violently choked.

Melissa doesn’t know what to fucking say to that, if there's anything to be said at all. If she argues, she’d just be lying to herself, to Barbara, and to almighty God—an unholy trinity of delusion and willing deceit. There’s just no excusing the inexcusable, no dressing it up in rouge and calling it pretty.

She’s alone.

Oh, God—her nana died and left her.

She's got a husband and he sleeps in the same bed as her, but somehow and nevertheless, she’s all alone.

Her eyes begin to water, her breathing quickly turning shallow, as everything inside of her falls apart and implodes.

Barbara quickly places the list down again and exchanges it for a tissue that she plucks from a nearby box, reaching up to wipe the tears away. Her cool palm skims the side of Melissa’s feverish face, and the contact is so tender that it’s almost too painful to bear. Melissa reaches up and curls her fingers around her friend’s wrist like it’s a lifeline, unable to form any words, her throat throttled with vile, her stomach sick with it. And the tears continue to well, no matter how many Barbara capably catches.

She heaves out one ugly sob and then another, covering her mouth with her free hand as though that would help with the inconvenience and the noise.

(She's spent most of her adulthood trying not to be inconvenient to make up for all her loudness and her noise.)

“Oh, Melissa—” Barbara exhales, her own dark eyes filling. She continues to stroke the side of her face, holding her cheek, cradling it, cradling her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay that you’re hurting. It’s okay to feel this pain.”

“I-it’s freakin’ not, though,” she moans, the sound muffled behind her hand, the unspeakable anguish leaking through anyway. Her nails curl into her lower lip. “I… I gotta keep it together, Barb! I can’t just—Jesus—I can’t just fall apart. I don’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t—”

She can’t breathe. Surely, there’s a vice in her chest, squeezing her ribcage into mere molecules and skeletal dust. Surely, her lungs have burst, her veins, her bleeding heart, one massive supernova of flesh and gory tissue, and this moment's all she’s got left. Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds. She’s going to die right here and right now, while Nana is unburied, and her to-do list is still unfinished, and—

“You can, Melissa Schemmenti,” comes an authoritative voice from above, shaking but somehow utterly unshaken, ringing like a decree from the Lord God on High. And then Barbara’s warm arms are around her, filling the encroaching darkness with all the flowers on her shirt: sunflowers, poppies, lillies, and roses. Petals everywhere. A garden of beauty and impossible delight. “You cando this because I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go under. You hear me, sweetheart? That’s my promise to you, my solemn, unbreakable oath.”

It’s the loveliest combination of words Melissa has probably ever been told in her life; she cries all the harder, weeping her horror, half-vomiting it. Her mouth tastes like tea and salt.

“Breathe,”Barbara instructs her, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of her head. One of her hands finds its way to the hollow of Melissa’s constricted throat; she splays her fingers against it, palm resting on her chest where the divot of her shirt exposes some of her skin. “You have to breathe, Melissa.”

But it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Every hitched breath still becomes a sob, and every sob reverberates through her beaten body like a shock wave. But Barbara is patient where she isn't, a sturdy monolith when all of her vertices have become undone. She begins to rub slow, methodical circles into Melissa's sternum, perhaps modeling a rhythm that she can pattern her breathing against. As the seconds limp past, every bit as injured as she is, she learns to inhale on one revolution and exhale on another, doing this until her heart rate begins to slow again, until the tightness in her chest recedes long enough for her to rationally confirm that she’s not, in fact, dying. 

She's living.

(And after someone dies, that's one of the bravest damn things that anyone can ever do.)

Even after her pulse somewhat returns to normal, she and Barbara remain tangled together for what feels like hours, even though it’s surely only a handful of minutes.

Melissa finally lowers her hand from her mouth and twists it somewhere in the paradise of Barbara’s blouse.

Barbara kisses her head again, a little lower this time, near the peak of her red hairline.

Neither of them makes any move to extricate themselves from each other. Melissa doesn’t have the strength, every ligament in her body wrung with incalculable exhaustion. (She’s not exactly sure what Barbara’s excuse is. As secure as she is in her companion's embrace, she currently can't bring herself to care.)

“... I shouldn’t be this weak,” she eventually rasps, and it’s a confession. She’s glad she can’t see her priest’s scandalized face. “I had plenty of time to prepare for this. I’ve known forever she was gonna go.”

“As though that means a hill of beans when you loved her so much,” Barbara murmurs, now running slender fingers through her hair, the motion soothing and rhythmic, reminding Melissa of all the times that Nana had done the same when she was a small child. She briefly closes her eyes, simultaneously endeared by the memories and made sick by them. “You can’t prepare your way through grief. Believe me, girl—I’ve been there, tried that, and it went about as well as can be expected, which is to say not even remotely well at all.”

Melissa chuckles at the convoluted explanation; they both do; they laugh so hard that it almost sounds like they’re crying. She finally pulls back, wanting to look her friend in the eye, but Barbara still grips her by the arms, refusing to let her go.

And they simply drink each other in, mesmerized, tears standing in their eyes, an interwoven statue unto their own: locked limbs, glassy eyes, and a hushed silence that descends upon them like snow.

Maybe they would have stayed like that forever had one of their phones not chimed: her own, laying face-up on the counter. She sees that it's a reminder letting her know that she can take another Prozac in an hour if she needs one. If Barbara sees it—(and with the angle of the phone being the way that it is, she absolutely does)—she's kind; she doesn't say anything; there isn't really anything that needs to be said.

“Shit." She tries to wipe her face on the sleeve of her shirt. It's not a successful endeavor. “I’m a wreck.”

“Maybe so," Barbara agrees, grabbing more tissues for them both. She mops Melissa's face up before delicately attending to her own. "But you won't be forever, you know. it's a transition, not a permanent way of being."

"Doesn't feel that way," she hears herself grouse. It's petulant, a little childish even in her low voice, but it's what she feels; it's her personal nightmare of a lived-in reality.

"I know." The older woman reaches up to thumb away a new tear that has formed at the corner of Melissa's left eye. "But grief rarely ever does."

It's not an especially comforting thought, but Barbara clearly knows her well enough to understand that comforting isn't exactly what she needs right now.

She needs the truth, however ugly it happens to be, however unkind, and the ugly truth is that grief is far from fucking pretty too; it is certainly not kind.

"I love you, Melissa Schemmenti," Barbara adds quietly—in the same hushed cadence that all of their unutterable truths seem to be encased in.

It's dirty, this confession, this boundless and eternal love.

It can't ever be spoken in a normal way and tone.

"You know that, don't you?"

The pad of her thumb is still pressed against Melissa's skin, and there is such little space between them, mere inches and other inconsequential measurements besides; temptation has never been a shorter bridge to indecorously cross and just as deliciously burn. This isn't simply a tender moment between bosom friends, she innately knows, and yet, by the virtue of who they are and their relationships with other people, it can't be anything more than that either, she implicitly understands. She's married. Barbara's married. God is watching. Society is judging. Neither of them will make a move that that they can't just as quickly take back.

"I love ya too, Barb," she replies anyway, leaning very slightly into the intimate touch, as though she could pretend for a moment that they don't have to play that awful game.

Just this one evening.

Just this singular time.

They inevitably will, of course—no doubt about that.

One of them will certainly pull away, and the other will instinctively follow, and together, they will tango themselves out of this senseless mess that they have made; they will offer each other plausible deniability as their highest and most sacred form of love. But for now and until that unwelcome moment, in this fractional sliver of a shared existence and eternity, Melissa dares to rest her tired cheek against Barbara's hand as though she's allowed, and Barbara doesn't flinch like she's been burned.

Silently, they construct a mutual fantasy where they can hold each other without hurting.

Or maybe more accurately still, where they can hurt together and not have been each other's sole and ruinous cause.

"Don't ever leave me," Melissa demands a little unfairly.

It's an unkeepable stipulation.

People leave all the time—by necessity, by choice, by coffin, or in Nana's case, urn.

But nonetheless and all the same—

"Wouldn't dream of it," Barbara promises softly, and Melissa chooses to believe her.

[ivy-plays]

Welcome to Pandora

Summary: This is your first day on pandora. You will get to see new things and meet new people. And begin to get a grasp on what you will be doing for the next five years.

Warnings: Talk of Death, cussing, smoking

Italics = A memory/ dream or inner thoughts.

Quotations " " = someone is talking.

⚠️I do not own Avatar or any of it's characters. This franchise belongs to James Cam'ron and 20th century Studios Lightstorm Entertainment ⚠️

"Welcome to the avatar program."

"My name is Tommy. Tommy Sully and this is Norm Spellman. What's yours?"

" Be safe and I'll catch you Monday. "

"This is for you"

"He doesn't even have any training. He's just another thick skulled marine."

"Have a nice nap. We'll see you guys in 5 years."

"People, you have been in cryo for five years, nine months and twenty two days. You will be hungry, you will be weak. If you feel nausea, please use the sacks provided for your convenience. The staff thanks you in advance." A man in white scrubs announced, as my fellow passengers and myself floated out of our bunks and got our things from our lockers .

Grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder I close the locker and float off.

The shuttle rocks and jolts as it begins its descent on the planet's surface and a man in military gear stalks down the aisle .

"Exopack on!" The crew chief barks and I do as he says expertly slipping the oxygen mask over my face and tightening the straps.

"Remember people, you lose your mask you're unconscious in 20 seconds and you're dead in four minutes. Let's nobody be dead today, it looks bad on my report." He begins again reminding us all of the dependence we will have these masks.

I watch as he continues walking down the row before stopping to bark out "exopacks on!" To some one I couldn't quite see.

In the next few minutes we're all standing up, gear ready to go , In organized rows waiting for the hatch to open to our new home.

"I wonder if he is anything like Tommy." I hear a voice barely above a whisper say to me from behind .

I playfully rolled my eyes before replying ," of course he is Norm. There twins remember? I'm more curious about how they mean for him to be an avatar piolet if he doesn't even have any training on it. Hell, he's not even a scientist. He's a marine which is the last person we need prancing around in an avatar." I reply .

Whoever is in charge of everything here is seriously not someone interested in the science behind the program if he is sending someone with no training in, Souley on the bases of his twin brother was scheduled to be here and they didn't want to waste there money by having a useless avatar.

"Yeah you have a point. " He replied as the ship jolted one more time as it landed. " Let's just hope he picks up quick " he finished as the hatch began lowering itself .

"Go directly into the base! Do not stop! Go straight inside!" The crew chief ordered as we all began to depart the shuttle and head straight inside as instructed. As I walk across the lot I take in the amount of mining trucks and military machinery and as one rolls by I note the giant arrows wedged into the sides of the tires .

After the briefing Norm and I weave our way through the crowd of scientists and military personnel alike trying to get to the labs without being trampled alive in the narrow hallways of the base. I hold onto the straps of Norm's bag as we walk using his height as a guide and shield from those around me, before he begins to take off in a jog pushing through the crowd.

" ack! Norm slow down! Why are you rushing!?" I call out surprised as I rush to stay up with him.

Norm doesn't reply to me before I hear him call out to someone in the crowd. "Hey, you're Jake right? Tom's brother? You look just like him." He said ,I could only roll my eyes. I could see the man.Jake's face almost fall before it went back to its natural resting state.

I knew he would look some what like Tommy but he really does look exactly like him .

"Sorry, I'm Norm Spellman, and this is (yfn) (yln), we went through avatar training with him." He continued none the wiser to Jake's change in mood. Only at the mention of my name did Jake notice my presence and look at me for a few seconds seemingly studying me.

"It's nice to meet you Jake. Tommy has told me all about you. " I said kindly a small smile gracing my lips while reaching out my hand for him to shake.

Norm does the same before continuing on,"He was a great guy -- funny. It was a big shock to all of us." Jake only excels before saying an quick," yeah" before continuing to roll himself down the hall way Norm and I are walking with him.

"And duh! -- obviously you look like him. I mean, if you weren't genetically identical, you wouldn't be taking over his avatar." Norm followed up on the conversation from before.

"that's why I'm here." Jake replayed not looking anywhere but Infront of him until I asked him a question as to which he looked to me.

"so-- you wanna check it out?" I say a bit of playfulness lacing my tone.

The three of us made our way to the bio lab, it was chock full of equipment of all sorts , incubation tubes and much more. From the main room there were several adjoining rooms each one holding another price to the puzzle that is the avatar project.

As we walk up on the chambers holding the avatars a man begins talking behind us,"Me and Norm were out here to drive these remotely controlled bodies called avatars. They're grown from human DNA mixed with DNA from the natives here." He said and I turned to look at him, observing him I found his name tag stitched into his lab coat. Dr.Max Cullimore.

We watch as two shipping containers are being uncrated , the one nearest to us contents visible. An acrylic tank that reached the ceiling. From the corner of my eye I watched as Jake continued to wheel himself towards another tank following him I turned the corner to see this tank completely uncovered and inside was a fully grown avatar. Jake's avatar.

"Damn they got big " I could hear the man exlame while studying the creature in front of him.

"Yeah, they grew on the trip out," Norm responded to Jake before Turing back to Max," So the proprioceptive sims worked pretty well."

" Yeah, they've got great muscle tone. Give us a few hours, you guys can take them for a spin." Max says before walking off to check on the progress of other tanks.

The avatar rolls in the tank his face now visible to the three of us. " It looks like him." I could hear Jake mutter mesmerized by the avatar's features. I only smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder," It looks like you. This is your avatar now Jake " I say not noticing how Jake moves his head ever so slightly to look at me before looking back at Tommy's his avatar.

I had already finished my first video log. Max told us we had to log our days here on Pandora to monitor things such as our mental state and anything we discovered along the way. I now sat in a chair to the left of Jake watching him as he made his own video log.

"Is this right? I just say whatever I want?" He suddenly stops and turns to ask Norm.

"Yeah. You just need to get in the habit of documenting everything -- what you see, what you feel -- it's all part of the science. Good science starts with good observation." Norm answers before turning back to Max.

Jake turned back to the camera and continued to talk until Max stopped him," Log off. It's time to meet your boss for the next five years."

The four of us leave the desk and Max leads us down the hall to the link room. As we walked in I could feel the excitement bubbling in my chest as I looked around.

"Grace Augustine is a legend. She's the head of the Avatar Program, and she wrote the book -- I mean literally wrote the book -- on Pandoran botany." Norm exclaimed just as excited as I am to be here and excited to meet Grace Augustine.

Max looked back at us over his shoulder before whispering to us," that's because she likes plants better than people"

Were all silent until a female voice cuts through the lab "who's got my goddamn cigarette?!" She exclaimed before we saw a Tech rush over with a cigarette and lighter in hand. The four of us walk over to where Grace is sat in her chamber smoking her cigarette.

" And here she is, Cinderella back from the ball. Grace this is Norm spellman , (yfn) ( yln) , and Ja--" Max begins but is cut off before he can finish Jake's name by Grace.

" Norm and (yfn). I've heard good things about you two. How's you're Na'vi?" She asks.looking between the two of us expectantly.

"It is nice to meet you Grace " I say in Na'vi while slightly bowing my head.

"May the All Mother smile upon our first meeting." Norm said doing the same jestire as myself.

" not bad. But you sound a little formal." She said looking at Norm.

"There is still much to learn" he countered.

The three of us continued to talk in Na'vi until Max broke our conversation once more trying to introduce Jake .

"uh Grace , this is Jake s---"

Grace only turned to Jake once more cutting off Max. Poor dood can't even finish a sentence.

"Yeah, yeah, I know who you are, and I don't need you. I need your brother." She snipped before turning back to Max. I could see the irritation on Jake's face at the way Grace spoke about him, his brother.

"You know the PH-D that trained three years for this mission." She finished.

" He's dead. I know that's a big inconvenience for everyone." Jake spits out and I look at him with pity in my heart.

The man just lost his brother and got his life uprooted and they have the nerve to say he's not good enough to his face.

"How much lab training have you had? Ever run a gas chromatograph?" Grace asked Jake, taking a drag of here cigarette.

"no "

"any actual lab work at all?"

"Highschool chemistry. But I ditched."

Grace turns back to Max throwing her hands up into the air. "You see? You see? They're pissing on us without even the courtesy of calling it rain." She said before turning away and heading towards the lab exit . "I'm going to Selfridge." She states shoving past Jake his chair slightly rolling out of the way.

Max called after her but his words fell on deaf ears as Grace had already stomped out of the lab. Max turns to Jake " here , tomorrow, oh eight hundred. Try to use big words. " He said before following Grace out the lab.

@elegantkidfansoul

[danganronpa-abandoned-hope]

Danganronpa: Abandoned Hope Episode One Script

here's the script for the first episode, as promised! check under the readmore :3. Do remember that it's still a "rough draft", so there may still be some typos and unintentional grammar mistakes. please be constructive with any criticism.

Episode 1, February 13th

Mysterious voice: good morning, sir. We’re very appreciative that you’ve come to talk with us today. We understand that you likely have a very poor opinion of us, but rest assured we have no intention of harming you or your friends. W- No, won’t hurt the young lady here either. We just need your account of the events that took place. Yes we’ll be interviewing her too, so your honesty is of the utmost importance. The sources we have are flawed, some clarity is all we ask. You can provide this, can’t you?

????:: …. I… suppose ….

Mysterious voice: splendid! Could you introduce yourself before giving your account? for the record of course.

????: …. My name is Adaleus Valker. I attended the academy under the talent of “ultimate waltzer”. My talent encompassed everything from organizing events, hosting parties, and of course actually dancing. Admittedly I feel more pride in the hosting part of my talent rather than the dancing part, however the school was looking for a dancer, not a host. The talent program for my year sought to implement pairs with similar talents. I was a last minute addition; the person who originally held my talent couldn’t attend. 

Adaleus, flashback: I still remember the day before it all started. February 13th. We were snowed in so classes were canceled. That was good news to me, I never liked waking up early. Although this morning I stayed in a little too long 

???: *sounds of knocking* Adaleus you in there? It’s noon, wake up!

Adaleus, present: oH SHI *answers door* good morning Mrs Sasaki

Narration: Nozumi Sasaki, the well respected headmaster of this academy. Back in her day she was the ultimate linguist. She’s very good at her job, both as a translator and a headmaster, but unfortunately that means she’s overbearing as hell sometimes.

Sasaki: … Good afternoon. Adaleus I know school isn’t in session today but could you at least wake up at a decent time? 

Adaleus: ah… that’s my bad

Sasaki: just try to get to bed at a decent time tonight, wouldn’t want you to be groggy tomorrow 

 Narration: And with that she walked off 

Adaleus: geez, if I knew I’d get reprimanded like this I would’ve opted out of staying in the dorms

Narration: We were given the option if we wanted to stay in the dorms or not, most students opted out since it’s quite the trek down to the village, leaving only the ultimate class and the headmaster as the only people in the school dorms.

Eun: Hey you, you’re finally awake. I was looking for Sammie so we could get some lunch, wanna join?

Narration: that’s Eun Kocur, ultimate animal trainer. She specializes in birds and is currently keeping chickens and pigeons. We’re pretty good friends. Last month she dragged me along to a bird show her pigeons were competing in. They all won, of course. It would be weird if they didn’t.

Adaleus: yeah sure, food sounds good. 

Narration: we walked over to Sammie’s shared lab, passing some fellow students along the way

Eun: oh hey Umeko what’s up?

Umeko: oh hey Eun! Not much, how about you?

Narration: Umeko Ongaku, ultimate Chorist. She used to be so quiet that it was startling to hear her speak, let alone sing. Especially since she has such a deep voice. Sometimes I’d play the accompanying track for her choir if the usual accompanist couldn’t.

Benjiro: oh? who's there?

Narration: And that’s Benjiro Sasaki, ultimate instructor. One time he mentioned how he was originally going to be a teacher, but disliked small children so much he decided to go into lecturing instead. He really dislikes being singled out due to his blindness, and well kids aren’t necessarily known for their tact. His service’s dog is named Mina. Sometimes we joke about how she’s more sociable than he is. 

Eun: it’s just me and Adaleus, we’re getting lunch

Benjiro: Oh that makes sense, it’s like 12:10 right?

Adaleus: *i checked the clock on the wall* That's actually accurate. How did you do that?

Benjiro: I got a new watch

Adaleus: what? But I thought you were bli-

Umeko: it’s specifically for blind people, dumbass. The face of the watch has raised markers so that you can feel the time

Adaleus: *takes a closer look* oh that’s neat! Did you get it for him?

Umeko: yep! It was supposed to be for Christmas but it came in late. Man I’m such a bad girlf-

Eun: shhh shut up Mrs. Sasaki’s coming 

Umeko: Eep!

Narration: an air of awkward silence befell us as Mrs Sasaki walked by

Mrs Sasaki: hello

Eun: hiya 

Umeko: g-good afternoon 

Adaleus: hello 

Benjiro: hi mom

Misa: *quiet woof*

Narration: Mrs. Sasaki didn’t know that Benjiro and Umeko were dating, and quite frankly neither of them wanted her to know. She’s overbearing as is, I couldn’t imagine it would end well if she knew.

We parted ways with Ben and Umeko, only to run into someone else.

Maricella: hey hey hey Adaleus I gotta talk with you for a sec

Narration: Maricella Tai, ultimate knitter. It’s rare to see her not working on a project, and even rarer to see her without her knitting needles. Everyone here has at least one knitted item from her, currently she’s making everyone blankets. She often jokes about how her knitting needles could be used for self defense in emergencies.

Rina: you didn’t even need my help finding him

Narration: Rina Bellerose, Ultimate Ballerina. I share a talent lab with her. Sometimes we help each other practice for events but to be honest we’re pretty distant. Quite frankly I think she dislikes me quite a bit, but it’s rude to assume that of people.

Adaleus: oh hi what is it?

Maricella: ok so I started your blanket and I was using this one specific shade of blue but I ran out of it completely, is it okay if I use a different shade or would you rather it stay consistent?

Adaleus: oh yeah it’s fine if it’s different. Hey maybe that could be the pattern. One shade of a color followed by a second shade repeated?

Maricella: I. Like. Your. Thinking!! Cmon Rina let’s go!

Rina: you don’t need to run everywhere you know- 

Narration: and thus the sapphic’s left as quickly as they appeared. Finally we made it to Sammies lab. I could hear the radio through the door, playing some music I didn’t recognize. Eun placed a few firm knocks on the door.

Eun: Hey Sammie! We’re gonna get lunch now

Sammie: o-ok hold on a sec!

Narration: the radio was shut off and replaced with a shuffling of sorts. Before long the long anticipated Sammie showed up.

Sammie: ok let’s go!

Narration: Sammie Usuro, ultimate tailor. He’s rather proficient at his talent, usually having a backlog of requests for outfits and fittings. Though for some reason whenever I need my clothes repaired he always gets to it right away. He broke his leg last winter break after falling off a ski lift.

Adaleus: Hey Sammie! How's your leg feeling?

Sammie: ah it’s doing fine. Doctor said that the cast could come off in as little as two months!

Eun: that’s still quite a bit of time

Sammie: Well it’s better than losing the leg due to gangrene. Let’s go get lunch.

Eun: What were you guys thinking about? Personally I could go for anything right now.

Sammie: Honestly that new restaurant down in the village sounds really good.

Adaleus: It does, but how are we gonna get there?

Eun: oh! We could take a sled down then just stay the night in town. We can come back up when school starts back up!

Sammie: Then it sounds like a plan!

Narration: we made our way to the elevator. Yes it was a snow day, and yes eating out was a Saturday thing, but dammit that barbecue place sounded really good. Unfortunately there were issues surrounding the elevator:

Simire: AUUGHRRHR OPEN UP!!!

Narration: Simire Rohim, ultimate badminton player. The winner of several awards and championships, often gone for weeks at a time to play in games. It was… very surreal to see this well respected athlete struggling with the door so much 

Adaleus: What… is he doing?

Icarus: I left my pencil case in a classroom downstairs, but the door to the elevator/stairwell is locked for some reason.

Narration: Icarus Onassis, ultimate volleyball player. He used to be just as into volleyball as Simire was into badminton, but after a season he completely lost interest in sports as a whole. Now he only plays during talent festivals and tests.

Eun: Simire I doubt shaking the door is gonna make it work

Simire: well what else am I supposed to do? 

Eun: maybe get Mrs. Sasaki and ask her to unlock the door?

Simire: oh *leaves to go do that*

Eun: Hey, do you think if we shake him it’ll get his brain to work?

Icarus: hey Don’t make fun of him behind his back!

Sammie: that’s rich coming from the king of shit talk himself

Eun: So would it be ok if I said it to his face? 

Icarus: you-

Mrs Sasaki: What's the problem here?

Simire: the door won’t unlock and Icarus left his pencil case downstairs.

Mrs. Sasaki: Oh I Must have forgot to unlock the door, my apologies.

Narration: but when she went to unlock the door, her key didn’t work anymore

Mrs. Sasaki: That's… odd. It must be the cold weather messing with the locks. I’ll call the locksmiths and have them check out the doors as soon as possible.

Adaleus: damn, so no take out :(

Mrs. Sasaki: Were you really going out to eat in this weather? There’s 100 cm of snow outside!

Eun: well why else would we have the sled?

Mrs Sasaki: that’s for emergencies only, go make yourselves something to eat in the kitchen 

Sammie: :(

Narration: burdened with an unbearable sadness, we made our sorry ways to the kitchen. 

Artemisa, holding a basket of produce: hey are you three getting lunch too?

Narration: Artemisa Spicer, ultimate food chemist. She’s somehow both the most and the least organized person I know. She always has her mask on since she's always in and out of her lab or the kitchen. She was in charge of catering a party I was planning once and she did an excellent job, despite her odd schedule.

Sammie: yeah.. Mrs. Sasaki wouldn’t let us go out to eat

Artemisa: There's like 100 cm of snow out there and you can barely walk!

Eun: yeah but like that’s what the sleds for

Artemisa: no it’s not! I’m making a bunch of soup for lunch anyways, just have some of that.

Adaleus: fiiiiiine 

Narration: we followed Artemisa into the dinning area. Artemisa slipped into the kitchen, leaving us with the other students waiting for lunch.

Gigantia: heyyy mantits McGee what’s up!!!

Narration: Gigantia Ader, ultimate Embalmer. I’m not very knowledgeable of her talent, I personally have seen enough dead bodies to last me a lifetime, but those in the field apparently respect her work greatly. Her personality however…. 

Adaleus: Gigantia we’ve talked about this… 

Fatik: can’t you go a day without harassing someone?

Gigantia: hey tits aren’t inherently sexual!

Fatik: you’re pleading your case poorly

Narration: Fatik Lemaitre, ultimate taxidermist. Again, unfamiliar with the field however they don’t tend to make people as uncomfortable as Gia. They’re often rather cranky though, especially with the bad weather recently.

Juniper: Hey, stop talking about badonkers! Lunch is ready, we made soup!

Narration: Juniper Caito, ultimate orchardist. During the tragedy they cultivated hundreds of orchards, forests, and farms. They’ve probably improved the world the most out of any of us just on the basis of food production alone. Their talent lab is full of plants, I'm surprised that Artemisa gets anything done. 

Fatik: oh what kind of soup is it?

Juniper: soup flavor

Gigantia: oh boy my favorite 

Artemisa: there’s also fresh bread in kitchen if you want it with your soup or a sandwich or something 

Adaleus: Aw fuck yeah bread!

Eun: breads not that good though

Adaleus: sounds like someone’s never had good bread

Eun: whatever 

Narration: the soup flavored soup with the bread shaped bread was very good for lunch. Eun left to go do her own thing, so me and Sammie went over to the library to hang out a bit more. Since it’s basically the entertainment center, someone is always hanging out there

Lapis: oh hey guys what’s up!

Narration: Lapis Ongaku, ultimate soloist. Almost the polar opposite of sister, he’s as loud and fun loving as anyone with the title of ultimate center of attention. He has a tendency to go off and do his own thing, which gets on a lot of people’s nerves. 

Sammie: oh we were just gonna hang out here! That’s ok right?

Lapis: yeah yeah of course! I wasn’t doing anything too important anyway, the internet isn’t working.

Sammie: oh that's odd, then what are you doing on the computer?

Lapis: playing chess against the computer and losing horribly.

Adaleus, thinking: looking over at the computer I witnessed the worst chess strategy I have ever seen play out. It was almost funny 

Sammie: Maybe you should play something else. Oh, how about we play uno? That’s easier!

Lapis: Aw fuck yeah i’m a pro at uno! You’re gonna be sorry you ever challenged me! Then I’m gonna be sorry cause I hurt your feelings.

Narration: we played cards for a couple hours, chatting with people coming in and out of the library. Eventually we went and ate dinner, which was just leftovers. Heeding Mrs. Sasaki’s warning, I went to bed soon after. Though to be honest, had I known what was about to transpire… I don’t think I would’ve gone to sleep.

✨you can now watch from Eun’s Perspective✨

Narration: Well lunch was eventful, it was fun to see Fatik throw a bread roll at Gigantia after one too many puns. Even funnier to see her catch one with her mouth and swallow it whole like a snake. Now what to do now…

Lapis: oh hey Eun! Umeko wants to talk to you

Eun: wait why?

Lapis: idk, she said it’s a girl thing, and since I am not a girl I can’t be privy to this. 

Eun: makes sense, where is she?

Lapis: she’s by her room, probably, she might’ve moved, it’s like a floor it can’t take that long to find her

Eun: fair fair, I’ll go find her

Narration: lapis was right, she was outside her room. Her nameplate is somewhat shiner than the others since they got her name wrong at first. They got a lot of people's names wrong to be honest, how hard is “Eun” to remember geez.

Umeko: oh good you’re here

Eun: Yeah, what did you need? Lapis was really cryptic.

Umeko: yeah ok so uh you know how Valentine’s Day is tomorrow? W-well I wanted to get Benjiro chocolate, but we’re snowed in, so I figured I’d ask Artemisa for help to make them! But she gets really intense when cooking so I kinda need you there for moral support!

Eun: Wait, you’re scared of Artemisa? All 165 cm of her?

Umeko: I’m related to Lapis, I know damn well it’s the short ones you need to look out for! So are you helping or not??

Eun: Well of course I am! Gotta support the gal pals even if they are sniffing cowards

Umeko: aren’t you scared of crickets

Eun: hey! they're freaky little bastards who know and resent their place in the food chain!

Umeko: yeah right, lets go

Narration: we went down to Artemisa’s lab and luckily enough she was down to help Umeko with the chocolate. I did as I promised and stayed for moral support, but unfortunately I became privy as to why Umeko had reservations about this.

Eun: hey why’d you make me put my hair in a ponytail?

Artemisa: the twin tails are unsanitary. Whenever you lean forward your hair gets into anything you’re working in, and I’d prefer it if your hair didn’t transfer germs from your lab into mine.

Eun: Firstly, domesticated pigeons are very clean animals! 

Artemisa: humans are “clean” creatures and yet food safety still applies to them

Eun: But then why didn't you make Umeko change her hair? Or change your hair for that matter?

Artemisa: because her hair isn’t long enough to warrant the concerns I have about your hair. And I don’t lean over countertops with wild abandon

Umeko: Will you guys stop arguing? I’m trying to focus.

Eun: Oh sorry! 

Narration: we finished the chocolates without much incident besides the great hair debate. I even got some of the candy as a reward! They made a variety of flavors, so there's gotta be something in there that Ben will like. Though considering his sour attitude, I can’t be sure that he’ll appreciate anything sweet.

[orienteddreamerrr]

Cal is ENROLLED at MY College, Littlerock Technical School!

(Using a fake College name for security reasons! Again!)

(Sequel to my first Reality Imagine!)

(What IF I meet Cal Kestis again, but this time we’re older and we’re in college!)

(Just made this last year…wanting to share it of course!)

(KINDA LONG!)

Rating: G for…LOTS OF FLUFF!

I was dreading for this day to arrive. Apparently, for one of my classes, I am forced to go to campus to take this Biology survey of some kind. Even though doing it at home seemed more appropriate, my professor can be very annoying sometimes. I already have my ID badge with me as I step out of the car. I close the door, waving bye to my dad as I watch him drive off. I vaguely remember what my professor had told us in the email she sent a few days ago. I think we had to go to room 143 in building K. I wasn’t counting on it but I pushed all that aside as I marched my way to the front doors of the main campus building. In the main lobby sit two women, having the jobs of being receptionists. I go up, smiling shyly as one of the women notices me and smile back. “Hi! How can I help you?”, I boomeranged the same greeting. “Do you know where room 143 is?”, I see the woman point to the doors behind me. “That is at building D…across the way from here…”, “Thank you…”, “You’re welcome!”, I left out of there, making my way to the building of building D. Along the way, I see a good amount of people outside, especially in the courtyard that I just walked by. I enter the building seeing the room numbers start in the 130s. I walk up these stairs and come upon room numbers that start in the 140s. I walk just a little further to come upon room 143! I enter the room, seeing my fellow classmates and familiar faces I only seen on screen waiting around. Just as I took a seat, the professor walks, greeting everyone with her smile. “Hi everyone! Good morning! I know this may seems out of context for a lot of you, but I would just like to see personally on how your results are on the Biology survey…so please, follow me…”, Everyone gets up at the same time as I take a look to the see the professor leave the room.

We follow her to the computer lab, with people taking their seats. I took my seat, seeing a log in screen displayed on the monitor. Thank goodness I packed my password book with me! “Okay, now, I want everyone to log on and log into our class website, and we’ll go from there…”, I hear everyone type away on their computers as I type away on mines.

*TIMESKIP*

After what seemed like forever, I had finally took that Biology survey! The professor told us this was the only time we would be called to campus. Everything else is back online. I am just exiting the building, walking down this pathway when I notice a familiar guy sitting at this table by himself. Red-gingery hair, lean muscular body, casual dressing. That can’t be. I walk over, each step feeling heavier than the last. Just as I gotten near, the guy swiftly turns around, like as if he was expecting me. He smiles a smug smile. “Stalking’s rude…”, My eyes widen, not believing at who I was looking at. It was Cal Kestis—from Golden Serria High School. “Cal? Is that you?”, I had to asl, still not knowing if it was him or not. The beard he’s currently growing was throwing me off. Cal’s smile widens as he stands to his feet to face me. “Yeah…hey Lauryn!”, Not sure how or why, but I felt butterflies when he said my name. “Wha-what are you doing h-here?”, I stuttered slightly, seeing Cal was taking in amusement of how surprised I was being here right now.

“You know me, just doing college stuff…you?”, I nod in response, gesturing out my arms. “I’m doing college stuff too…I’m actually chasing a degree that deals with office stuff…”, Cal raises his brows slightly. “Really! Huh…well, hopefully you get your degree…I’m rooting for you…”, I smile, feeling shy as I look to the ground for a moment before looking back at him. “Thanks…are you by chance chasing anything?”, Cal rubs his neck in a nervous manner as he sits back down on the bench of the table. “Just a certificate in Welding…it’s nothin’ special…”, “Cool! You’ll be done in no time…”, Cal looks up to me, smiling widely. “Heh…yeah…true that…are you about to leave?”, I look behind to see some people from my class were walking to the special parking deck Littlerock Technical School had built recently. “I mean…kinda…I’m about to call my parents actually for them to come pick me up…my dad to be exact…”, Cal stands up from the table, grabbing a hold of his bag laying near his feet.

“Well, I can take you home…if you want me to…”, Now I feel my heart start to race. Take me? Home? In a car? My parents will freak the second that they hear I’m coming home in a stranger’s car! Not that Cal’s a stranger. I look to him, scrunching my eyebrows at him. “What, you drive or something?”, Cal takes out his keys from inside his bag, jiggling them in front of me. I can’t help but smile faintly. “Hmm—can you show me…?”, “Sure, follow me…”, Cal starts to walk on ahead, with me following after him, all the way to the parking deck. He takes out his ID card as I take out mine as well to show the guard lady as she had let us through. Cal takes hold of his keys, pressing on this button to make his car unlock, with the car making a beeping sound. I stand in front of it, noticing it was a black Jeep crossroad mix. I stand there to watch Cal open the door to toss his bag inside. He quickly closes it as he comes up to me, seeing I was in a trance. He helps by knocking me out of it, nudging my arm, with my face feeling like it’s on fire.

“You gonna call your parents or what?”, “Oh! Yeah! That! Sorry…”, I quickly take out my phone, calling my mom to see if she would pick up. A few rings in my ear and she does. After the mildly irritating conversation I had with her, she becomes forthright and allows me to come home in a “familiar friend’s” car. And of course, she tells me this will be only a one-time thing. I hang up and shove my phone back into my pocket, turning around to face Cal, who had a worried look on his face the whole time. “So? What did she say?”, “She said it’s okay!”, “Alright! Let’s go…”, Cal goes to the driver’s side, hopping in as I follow after, into the passenger’s side. Just as he starts the engine, my heart starts to race a little again. I look over to Cal, who was so seemingly calm. I haven’t seen Cal in YEARS, and this is how he repays me—by taking me home. During the drive, I couldn’t take my eyes off his new haircut. “I see you trimmed your head a little…”, I see Cal stopped at this red light we came upon as he quickly combs through his hair. “Do you like it?”, “Of course! Yeah! It suits you!”, I couldn’t help but laugh at my own answer as Cal laughs along with me.

Going down the highway, I was keeping my eyes glued for the exit. At the halfway point, that’s when I noticed it. “Here! Turn here!”, Cal nods to me, making the turn. I glance around to see I was right for making that turn as I could see the side shops and the mall just down the road. I directed him a few more times until I noticed we were getting close to my home. Just pulling up and into the driveway, Cal takes out this piece of paper and hands it to me. “Here’s my number—so we’ll keep in touch…”, I calmly take it from him, trying to refrain myself from screaming. “Thanks…I’ll uh…try to text you when I can…”, Cal smiles as he exists the car, walks over to my side, and opens the door for me like a gentleman would. I step out, not helping myself as I hug on him around his neck. He was stiff for a moment, ut he was able to hug me back, around my middle. I release myself from him, smiling to him as I feel warmer than usual in my cheeks as Cal smiles back. He gets back into his Jeep mix, waving goodbye one last time as I watch him pull away and drive off, hoping I cross paths with him again. Someday!

The End!

As usual, leave a like if you did...❤️

[a-student-out-of-time]

Yes, hello, Shingetsu-san.

*Ahem* Nakamura.

I must admit, of all the people to involved with this investigation, you weren’t among those I was expecting to show.

Guess I’m full of surprises, huh?

I  wasn’t expecting to hear you’re having another kid.

I am, yes. A daughter this time.

Well, here’s hoping you’ll treat this one like an actual child.

...Nakamura, if this is your way of trying to intimidate me, you can save it. I’ve moved on from such petty and meaningless acts.

In any event, I’ve reformed. I don’t intend to carry out such a cruel experiment again, and instead I’ll be working toward improving this school.

And that involves assisting with this investigation.

Now, as soon as I can find Deguchi, we can continue onward.

...I’m afraid she’s not available.

Pardon me?

You heard me. She’s unavailable to be participate in your investigation, so leave her alone.

Nakamura, I don’t think you quite grasp the weight of this investigation-

Maybe I grasp more than I think you do. There’s a lot I could talk about with these gentlemen, isn’t there? And if not them, any of these other cops in the building.

Oh? And what exactly would you hope to discuss with them?

Oh, nothing much, just the kinds of things you and the Steering Committee were so kind to show me.

Although you’ll have to remind me of the code we used.

Code...? What code are you speaking of?

Oh, you don’t remember? Lemme see, maybe I do remember it.

It was something like...8-6-4-0-1-2-

OH! That code! That’s what you were referring to! Of course, but we changed it since last time, so there’s no need!

Ah, so you won’t need Deguchi-san’s help then. If there’s a new code, that means somebody else is in charge, right?

...Right, yes, of course.

So what’s stopping you from showing them the lab?

Unless, of course, you aren’t quite as far removed from your experiments as you’d like us to believe?

...

Very well. I suppose we don’t need Deguchi-san’s help after all.

Gentlemen, will you wait for me at the stairwell? I’ll be there shortly.

*The police leave*

Where is she, Nakamura?!

What makes you think I know? You can’t keep track of your own students?

I think you do know.

And you have five seconds to tell me where that Ainu brat is before I have you booted from the premises.

Sorry, I really have no clue. After all, I’m part of the investigation, remember? It’s my job to learn, not know.

And here’s what I know: do us all a favor and stay away from her. Otherwise, you’re going to be so wrapped up in so much litigation that your unborn child’s going to need a lawyer.

...

Very well. But I’ll get what I want, Nakamura, one way or another.

Whatever you say, Shingetsu-san.

Hey...what if we reminded people of what a wonderful parent you are? Maybe that’ll convince people you’re really on the up and up?

Yeah, Shingetsu-san, didn’t you go to jail for experimenting on your own kid or something? 

Sh-Shut up brat! You have no right to talk to me, I'll get you expelled for defamation!

What? I'm only saying what's true, or are you the type of person that hates getting told they’re wrong? Because in that case, I seriously have to wonder how the hell your parents dealt with you.

...*With a disgusted sigh, Mai marches off*

Always a barrel of sunshine, isn’t she?

No kidding.

[sebastianshaw]

(I made an Alt-Marauders winter holiday fic on the wonderful suggestion of my brilliant buddy @emmatriarchy! Credit also to @sammysdewysensitiveeyes whom I share this fic universe with and who contributed the ideas for Pyro! Characterization is a little flat/2D and a bit sappy in this but well...it’s a holiday special, that’s how it goes.)

“Is anyone here even Christian?” Claudine’s question cut through the budding discussion on-board the Marauder about what to do for Christmas on the high seas. “I was born an amnesiac clone in a lab,” Maddie said, “I wasn’t raised in any religion.” “Gran brought me up with some stories about Jesus and what,” Pyro, said,  “We did Easter and Christmas and such, but we wasn’t real serious about it. Didn’t go to church much. Don’t even remember what denomination we was. Catholic, I guess, since I got named Saint John.” “My mother and did Christmas but just gifts and stuff,” Shinobi said, “No Jesus, she was Shinto and Buddhist. “I’ve never had a use for religion,” Shaw scoffed, “Nor its meaningless rituals. I understand why ancient man marked the solstices and equinoxes and so on, it was a material event that had material benefits or consequences  for the people who celebrated it. But the winter nights getting shorter has no material meaning for me now, and nor does it even apply in this tropical weather.” “I  didn’t celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah, but I did know about them growing up,” Haven said,  “We respected Christianity and its message but didn’t practice its customs, anymore than we practiced Jewish or Muslim holidays. Of course, I hold events for children of those faiths, but for myself, no. But since my father was Maratha, we did do the Khandoba festival though. It’s a six-day celebration in honor of the god Khandoba by Marthas and Deshasth Brahmans.” “I’m kind of like Haven,” Claudine answered her own question last,  “I’m open to all kinds of things but specific to none.” She was greeted by looks of surprise. “What?” Everyone sort of hemmed and hawed, til Shaw said it plainly, “I cannot speak for the others but given your academic inclinations I assumed you too sensible for such superstitions.” “Ah, yes, all scientists must be atheists, faith and science are inherently incompatible,” Claudine crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, “You know, that’s what religious extremists think too, but when they say it, we call them close-minded!” “She has a very good point,” Haven said, “Claudine, I apologize for the presumption. I shouldn’t have made such biased assumptions.” “I guess with the things we’ve seen, it’s hard to rule anything out,” Maddie admitted, “I mean. . .I’ve been up close and personal more than I’d like with actual demons.” “Which are beings from another dimension, not fallen angels,” Shaw pointed out dryly. “Beings from another dimension does fit demonic beings in Hinduism,” Haven pointed out, “Rasatala, one of the lower planes, is the world of the mighty but cruel Asuras, for instance. But this debate isn’t over whether ancient faiths have a place in a modern world of literal gods and demons—though I’d love the continue the conversation later with anyone who would like?---it’s whether we should have a sort of celebration. Since none of us are Christian per se, perhaps something else?” “I say we should!” said Shinobi, “We’re due for a party!” “First good argument there’s been here,” Shaw grunted grudgingly. “Yeah!” Pyro said, “And since we’re makin’ it up, we can make it have any tradition we want! Building mutant culture!” “I think that sounds wonderful,” Haven enthused, “I’ll brainstorm ideas,” Claudine offered. “I guess I’ve not had a lot of. . .any kind of winter holidays in my life,” Maddie said, trying not to think of the Christmases she’d spent with Scott, “I’ll take what I can get. I like the idea of it being just mine. Or, at least, something I helped make.” Shaw rolled his eyes, “Just don’t expect me to bankroll it.” “Hey, here’s an idea,” Pyro shot out, “How about we have a holiday where we celebrate our freedom by PUTTING ALL BILLIONAIRES ON A RAFT OUT TO SEA IN A STORM?” “Sounds grand,” Shaw returned in an unfussed tone, “Be sure to make one big enough for my AND Ms. Dastoor then.” While Pyro struggled with a retort, Shinobi was already asking the real questions, “First we need theme colors! What’s taken?” “Christmas pretty much owns red, white, and green,” Pyro said, glad for a chance to extricate himself. “And Hanukkah has blue and white,” Haven listed, “Yalda has a deep shade of red as well, Bodhi day uses white or multi-colored lights that symbolize the many pathways to enlightenment, Kwanza is red and black and green, Khandoba’s festival doesn’t have an official color palette but he was said to be shining golden like the sun and have a face covered in turmeric powder, and now that I think about it,  the brightly colored flowers are most often golden yellow and soft pink–” “Pink!” Shinobi exclaimed, “That’s it! Oh but we’ll make it hot pink instead of pastel, so we’re not copying Khandoba!” “Oh I don’t think it’s copyrig–” Haven started. “And you can’t have pink without purple!” Shin continued, “And we’ll make it SPARKLY!” “Right on!” Pyro encouraged, “And like Shaw said, we’re in the tropics, so tropical flowers, eh?” “Oh, we could make fake flowers that look like the Krakoa flowers! Perfect!” Claudine put in. “How about tropical foods and drinks then?” Maddie said, “Or just, whatever we can catch. Ever noticed we never do much fishing anymore? I guess the novelty isn’t there anymore. Oh, but, unless it’s ice fishing, it’s not very wintery, and this is going to be a winter holiday. . .” “Winter isn’t the same everywhere,” Claudined reminded her, “Case in point, like you yourself said, there’s no ice here. We’re all in shorts when we go on deck.” “We should definitely tell stories,” Pyro was seriously getting into it now. “Of the adventures we’ve had the past year!” Maddie added, getting excited now too, “And hope to have next year!” “Things we’ve seen and discovered and hope to learn!” Claudine proclaimed. “People we’ve met,” Haven said, warm fondness in her voice. “Fun we’ve had!” Shinobi shot a fist into the air. Everyone looked expectantly at Shaw for his contribution, and after a moment he groaned, “Things we’ve accomplished, how’s that? Worded saccharine enough for your lot?” “Saccharine means sugary, we need pavlova!” Pyro piped up, “And a cookout with sausages! And sledding! My gran used to tell me so many stories about sledding in winter back in England where she grew up–” “There’s no snow, you fool!” Shaw said. “Oh, we’ll figure a way out,” Pyro locked eyes wickedly with Claudine, counting on the idea that she would have ideas. “So, we have food and colors and some activities. . what is the foundation though?” Claudine asked the room, “It’s not religious, so what is it about? Mutant culture doesn’t seem fair, not all of us are mutant.” “It can’t really be about family either,” pondered Maddie, “The only people here who are even related, don’t want to be.” “Can still be about who you’re with, though,” pointed out Pyro, “Found family. Well. . .no, you guys aren’t family to me, that’d be more Dom and some of the Brotherhood. . .but you don’t have t’be my family t’be important, know what I mean.” “I know exactly what you mean,” Haven said, “I think celebrating personal connections, even the ones that aren’t the MOST important in our lives—or, in some cases, people we may not be all that fond of—has its place too.” “And it’s unique,” Claudine added, “I’ve never heard of a holiday about that.” “Yeah, I mean, there’s HOW many holidays that are about family and loved ones?” Maddie said, “I think “a holiday for people you just kinda fell in with and you’re not crazy about all of them but you’re together in this for now” is a pretty relevant angle for not just us, but a lot of people.” “An untapped market,” Shaw said. “And the Krakoan flowers control the gates for traveling,” Haven thought aloud, “We’re using them for decoration. . .and we met by traveling .” “It’s a symbol of journeying together,” Pyro concluded, “We might not be together for life, or even for long, but we’re together now.” “Much to my annoyance.” “Oh shut up Shaw, it's mutual!” “Now we just need to name it,” Claudine pointed out, halting the argument in the bud as the pair—and everyone else—pondered it. “Maybe. . .” Haven said after a long moment, “Maybe, much like what we all are together—some of us family but not all, some of us friends but not all, some of us. . .antagonistic to each other. . .but not all. . .it remains, for now, undefined.” And they all liked that. Because whatever it was, it was theirs. END (Epilogue: Claudine rigged up a water-sled for Pyro!)

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

Conflicting Commanders.

Sorry for the bumpy ride. I didn’t exactly have much else to offer in terms of vehicle’s.

It’s alright. This is more discreet if anything. 

*Back in the swampy forest, Eden travels with Kaede on the back of a horse towards Shuichi and Kyoko’s last known location. Along the way, they end up passing by a familiar vehicle.

This is the buggy your friends drove in when they first met me. I told them to head in this direction if they wanted to follow the river.

So where are they? I can see some tracks, but they end here...

*Kaede walks forward a little bit, and then kneels down as she notices the iron hatch that Shuichi and Kyoko discovered earlier.

Of course...it’s underground.

...!? Kaede-! Quick, get back here!

Huh!? Wh-Why?

Just do it!

WHAAGH!?

*Eden grabs Kaede and practically slams her behind some thick roots that extrude from the ground.

What are you talking-

Oh!?

*As Kaede asks this, she suddenly sees several periscopes pop out of the ground and look around. She ducks out of cover as one turns her way.

Phew...Good call! How did you know that was there?

I didn’t. I trusted my divine eye. It hasn’t let me down yet.

Aaaalright then...

[The Tower, same time]

Hey, old man!

Kuripa Kurafto!

*Seeing Kuripa coming, Munakata turns back to the soldiers he’s commanding. 

Everyone get to the ready! We head out soon!

*The FF and Kisaragi soldiers salute and start helping one another to prepare, as Munakata turns towards Kuripa.

Do we have to take the fucking choppers? I had a big breakfast to prepare for today and I feel like I’m gonna lose it.

Hehehe...Don’t worry. They’ve been instructed to fly low. Definitely a drop someone with your strength can survive.

That’s reassuring. You know, you’re surprisingly calm given the situation...

What do you mean?

Well, I mean, this mission isn’t gonna bring back any fond memories for you...you were Celeste’s own personal zombie at one point.

AND there’s a good chance that if we fail, everyone in Hokkaido could end up as zombies too. And yet you don’t seem even remotely on edge.

...You’re wrong. I am nervous...

I’m just very good at hiding it.

Hm...

*Their conversation is interrupted as Kuripa’s phone suddenly starts ringing. He reaches into his pocket and takes it out.

It’s Akamatsu.

*He answers it and puts it on speaker.

Kaede: Kuripa? Are you there?

Yeah, I’m here with Munakata. Did you find our two missing detectives?

No...I-I mean...Negative. Army words and whatnot. 

But we DID find the entrance to the lab where they last appeared, and I’m pretty sure both of them are inside. But the whole area is covered in sensorts and periscopes, so we won’t be able to get inside without being detected.

But I have my new spear, so if you want, I’m more than happy to-

Do NOT attempt to siege the lab by yourself. Remember I told you I would send men for backup.

*Munakata takes out his phone and sends Kaede a picture of the lab scan.

What’s this?

Munakata: I just received this plan back from Taichi Fujisaki. In the supply patch I gave you is a handful of grenades.

Grenades!?

I was carrying GRENADES in my backpack!?

Kuripa: Akamatsu, grenades don’t go off until you pull the pin. You weren’t in any real danger.

That’s not very reassuring Kuripa! If any of them went of accidently, I would be in pieces right now!

Munakata: Regardless, I need you to detonate one of those grenades at the south end of the facility. It should cause a nice distraction and seal off the bomb area while Kuripa Kurafto and I storm the doors.

You can count on me Munakata.

The soldiers will have your back as soon as that bomb goes off, Akamatsu. And we’ll be right behind you as well.

Ah good. Our ride’s here.

*Three choppers fly around to the landing bay. One for Munakata and his men, and one for Kuripa and his. Kaede’s squadron takes the third.

That aside...One hell of a strike force we’ve got here. Kind of wondering if the Future Foundation are taking this seriously or if they’re just fucking around?

What is that supposed to mean...?

Hngh...

*Kuripa holds onto the chopper, ready to go inside.

Kuripa Kurafto, Kaede Akamatsu and Kyosuke Munakata.

Three people who have all fought, tortured or injured each other. Three people with a predominantly bloody history between one another, working together to lead a siege on an important Zetsubou lab.

What could go wrong?

...

...

We...We don’t need to fight anymore. Let’s just leave the past in the past, ok?

Yes, I agree.

Fine. But before we do this, there’s two things I want you to know.

And that is?

First of all...I’ll remind you that legally, I am not employed by Future Foundation. I’m doing this as a favor to Makoto Naegi.

That means not only do these soldiers not have any right or reason to listen to my commands, but I’m NOT to be held responsible for anything that might happen to them.

...

That’s not to say I intend to let them die of course. I’ll protect them with my life if I need to. It’s just that any casualties on my side of things will not be my fault, got it?

...Yes, I suppose so. And the other thing?

Akamatsu. I need you to pay attention to me.

Huh? Wh-What is it?

There is a non-zero possibility that Saihara and Bosswife are already goners. Our goal is to rescue them, but do not risk the lives of these men trying to save your boytoy.

You can focus on rescuing the captives, Munakata gets the bombs, and I’ll nab the doctor, but if things start looking bad, pull out and keep you and your men safe. Sound good?

Kaede: ...Alright...And Kuripa?

Yeah?

I KNOW what’s at stake here.

*Kaede hangs up.

...

What happened between you and Kaede Akamatsu back in the USA? I didn’t want to pry for details, but I heard about it...

We uh...We had a conflict...It...got physical...

And I’ve hated myself for it...That’s all you really need to know...

I know the feeling...

Do you...? Do you really? Does a guy like you really feel regret? Someone who’s willing to murder all of his innocent allies based on a hunch?

That’s not who I am anymore!

And back then...I was being manipulated...

What else is new? That’s all you ever do! Get manipulated by people because you pick favourites!

*Kuripa climbs into the chopper, and turns around to look at Munakata one more time.

You were the original Chairman of the Future Foundation, but you’ve spent your whole life living under the Ultimate Despair’s thumb. Be it through brain-worms, or through Chisa Yukizome.

...Krgh...

I for one, refuse to live like that. I have some people I answer to of course, but in the end...

I’m the one who decides how I live my life. So start taking notes, you old cyclops.

...

*The chopper doors close, and Kuripa’s squadron flies away.

If that was your attempt at being nice Kuripa Kurafto, then you really need to work on it...

Still...I guess you’re right...

[imjustheretofangirl003]

The familiar person sat at the counter, not even bothering to sugar and cream their coffee before downing the scalding liquid, drawing an eyebrow raise from the villain.

Shit, I knew he was resistant to heat after Boston, but that just looks miserable. He thought to himself, heart calming from the initial adrenaline of recognizing him.

He sat there alone, not even on his cell, just refilling the cup from the carafe. It struck the villain he wasn't meeting civilian friends here, or even working a low profile job.

I'm going to regret this im going to regret this I'm so-

Before he could realize, he was sitting next to the hero, attempting a friendly smile.

"Hey."

...

It went on like that for embarassingly long. One would think an arch nemesis would indulge in their enemies company only long enough to learn of a great weakness, or person of interest. But the villain couldn't stomach the idea. Something about seeing him out in person, out of costume made him seem so fragile.

And in some ways he was. The apartment the hero -we do not ask why the villain has seen the heros apartment, thank you- rented was a dump, and the landlord did nothing to fix anything. For all his cunning and brawn the hero did not have more than a high school degree, if that. And so he became a bit of a maintenance man for him. See? No odd reasons at all.

If he was being honest, he liked this new routine. The hero never caught on, since the villain wore a full mask and voice modifier as his trademark. And, whether he knew it or not, the hero benefited from this situation as well, with the villain being careful not to hit a limb he mentioned was sore, or let fights go too late in the night if the hero worked the next day.

It was all going peachy until the villain screwed it up, because of course he did.

Reluctantly, he had agreed to a team up with a much more violent villain, and things went down hill from there.

The power this rogue held destroyed more than the villain ever did. He considered himself a more, theatrical villain. At some points, it felt like he was fighting the rogue himself, attempting to redirect attacks to less populated areas. One of these attacks having completely shattered his voice modifier. He was careful not to speak, until he couldn't anymore.

Things had gotten messy too fast, all he remembers is looking up from the ground at the exhausted hero looking around for the rogue. The shattered display in his mask quickly calculated the next hit would be from behind, and directed at his head. Shit. Not even the hero could survive that, and he knew it.

It was coming too fast.

He wasnt seeing it.

Someone had to do something.

Somebody anybody just-

"MOVE!"

He didnt realize he was even the one who screamed until he saw the simething click in the heros eyes as they locked on him amongst the rubble. The hero moved at the last second and for a second the villains heart soared, until he realized the projectile was now in a direct path to him.

The villain didn't have time to curse before he felt himself yanked into the air by his metal collar, feeling the rattle in his bones at the explosion just beneath him. Craning his neck, the heros face was nothing but stone, showing no drop of emotion at what assuredly, must be a pretty dramatic reveal, if he says so himself. Plopping him down on a nearby rooftop, the hero only hesitates a split second before taking off at a speed the villain had never seen before to take care of the rogue.

...

"Why did I think he'd come" the villain grumbled, sitting two rooftops away from their usual diner.

It was closer than he shouldve been, but he couldnt help it. He peeked back into his binoculars, a drastic step down from his usual technology, mostly because his helmet lay useless at his side. He didn't bother going back to the lab to fix it after the fight.

It didn't seem as important all a sudden.

He waited another moment before uncrossing his legs and standing, doing what has become his new signature, grumbling and pacing.

"Stupid stupid stupid stupid- ARGH!" He kicked his helmet across the rooftop, not noticing it stop abruptly until the figure spoke.

"Is that any way to treat something you own, didn't your mother tell you to treat things with respect?"

He regreted the yelp that escaped his throat at suddenly being yanked out of his own thoughts, face burning with embarassment. He grabbed for his cape, backing away slightly, feeling incredibly ridiculous in full costume without his mask, with the hero in nothing but civilian clothes in front of him.

"I-I swear I wasn't here to start a fight, I-I just wanted to... to see.." He felt himself hit the wall before he realized he'd backed himself into a corner, with the hero still walking his way, shattered helmet tucked under his arm like some kind of sportsball.

"To see if I'd still show up?" The heros voice was quieter, as if trying not to spook a wild animal, but not for a second patronising. The villain nodded, and hung his head, only for the hero to gently lift his chin and point to another building the opposite side of the diner. He was confused until he explained "I was waiting for you too, the only reason I saw you was when you stood up to do your pacing." The villain felt his face heat up at that.

"A-Ah...." he cleared his throat. "I'm uhm... sorry about today. Things got out of hand I-I never should've agreed-" The heros shook his head, cutting him off.

"You saved my life today. You have been for a while. I couldn't pin down what had changed between us. Why you suddenly would have a malfunction or end fights early" he laughs, and it sounds like bells "I never in a million years it was because you were my diner boy!"

The villain felt himself try to tuck into his collar, heart racing as fast as it did that first night he heard a very familiar voice.

'My...?' His thoughts lingered on the simple adjective.

The hero looked him over, and offered a smile. "Do you... have a place nearby you can change? So we can talk over coffee?"

He mulled it over for a moment before hitting a button on his suit, causing it to reorganize and contract to the size of a lunchbox, taking it and the busted helmet, flushing once more as their fingers brushed, and stashed both in a corner on the rooftop. The villain turned, dusting off the purple lasercat sweatshirt, and looked up at the hero expectantly.

"R-Ready" he offered after a moment, the hero just shook his head, muttering "diner boy" before scooping him up, much to his surpise.

"Hey wait woahwoahwoah I don't do flying!" The hero gave him a quizzical look.

"You have a high tech hoverboard"

"Yeah! That I use with my suit! That has altered gravity so I dont get motion sick!"

The hero snickers, not trying very hard not to, and set him back down, walking toward the fire escape instead.

"Cmon then Mr. Delicate Stomach." He turns and smiles as he holds the rail. "Please, come explain that to me over your four sugars two cream coffee."

The villain cant help but keep up with the banter that has always felt so natural between them. "Says the one who practically drinks gasoline! Diner coffe is bad enough as is, but heaven forbid you add a little sugar in your life!"

The hero laughs, and the villains heart feels light as they follow him down, chatting like old friends as they meet in their diner, once again.

A villain nurses their loss in a quiet diner when an equally tired person enters, and orders a coffee in a very familiar voice.

[missspringthyme]

January 23rd, 2024

Another thesis meeting today that I was NOT late for. Fuck yeah! Small improvements!! In fact, I was early!! This meant that I had to stand awkwardly outside my supervisor's office because he was in a meeting, but hey at least he saw that I was early. I'm also doing a fantastic job at putting together some very cute business casual outfits, absolutely love playing professional dress up and I finally feel like I'm finding a style that makes me look put together but not like a little kid wearing their parent's clothes.

I got to see the EEG lab for the first time today, and when I was in there my supervisor mentioned that if we wanted to observe on a high-density session that we could do so. I put a reminder in my calendar so that I could ask him to sit in on a session at a reasonable time. Otherwise, I would absolutely forget.

It took a while to get things set up in the lab because nothing was working (ha, gotta love academia) but testing is done in this sound proof booth. There's a camera inside so you can sit outside the booth and observe or give directions, but for this study we will sit inside with the participant. While the door was open I kept looking at the screen that showed the live feed from inside the booth, because it meant I could see myself fully from the back. It's wild how rare it is to see yourself in ways that are normal for others. I'm already such a slut for mirrors, but oh boy was that a trap. I kept reminding myself to look away so that my supervisor and the greek girl wouldn't notice how entranced I was.

When I used to act, they have to take a recording of the silence in a room for editing, and that means a room full of people barely even daring to breathe while a guy stands very seriously with a boom. I wonder who was the first person to realize that they needed the silence from a specific room during sound editing, it must've seemed a bit odd to do the first silent room recording. Anyway, one movie that I did we took a silence recording right before a scene where I was going to be asleep in a bed while "my mom" had this big emotional moment and sobbed next to me. So we were all in the bed, and I was doing my best not to rustle the sheets or squeak the mattress, but I vividly remember this moment because it was the first time I realized how heavy and uncomfortable true silence can be. The recording felt like it stretched seconds into years and all I wanted to do was have it end. To yell or clap or whatever other noise that would cut through this thick jello. Being in the sound booth is like that, but at least with the experiment running or people talking it goes away. I got to try the mobile eeg on, which was fun, and then we got sent home with them to mess around and figure them out.

We had dnd that night, so I put it on former Italian roommate and third culture Australian and let them look at their brain waves. Of course, they didn't really know what they were looking at, but I just kept saying "That's you! That's what you are. A collection of electrical signals!".

DND went well, they liked the backstories and spent 1 hour of real time with the halfling shop keeps I created called Pimmy and Pizzy. German American's boyfriend was visiting so I offered to have him control authentic australian's inner demon. This resulted in him losing most of his money and acquiring all the bullshit items at Pimmy and Pizzy's stand. He and German American also immediately wanted to risk it all with the deck of many things, and neither of them pulled very well. I think I'll have to implement more opportunities to gamble in the future. French girl is leaving to go back to Paris soon, so I'm trying to make her last few in person sessions as fun as possible. Although I really thought they would get further in the campaign than they did this session. C'est la vie.

[despair-to-future-arcs]

What is it Hisako?

Well I remember coming into the office on the 18th and when I did, I saw a recording along with a few others...

And can you tell me who those others are?

I think it was Mr. Tengan, myself, Mio and Gozu; That's as far as I remember that morning...

...

...

...

Date: July 18th, 2017

*Hisako walks into the meeting room*

ugh... I guess I'm still not over that hangover, at least Katsuo and Otoha aren't here...

So this is what you found sir...?

I did, it was in my office and when I play the audio, Kyoji Nakamura - one of the doctor's working with Class 77 and Hajime Hinata reveal they are Ultimate Despairs.

Wait are you serious? Can you play it...?

Hey what's going on - did something happen?

Ah, Mrs. Yasuda - apologies that you had to come in, was your morning well?

It is but I just walk in and hear you guys talking about Class 77 and Hajime Hinata being all Ultimate Despair, right?

Yeah, in fact mr. Tengan found it in his office just this morning and brought it here which he's going to play it right now.

Indeed, not sure of the other audio but I think the person wanted to remain anonymous...

*Kazuo press the button and a conversation plays out...*

???: So you say that those from Class 77-B and Hajime Hinata that is under the care of Makoto Naegi and the rest of Class 78 are Ultimate Despair?

KYOJI: Ye-Yes, they are... I mean, you guys did let them take care of them as they are around the same year, right? Well except for my boss but she usually is in her lab, making medicine...

???: I see, so do you plan to inform Future Foundation about this given that Future Foundation was going to kill all Ultimate Despairs no matter what?

KYOJI: Heh, I was pretty much inform by Makoto and Kyoko to not say anything about it,...whoops, I let that slip, didn't I? Pl-Please don't say anything about this to Future Foundation!

???: Oh of course not, I'll keep my lips seal...

*CLICK!*

Wait so those guys are Ultimate Despair?!

And Makoto is keeping quiet about it? Isn't he the Ultimate Hope, I thought he was working for Future Foundation to help with Ultimate Despair!

Indeed but maybe he had his reasons given the order, correct?

Well Kyosuke mostly gave the order but regardless, we might as well see for ourselves...

Mr. Tengan, if it be alright; may I come along with you? I feel you'll need protection given we don't know how they'll react.

Same here as well, I think I want to see this for myself, I mean if they are Ultimate Despairs you 2 need back-up.

That would be preferable, thank you both - Hisako, can you stay here and inform the others?

Of course sir, just... be careful...

Now let's go and take care of this... *the trio left together*

'Moments later, when the other heads of Future Foundation came in and Kyosuke called Kyoji about the recording and was going to reward him suddenly...'

*Kazuo was carried by Guzo, he look to be cover in blood while Gozu was holding his own wound which Mio was holding him up*

Gu-Guys, the Ultimate Despairs - they... THEY ATTACK THEM, HURRY SOMEONE HELP THEM!

...

'It was the last thing I remember before Kyosuke declare they all be killed instantly and you guys fled...'