#I don’t want to get kicked out of the zine I’ve already asked for too many extensions because I’ve been sick and busy and tired from work

[tariah23]

My tablet is acting up all of a sudden while working on a comm, please god, I have deadlinesnssnan pls don’t do this to me rn

[gayenerd]

This interview was the cover story for the 17th issue of Jaded In Chicago. It was conducted in September of 2004, several weeks prior to the release of American Idiot. It was a fitting end to the fanzine that was named after the band, as “Jaded In Chicago” references Green Day’s 1994 MTV concert special. To come full circle by interviewing the band that inspired the zine’s moniker was somewhat surreal.

With the release of American Idiot, Green Day has transcended punk rock. By crafting the first punk rock opera and fashioning what is likely the first tasteful concept album of the new millennium, they’ve provided pop punk bands everywhere with a blueprint for how to mature gracefully. Additionally, as much as American Idiot is about innovation, it’s also a return to the fundamentals of punk rock. The album sears with dissent, takes aim between the eyes of the Bush administration and contains a dangerous sense of unpredictability. It’s been ten years since Green Day was the most popular band in the world and with any luck American Idiot will allow them to recapture that title in no time. (Interview with drummer Tré Cool).

Bill – Before we talk about American Idiot, I wanted to discuss the infamous “lost” album first. About a year and a half ago, you guys recorded what was to be the follow-up to Warning, but reportedly the master tapes were stolen. What can you tell me about what happened?

Tré – We just knew that if it ever came out, we couldn’t do any of those same songs on the actual record. If somebody puts it out, like crappier versions of the songs, it’s going to totally ruin it. Plus, it happened right around the same time that Billie wrote the song “American Idiot” and most of “Holiday.” We were in the middle of working on those songs, so we just decided not to look back and we kept going forward.

Bill – I’ve read that you feel American Idiot is “maximum Green Day.” Why exactly do you feel this way?

Tré – Well, because we’re firing on all cylinders, ya know? Everything about even just being in the band now feels so right. Everything from the recording process to the live shows to our ambitions. This might sound kind of dumb, but even the clothes we’re wearing during photo shoots. It’s more together like a band.

Bill – People are certainly expecting this record to be political, but I think they’re going to be surprised when they hear how you really go for the throat with some of the lyrics. Examples of this would of course be the title track and also the breakdown section of “Holiday.” What are some of the main reasons why you’re so pissed off with this country?

Tré – It’s more like confused and jaded, if you will, (laughs). The bombardment of bullshit, fake news, like Fox News and CNN. All the reality-based shit that’s on television, stuff like Fear Factor that the government is using to keep everybody like good little sheep and not asking too many questions. It’s like how if a cop hears you use the word “terror” it basically means he can take any normal American citizen’s rights away from them. A cop can do that at his or her discretion if they think you might be a terrorist or whatnot. The whole Patriot Act. It’s like do we actually have any rights after all? We don’t have the right to a proper election, we already found that out. The fabric of our government right now is basically just made out of one hundred dollar bills that are drenched in oil. As far as this upcoming election goes, I know that John Kerry is extremely conservative and he’s nowhere near the liberal we need in the White House to clean up the mess. However, he’s not George Bush. Kerry’s money is in ketchup. Bush’s money is in oil and blood. I’d choose ketchup over that, (laughs).

Bill – How do you hope people react to these songs?

Tré – I hope they can look past the strong language and go into the meaning of it. I hope they realize there’s a bit of sarcasm. I hope they don’t feel that we’re telling them what to do. We’re just sort of pointing the fingers at ourselves, saying like “I don’t want to be an American idiot or I don’t want to be a part of this bullshit.”

Bill – Talk about the character called “Jesus of Suburbia.” What sort of journey does he embark on throughout these songs and what made you choose this type of format for your songwriting?

Tré – The album is sort of like a timeline of his life. Depending on where you’re at with your life, you probably fit somewhere on that timeline yourself. Whether it’s the “Holiday” party stage, or the “Give Me Novacaine” drug stage or the “Extraordinary Girl” being in love stage; all these different stages in life show that what paths you choose will inevitably lead you somewhere. It’s not necessarily the happiest ending in the world, but it’s pretty realistic.

Bill – Are you at all worried about some of your fans possibly being alienated by the two nine-minute rock operas found on the album?

Tré – I don’t think they’ll even notice they’re nine-minute songs. They’ll think they’re a bunch of short songs put together. It’s definitely short attention span theater. It’s not like Wilco, where they have a ten-minute song with the same drumbeat and the same chord progression. Not saying anything bad about Wilco, they’re a fine band. They’re great to relax to and drink iced tea to, (laughs). I think we’d get bored doing that. We just sort of get to the point, say what we want to say and move on to the next part of the song. The way the energy flows in the songs is sort of like the way America is now too, just so scattered. There’s a big misrepresentation of how we feel in this bullshit climate right now.

Bill – One of the most important topics you address on this record is the American media. Specifically, how it perpetuates fear amongst the public and does little to question the President’s follow-through on his promises. Do you think the average American is aware of how the wool is being pulled over their eyes?

Tré – No, not at all. Say you see some guy driving down the street with a Bush/Cheney sticker on his Chevy S-10, beat-up truck with a pair of flip-flops hanging off the back. I want to ask him, “Why the fuck are you a Republican? What’s in it for you, dude?” Bush isn’t doing a thing for those people. He’s not helping them get a better truck or put food on the table. He’s not going to give them a tax break. Republicans don’t care about you. They’re not going to try and help you in any way. They just want to use you and get your dead peasants insurance once you’re gone.

Bill – Tell me about the upcoming club dates that you have scheduled where you plan to perform American Idiot in its entirety. Who came up with the idea and what are you looking forward to most about it?

Tré – I’d credit Pete Townshend with the idea. We’ve always admired The Who and their lack of inhibition as far as going for whatever crazy idea they had. As crazy as something like Tommy was when it was just a small idea, compared to what it’s become now, it’s pretty insane. They did A Quick One, where they played that live. That was a quick one, but ours is an hour. Basically, we just want to kick The Who’s ass. I listened to Who’s Next yesterday, which a lot of people are comparing American Idiot to. We totally got them beat. I’ve always aspired to be as good of a drummer as Keith Moon and I think I’ve fuckin’ passed by him on this record.

Bill – Roughly ten years ago, Dookie was released and went on to sell over ten million copies and become one of the most notable albums of the ‘90s. A decade later, I think you’ve constructed in American Idiot what is arguably your strongest record yet. Is there anything specific that you hope American Idiot accomplishes?

Tré – Yeah, I think it’s about time that people think of Green Day in a different light. We’re not snot-nosed kids anymore, we’re men now. I want people to think of us more as one of the mainstay supergroups of today. I’m not asking for too much, (laughs). We’re superheroes in our own minds. We think we’re really cool, why doesn’t everybody else?

Bill – What was the weirdest thing about being the biggest band in America in 1994?

Tré – I don’t think we really had time to enjoy it when it was happening. We were just trying to pay our rent and be able to make records for the rest of our lives. We didn’t know anything like that was ever going to happen. It sort of freaked us out a bit, but at the same time I was kind of busy just moving and doing it. We didn’t have time to look back since we were doing so much. By the time we had taken a break to make Insomniac it was like, “Do you guys know what you just did?” We were like, “Oh…shit.”

Bill – Earlier this year, Thick Records released the Out of Focus DVD, which featured live Green Day footage circa 1992. What are some of your favorite memories from playing at McGregor’s in Elmhurst, Illinois?

Tré – Demetri. Demetri was this male stripper that came onstage for some girl’s birthday at McGregor’s one night. They had her sit in this chair and the stripper did his thing for her. It was fuckin’ hilarious. In the middle of our show too. We took a timeout and let her get her strip on. I think that was the last time we played McGregor’s actually. I remember seeing State Street and I remember taking acid in Chicago. I remember going to the lake and wondering why all the fish were dead. I was inside Buckingham Fountain too. It was real hot out and I got in there during the Blues Fest. There were like a million people down there, but just one in the fountain. Of course this cop was like, “Get the fuck out of there! What are you thinking?” I was like, “I don’t know. I’m fried, dude.”

Bill – Do you have any comments regarding the rumors connecting members of Green Day to the mysterious band known as The Network?

Tré – The only connection is that their record was on Adeline, which is a label run by Billie Joe’s wife. That’s a few degrees of separation if you ask me. I think they’re getting a lot of mileage out of telling people they’re Green Day or pretending to be Green Day. The Network is not Green Day. Bastards.

Bill – Growing up I know that bands like the Ramones and The Who were very influential for you. What’s it like to now be one of the biggest influences on an entire generation of punk bands?

Tré – It’s kind of wild. Especially when younger bands meet you and they’re all nervous and stuff. You sort of get a little paternal with it, like “Ah…my children.” I feel like Michael Landon from Little House on the Prairie.

Bill – What has been the hardest part about achieving all the success you’ve attained?

Tré – I think you can pretty much choose what you want to deal with. You can choose for it to be difficult or you can enjoy it. It’s kind of up to the person.

Bill – After seven albums, what aspects of punk rock are still fresh and exciting to you?

Tré – I like seeing new bands. Bands that aren’t carbon-copied pop punk bands. Bands like Dillinger Four fuckin’ excite me. I think the Rock Against Bush compilation is a pretty damn good CD. There are some older bands on there that are still going strong and some younger bands that are real fresh and exciting too.

Bill – What does the future hold for Green Day?

Tré – I think whatever we put out next has got to be really fuckin’ good. After American Idiot we set the bar so high. It’s kind of like, “Now what are we going to do?”

[myghostmonument]

13xReader: Inhibitions

Notes: I’ve been writing a lot more “canon” pieces recently (non-readers, posted on my ao3), but it feels nice to go back to my fandom roots, so to speak, and finish off some requests like this one! Each style has its own challenges to work through, and it’s fun to move between them and keep things interesting. I plan to keep writing for both, so no worries to anyone who prefers one over the other. This is, as always, gender-neutral for the reader, and is also border-line a disaster!reader fic, a loose characterization style created by the incredible @lilaccoats​ that I stole bc she loves me 

Summary: The Doctor takes you and the fam to a trendy bar, promising a night of relaxation and fun. Shenanigans ensue when you maybe-not-so-accidentally get a little too inebriated. 

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, drunkenness, hangovers, mentions of vomit, and attempted assault. It’s more an uncomfortable conversation than anything, and nothing graphic happens, but please be warned!

WC: 7500 please don’t look at me like that I just picked at it to unwind as I worked on my zine piece and it got entirely out of hand honk honk goes the clown mobile 

The decision to go to a bar had been Ryan’s. That alone, that the destination had been picked during his turn, ought to have been enough forewarning; it seemed that whenever a trip went sideways, it almost always fell on Ryan’s turn (or the Doctor’s, but you and the others excluded that data — her choices were always catastrophes and not worth including in the risk analysis amongst yourselves).

But faced with the usual question of “where and when to next?”, Ryan had requested a bar, and the Doctor had delivered. You had landed on an asteroid, which according to the Doctor was the location of a top-notch bar, situated along a very popular intergalactic trading route. It was certainly busy, as you all left the TARDIS in an alley and approached the sleek, shiny building; there was a short queue to get in, but people — aliens and humans both — congregated in clumps around it and as you moved through the line and entered the bar, you even looked up and noticed people on the roof.

“So,” Yaz said, propping a hip against the bar counter and taking in the sights. “This is where the great Ryan Sinclair works his magic.” She let her eyes rove around the noisy crowd, and grinned over at Ryan. “You feeling right at home then?”

Ryan shot her a scowl, his hands shoved firmly in his pockets. “Ha ha,” he said. “This is not what I had in mind when I suggested drinks.”

“What?” The Doctor asked, looking around at him. “Really? I thought I did all right.” She put her hands on her hips, surveying the crowded, noisy bar.

“Well I think it’s great Doc,” Graham said, already perusing a menu with interest. She beamed at him.

“Thank you, I try my best,” she said. She had her hands in her coat pockets, something that usually indicated she was being (or feeling) cautious. In this case, you thought she was merely trying to avoid knocking into anyone, or any drinks; the bar (if that’s what it was, it did seem more like a sort of club) was packed with people, and it would be all too easy to hook an elbow or bump a precarious drink.

Yaz and Ryan were still bickering, and although you generally enjoyed wading into those sorts of things, a menu caught your eye and you pulled it closer. You could read it, thanks to the TARDIS’ help, but translation could only go so far.

“Are these all alcoholic?” you wondered aloud, frowning at something listed as a Greyhound.

“Are they even all drinks?” Graham added, and you glanced up with a smile, knowing he was hoping for food.

“I think so,” the Doctor answered, moving over to you. She reached over to pull your menu towards her, and her sleeve brushed against your shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, still standing very close. “Sorry Graham, all liquid.” She didn’t actually sound all that sorry, you noted. Graham obviously noticed it as well, because he gave a theatrical sigh.

“Every drink has an inebriation agent of some sort,” the Doctor continued, scrunching her nose. “Different sorts for different races and species, this is a very diverse bar.”

“Are they all safe for us?” Yaz asked, also crowding your shoulder to look at the menu.

“Y-e-s,” the Doctor said slowly, followed by an “actually no,” and an eye-roll from Yaz. “Well, sort of. Depends on what you mean by safe. Humans are common enough here, but some drinks will still have a stronger or weaker effect than they would for their intended consumer. They’re coded, see?” She flattened her (your) drink menu on the counter and pointed. “This is the symbol for human, with standard colour rankings. Green means intended for you, yellow means it will have less effect, and red more.”

“Get in,” Ryan said, and you knew without having to look that he was perusing the red-coded drinks.

“You don’t want to try a Red,” the Doctor said sternly. “It could have any number of effects.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Ryan muttered, and then it was Graham’s turn to bicker with him while you and Yaz  scanned the menu.

“How do you think we order?” you wondered, after deciding to try the Greyhound, which was coded green. Yaz had decided on yellow-coded drink, which cited a lack of alcohol. Its kick came from the flavor combination and carbonation, apparently. Yaz’s particular choice sounded disgusting, and you were very much looking forward to watching her try it.

“Yeah, I don’t see a barkeep,” Graham added, craning over the counter and apparently done with trying to persuade Ryan to make good choices. “Though I suppose you might not be able to pick one out from this mess.” It was true; though you were congregated around a counter, there was no discernible life-form keeping tabs or otherwise running it, and the crushing ebb and flow of the crowd was a confusing riot of clashing voices and species. Over it all thrummed the heavy beat of music, alien but still somehow recognizable as upbeat and catchy. You had the distinct sense that this was a trendy bar, and wondered how the Doctor even knew about it.

“It’s simple,” the Doctor said, and she bent over you to again point at the menu, her arm resting against yours. “You see this bit here? You press it with your finger, then press the box next to the item you want.”

“How’s that work then?” Ryan asked dubiously.

“It’s DNA activated,” the Doctor said calmly, as if that were in any way a normal thing for a drinks menu to be. “We were all scanned when we walked through the doors, didn’t you notice?”

“Did we notice the DNA scanners in an alien bar filled with aliens?” Graham asked. “No, must have slipped my mind Doc, no idea how I missed them. ”

“Well,” the Doctor said loftily, “you were scanned. So order your drink like I said, and it’ll be brought to you.” She bent over her menu, some of her hair brushing against your face. You sat very still, swallowed, then reached for a menu and dragged it towards you (seeing as how your own had been commandeered.)

After some consideration you ordered your Greyhound, and it arrived in an interesting, fluted sort of glass, delivered by a waiter. The drink was a pleasing sanguine colour, complete with a wedge of fruit on the glass rim. The whole effect was quite good, too, which was more than Yaz could say for her yellow-coded drink, which she almost choked on. You didn’t deign to try it after that, but Ryan and the Doctor both made a big show of tasting it and being subsequently horrified. Graham, equable as ever, took the abandoned yellow in hand and sipped it serenely, something the rest of you took in with an impressed sort of horror. The Doctor drifted away shortly after with no drink of her own, which wasn’t too surprising; you rarely saw her ingest anything more than a taste of food or drink before flitting away, like some sort of overgrown and absent-minded hummingbird. Ryan and Graham wandered off too. You lingered at the counter with Yaz for a while, as she ordered a new (and improved) yellow-coded drink. You found your own glass empty, and after some hesitation, shrugged and ordered another Greyhound. It hadn’t been too strong; you simply felt warm, and bright. It was nice. Second drinks in hand, you and Yaz decided to do a circuit, it was dark and loud and you were quickly separated in the swirling crowd. No matter, you thought cheerfully, as you took another sip. You’d catch Yaz up eventually, no doubt. The music was blasting, and you unconsciously matched your footfalls to the beat, feeling it warm and sizzling in your blood along with the drink. You tipped the glass in your mouth at the end of the song, and were surprised to find it empty. “Well that’s rude,” you told the empty glass, which flashed  in your hand in a thoroughly unimpressed manner. You pivoted in the press of bodies around you, trying to find a free table and a menu. You needed replacement drink, seeing as how your current one was clearly faulty. “Must’ve shorted me,” you mumbled to yourself. “Typical. Think I can’t handle my glasses - I mean, hounds. Dogs. Drinks.” You stumbled as you pushed through a group of people, but regained your stride easily enough. You even spotted Ryan in a shadowy corner, chatting with a very lovely alien indeed. She seemed to be trying to entice Ryan to dance; you wished her the best of luck. Ryan was a hilarious dancer. Not bad, but definitely hilarious, and he took some convincing. You reached a table on the edge of the dance floor, and pulled a menu towards yourself. It took you a couple of jabs to correctly order your Greyhound — your finger kept slipping. Or maybe it was the menu, actually. “Faulty drinks, faulty menus,” you complained to the room at large, leaning back against a pillar as you waited. The people swirling around you were difficult to focus on, and you wondered suddenly if the room was tilting — surely the room itself wasn’t faulty! “Have to get the foundations checked,” you informed the alien server who appeared with your drinks. They gave you an odd look and vanished. You reached for your drink, but paused, hand outstretched as you considered the not one but three glasses set before you. Two Greyhounds, and one that was something else, a smaller, opaque glass. The liquid shimmered in a very interesting way indeed, and it was difficult to look away. Well, perhaps they had brought you the extra drinks on the house, in order to make up for all the faults you’d been uncovering left and right. You stumbled as you pondered this, which as far as you were concerned was proof enough of the foundational flaws; you were, after all, standing still, so what other reason would you have to stumble? Unbelievable. You reached for the Greyhound, but your hand paused, then changed course halfway through and grasped the smaller, shimmering cup instead. It was very light in your grip. You tasted it and stumbled again; it had hit your tongue with a wallop, your entire body was fizzing with a bolt of what must be pure electricity, there was no other possible explanation. Everything around you was abruptly brighter, louder, richer. You blinked, fascinated. “Not too many humans can handle their reds,” a voice said next to you, and you set the cup down with a thud, squinting as the alien next to you came slowly into focus. “You usually so squiggly?” you asked him, and he titled his head, dark eyes moving from you to the half-drunk cup, and back again. His smile flashed in the low light, and for a moment it was all you could see, becoming somehow the brightest, sharpest thing in the room. “It’s a curse,” he said, and you nodded sagely, taking another sip. His eyes followed the cup, and his smile sharpened. “Could cut myself on that,” you observed. “Teeth,” you added, when he looked confused. Perhaps he was drunk; it was ridiculous how many people couldn’t hold their liquor! “Want to try?” he asked, and his hand was on your arm. You weren’t sure when it got there. “Excuse me?” you said, loftily, aiming for a bit of the Doctor in your speech. You thought you did quite well, but the alien didn’t look as annoyed as anyone on the receiving end of one of the Doctor’s questions usually did. Rude. “Do I want to try what?” you asked belatedly, and realized that you were being towed towards the dance floor. When had you made that decision? Time seemed to be leaping ahead and then stalling out in great lurches, and everything was fuzzy and dull. You felt the glass taken from your hand, and were vaguely surprised to find that it was empty again. Another faulty glass? Really? You might have to register a complaint. “Not a lot of humans here,” the alien said, and his hands were on your sides, moving you to the music. People pressed all around you, bumping your shoulders and making it difficult to get your bearings. Your shoes squelched on the slightly sticky floor as they moved. You wanted to stop and see if you could get the room to stop spinning so much, but the hands on you kept you in motion. The alien was speaking again, close to your ear so you could hear him over the din. “You come here alone?” he asked, his fingers warm against your side, and tight. You tried to pull back to get a better look at him but he kept you where you were.“No,” you said, blinking as you tried to orient yourself. Your eyes kept sliding in and out of focus. “Came with m’friends.” “And they left you all alone, to drink a red?” he murmured, and his grip tightened. He was pulling you across the dance floor; the light was fading, and you realized all at once, as you moved into a more shadowed section of the room with only the gleaming crescent of his smile visible, that you were actually quite drunk, and didn’t know where any of the others were. “Should - should get back to them,” you tried to articulate, and he laughed, one of his hands sliding lower. “You’re right where you want to be.”  You stiffened, and tried to pull away. “No, I want to find my friends,” you slurred, jerking back. He held your arm, and pulled you into him in a great twirl, and suddenly your back was against a dark, slightly sticky wall. He loomed over you, one hand still vise-like on your arm, the other pressed against the wall by your head. He smiled down at you, except it didn’t really look so much like a smile anymore, but just a lot of very sharp, gleaming teeth. Your face was very cold, and you wished the room would stop spinning enough that you could push him off and find the others. “I could be your friend,” the alien said, his breath fanning across your face, his hand sliding lower again. The hand on the wall touched your hair, curled a lock of it musingly through his fingers. “I just love red-drunk humans, all alone and lost and looking for a friend to help them.” You struggled again in his grip, and this time he let you go. You lurched sideways along the wall, falling against the corner in a heap. You thought you should feel sick, but you only felt annoyed, and cold, and something else, something like confusion that was tipping towards fear. The alien lifted you back up, hands on your arms, then pressed you back against the corner, his weight against you. Annoyance flared and you tried to push him away. “Let go,” you ordered, but he only laughed, touched your face. “You don’t want to be alone right now do you little Red?” he asked. “I’m sure that’s true,” a new voice interrupted. It had a familiar, lilting cadence, but you didn’t recognize the sharpness to it, or the way danger simmered beneath the surface. The alien didn’t glance away from you. “We’re busy,” he said, touching your face again. “Find your own —” but then he was ripped away from you in swirl of grey fabric and flashing eyes. You swayed, then jerked back as hands touched you again, but — “It’s okay,” that voice said, “it’s alright, it’s me,” and you recognized it this time. The Doctor tucked you against her side and you inhaled that familiar scent of tea and vanilla, and it cleared your head a little, enough to let out a shaky breath. “He’s being - rude,” you told the Doctor, your voice muffled as you glared at the alien. “Yes, he is,” she answered. Her voice was still light, and soothing, and you weren’t able to see the way she was looking at him.  He scowled, gaze darting from you to the Doctor and back before making a dismissive sort of hand gesture and melting into the crowd. The Doctor stood very still for a moment, and you all you could hear was the thunder of her hearts. She let out a breath, then turned you. Again you found your back against that wall, only the hands on you were gentle, and cool. The Doctor touched your face as she looked at you, and that was better too. “Are you okay?” she asked, and you wondered at the appearance of that crease in her brow. She looked dangerous, in the half-light, but her hands were still so light. You nodded, and suddenly her grip on you was tight as she kept you from toppling over. “Wouldn’t - leave me alone,” you told her. “Rude.” “You already said that,” she observed, removing one of her hands to fish in a pocket for her sonic. You blinked at her, swaying on your feet as she ran it over you. She read the output and exhaled. “Tell me you didn’t drink a red.” “I didn’t drink a red,” you repeated dutifully, and watched as her entire face scrunched up in exasperation. It was nice.“You’re so pretty,” you informed her. It was important that she knew in that moment how pretty she was, with her face all scrunchy and the flashing lights making a halo of her head. “So pretty. Too pretty.” You stumbled, and again she caught you. “Okay, I think it’s back to the TARDIS with you.” “Says who,” you slurred, even as she steered you away from the wall and towards the exit. “You’re not — you’re not the boss of me.” “I certainly am,” she muttered. “Especially when you’ve gone and had a red, and I explicitly told you it was a bad idea.” Her grip on your arm was firm and cool, and infinitely preferable to the alien’s. The other alien, that was, because obviously she was alien too. So many aliens! “You’re the best alien though,” you mused aloud, and she darted a quick look at you, tongue poking briefly out of her lips. You liked that quite a lot. You wanted her to do it again, in fact, but she had drawn her lips back into a thin line as she watched you. She steered you towards the exit, but the crowd seemed to have doubled in size, and she was forced to shove her way bodily through the dancing, yelling patrons. A much larger person staggered into her and she grunted as she took the blow. “I think I hate bars,” she said, her voice all but inaudible over the din. “That’’s new. Maybe.” Someone else knocked into her, and the force was heavy enough to jar your arms from her grip. She receded from you in a blurry tunnel of light and sound, and then it was just you, pressed between strange bodies on the dance floor while the music thundered through your bones. Huh. Almost everyone was taller than you, and you had no idea which way the exit was, or the Doctor. You didn’t care much about the exit, but it’d be good to find the Doctor; you had felt less…. fuzzy, when her hands had been on your arms, and more like yourself again. And also she was just so pretty. Wandering in a blurry haze of music and voices, you began to wonder if maybe you might locate another drinks menu. You weren’t so sure about another red, but it also didn’t seem like quite as bad of an idea as it had an hour ago. That was interesting. Weaving and stumbling, you tried to push through the press of bodies, and had made a little bit of progress when — — hands, there were hands on you again — You lurched sideways as you tried to bat those hands away, but there was nowhere to go, the wall of people bounced you back, and the lights were flashing and people were shouting and there were hands on you again — “ - alright? Hey?” The hands succeeded at spinning you around, and a person loomed out of the crowd. Two things followed in short order: you recognized Yaz, and you threw out a defensive fist. They didn't happen in the optimal order, however. “Oi!” Yaz cried, dodging your fist and catching it in her own. “It’s me, what the hell?” She was still sliding in and out of focus, but you were aware of the fact that she was quite pretty too. "’M sorry,” you told her, wondering why she was pulling away from you. You hadn’t actually hit her, after all. Had you? “Sorry,” you repeated, swaying.She was peering at you, her hands firm on your arm. Her eyes were very dark, but they reflected the dancing lights all around you and you blinked, fascinated. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously. “Absolutely corking,” you slurred, proud to remember the phrase you had heard Graham use (and Ryan mock) earlier. You weren’t sure why it made Yaz look so alarmed. “Yaz — oh, good —” The Doctor popped into your view as she squeezed between two dancing aliens who took no notice of her, which was probably good because her expression was quite stormy indeed. She still looked quite pretty. How’d she manage that? It wasn’t fair. “Doctor,” Yaz said, turning, “I think something’s wrong —” “Someone decided that they should have a red,” the Doctor said, grim. “I also had two - three - I had - greens!” you told them both, proud. Yaz’s look of alarm deepened, and it was so comical that you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. When that did nothing except make her and the Doctor’s brows both snap into synchronized, angry little v shapes, you only giggled harder. “Right, TARDIS,” the Doctor said ominously. “Yaz, can you find Ryan and Graham and let them know?” Yaz nodded and between one blink and another, she had vanished again. “Just like magic,” you told the Doctor, wondering why your lips were numb. She gave you a swift, searching look, her eyebrows still angry little vs and her tongue still poking between her lips. “Come on,” she said, wrapping a cool hand around your wrist. The contact was steadying, and very nice. She kept you close, clearly not wishing to be separated again as she towed you towards the exit. “Don’t want to go,” you told her abruptly, and you couldn’t hear your voice over the crowd and the music. You didn’t even know why you said it; it wasn’t true, strictly. You still felt like you could fit in another drink or two worth of fun, but you didn’t really care where you went, not if the Doctor was with you. Even if she looked so angry as she glanced back over her shoulder. She had heard you, evidently. She had very good hearing; you and Ryan and Yaz had been working on an experiment to test the limits of it, but hadn’t put it in action yet. Someone bumped into the Doctor hard and she grunted, but her grip on you remained iron-clad and she pulled you closer, actually folding you into her arms to protect you from the jostling crowd.“This is not what I had in mind,” she muttered, her lips very close to your ears as she spoke. It was nice, and extraordinarily distracting. “Do people actually enjoy these places?” “Ryan does apparently,” you said, remembering him chatting up that pretty alien. “This was his idea wasn’t it?” the Doctor mused, moving again and pulling you with her. You were still very close. “I don’t suppose we’ll be letting him choose the next adventure. Ah. That’s better,” she added as she stepped out of the bar and into the night, towing you with her.  A blast of cool, humid air hit you, wrapping around your body and cooling your cheeks. Even though the bar itself had been fairly dark, your eyes still relaxed as the flashing lights fell away.The Doctor let go, and the sobering effect of the night seemed to pull back, a little, as if you’d lost your anchor. The world tilted around you, the stars overhead wheeling and dancing. It made you feel a little bit sick, but it was also beautiful. The Doctor was talking, and you struggled to focus.“Think we parked just over there, yeah, must’ve. Let’s go — where are you going?” The last was delivered with an air of extreme exasperation as she turned in time to witness you bolting away. “I want to be colder,” you told her as you stumbled through the night. You were on pavement (alien pavement, anyways) but in the distance you could see the shadow of what had to be trees (alien trees) and maybe some grass (alien grass). You wanted nothing so much as to lay down on that grass. The Doctor’s protests followed you as you reached the tree and hurled yourself down at the cool earth. Well, not earth. Whatever passed for earth here. What was dirt on an asteroid called? A shadow fell over you, blocking the stars, and you turned your cheek in the grass to look up at the silhouette of the Doctor, hands on her hips, stray hairs blowing in the wind.“You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” she said. “You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” you replied cheerfully, and even though you couldn’t see her expression very well in the darkness and swirling stars, you could feel the scrunched-up scowl she leveled at you. “Come on,” she said, and her voice was exasperated but her hands were gentle as they lifted you off the ground. Gentle again, as they caught you when you stumbled sideways. “Careful, now. Come on.” “Don’t feel - so good -” you told her, and it was true; the fuzzy, warm glow was fading and the whirling of the stars wasn’t so much aesthetically pleasing as it was now sickening. “I expect not,” the Doctor muttered. “What could have possibly possessed you to drink so much? To drink a red?” “I didn’t mean t’ order it,” you defended yourself. “It was just - just there.” “And you drank it? Something you hadn’t ordered?” the Doctor demanded. “Surely you know not to do that!” “Just trying to have fun,” you mumbled, guilt rising up in you alongside the nausea. “Just wanted —  didn’t mean to — I wasn’t —” “Okay, it’s okay, I know,” the Doctor said, her voice softening. She shifted you against her as she spoke, and you realized she was fumbling for the TARDIS key. The blue box was humming at an almost inaudible frequency, but you could feel it moving through you bones, cooling your blood, steadying you. “Thanks,” you said weakly, patting a hand on the wood as the Doctor steered you through. The interior slights dimmed as you came in,  and it was a soothing balm on your eyes and raw nerves. “She’s spoiling you lot,” the Doctor muttered, but you could hear the fondness threading through her voice. “She likes us,” you thought, or maybe said. The Doctor made a soft sound, not quite a word, and you weren’t sure if she’d heard you. Weren’t sure if you’d spoken. “Okay, try and eat this,” the Doctor said a few moments later. Or maybe hours, you still weren’t entirely sure how time was progressing. Her fingers brushed your lips as she placed a fizzing sort of tablet on your tongue, and you realized all at once that your lips weren’t numb anymore, but blazing with sensation. “Swallow it, it’ll help,” she added. You blinked, looking into her face, so close to yours. There was still that furrow by her eyebrow but she didn’t seem angry, anymore. Not like she had with she’d stared down that rude alien. Her eyes were bright, glittering like the star field outside of the bar. “Too pretty,” you complained, then promptly choked on the tablet you had forgotten on your tongue. “Swallow,” she repeated, placing two fingers on your mouth. Your breath hitched, which did not help the choking one bit. You did, at least, in the midst of the resulting coughing fit, manage to swallow the tablet,  but it burned and your eyes streamed as you blinked at the Doctor. “Good,” she said, placing fingers under your chin. Her touch was somehow both cooling and blazing, comforting and so very distracting. You made an indeterminate sound, and her eyes flicked to yours, a brief touch, before flicking over your face. “That should kick in soon,” she said, dropping her hand. “Is it — gonna cure me,” you asked, and the breathless quality to your voice was due to the lingering affects of drunkenness, surely, and not the Doctor’s touch. She snorted, pushing hair out of her eyes.“It’ll speed up the process, burn the chemicals out of your system faster,” she said. “And it’ll make for a quicker hangover.” She fixed you with an amused look. “Quicker, but not easier. You’re in for a fun night, I think.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on the couch. You regretted it at once, as your head spun and your stomach roiled, but the drama of the moment had dictated.“I didn’t mean to,” you complained, shutting your eyes as the lights spun around you. The spinning didn’t stop, in the darkness behind your eyelids, but it was a little bit better. Maybe. A cool hand brushed your forehead, and that definitely was better. “I know,” she said, and you could hear the gentleness in her voice. “Am I going to die?” you asked, not because you thought that you were — you’d been sick before, though admittedly not from alien alcohol — but it had the right flair of drama to it. It also made the Doctor snort again, and regrettably, her hand slid from your brow. “You’re drunk, not dying,” she said, and her voice was receding as she moved around the room.  “Humans and their substances, honestly.” Something was placed on your brow, cool and damp and soothing. The Doctor tucked the cloth against your head with deft, gentle fingers even as she continued to explain her thoughts on humans and all of their myriad of flaws. “You’ve never been drink — you don’t drunk —” You stumbled over the words, and felt her fingers still, then fall away from the cloth. You opened your eyes and with the room spinning and the dim light and the serious, difficult to read expression on her face, she looked as remote and otherworldly as she actually was for all that she was your friend. “Time Lords are an advanced race, we certainly don’t have the same genetic predispositions towards inebriation or the desire to attempt so,” she said finally, still looking down at you. You grunted, considering her words as they slid in and out of your head.“Didn’t answer the question,” you observed, and were rewarded with a scowl. “Hm,” was all she said, but she was smiling slightly. “Try to rest now, and if you need to be sick —” she kicked something on the floor that gave a hollow thud. “Try to aim in here, yeah?” “I am not going to be sick,” you said firmly, and the Doctor’s smile flashed in the dim light. “I hope not, the pill’s supposed to help with that but,” she shrugged expansively, and even through the spinning room you were able to focus in shocking clarity on the pull of her shirt across her frame she did so, “I don’t really know what combination of ingredients you drank, and how they’ll react to the other things you drank or your own biology. So. Bin.” She nudged it with a boot again. “I’m going to check on the others, and you’re going to stay here. I’ll be right back.” You didn’t want her to go, but you were feeling worse by the moment as the alcohol was burned out of your system and, as far as you could tell, migrated to your head. You could feel each heartbeat rattling in your skull like knives, and your roiling stomach kept speed with it. You moaned something that the Doctor took for agreement. Time passed, although you weren’t in any way able to keep track of it. You suspected it had been a century based on the pounding in your head, but it could have only been a few heartbeats. Either way, you were still alone when you realized that what you really needed was some water. Nobody was around to hear you, but you still complained and groaned and generally made a spectacle as you swung your legs off the couch, sitting upright. Your stomach made a solid pass at leaping out of your throat, but you steadied yourself with a snarl; you were not going to need the bin, you were not going to be sick. And you were right; all thoughts of nausea fled as you pushed yourself to your feet, because your skull might as well have shattered. Your headache pounded so violently that you thought it might be slamming you through the floor; it felt too heavy, too thick, too white-hot with blinding pain. Death was infinitely preferable to this miserable thing called life. “Never — drinking — again —” you vowed, swaying, hoping the floor might just swallow you whole and end your suffering. “A noble sentiment,” the Doctor said from behind you. “But one rarely adhered to, I suspect. What are you doing off the sofa?” She appeared at your side, a steadying hand on your elbow. “You didn’t sick up somewhere did you,” she added with sudden trepidation, looking around your feet apprehensively. “I just wanted something to drink,” you told her, wretched. Your head was still pounding, and even the dimmed lights were still too bright. They stabbed your eyes with sharp, splintering shards of pain. You groaned, and leaned your head instinctively against the Doctor’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had quite enough to drink,” she said, with a touch of asperity, but her hand was gentle as ever as she smoothed hair back from your forehead. “Water,” you clarified, your voice muffled from the folds of her coat. It was soft, and cool, and smelled like home. “Ah,” the Doctor said, steering you back to the couch. She eased you down again. “Stay, I’ll get you some water and a new cloth.” “Where are the others? Are they coming?” you asked miserably as she reappeared, setting a glass of water in your hands. It had a truly spectacular bendy, swirly straw that was almost as long as the glass itself, a vibrant purple and orange that hurt your eyes to look at, but you appreciated the gesture as you lifted it to your mouth with weak hands. “They’ll be here soon, they’re trying to find Ryan,” the Doctor said. The cushions dipped as she settled on the other end of the sofa. “They might have to expand the search,” you said, thinking of that alien he had been speaking with. You groaned as your head gave another spike of pain, and slid down the couch as sitting became too much effort. “Just rest,” the Doctor said. “It’ll pass.” “Promise?” “I promise,” she said, and your eyes were closed, but you could hear the slight smile in her voice. “I am the best alien, after all.” You could definitely hear the smile, now, and something niggled at your memory; you suspected that the Doctor was poking fun at something you had said while in the bar, but the memory was sliding in and out with tremendous spikes of pain and you let it go. You suspected that you had said many unfortunate things, and you could only hope that the Doctor hadn’t heard or remembered most of them. You drifted for a time, after that, surfacing to occasional bursts of pain or nausea or, more welcome, cool hands on your brow as they took your temperature or readjusted the the damp cloth. Clarity — and more importantly, an absence of that all-encompassing pain — arrived abruptly. You sat up gingerly, feeling weak and shaky and not even remotely good, but it was a normal not-good, not I’m going to die and if not I wish it would hurry up about it not-good. “Ah, here we are,” the Doctor said, and you looked over to see her curled up at her end of the couch, a book in her hand.  She closed it and tucked it in the cushion. “Feeling better?” “Yeah,” you said, peeling off the now warm and dry cloth from your head. You looked down at it, then the mercifully empty bin at your feet. Something else rolled in your stomach, almost worse than the earlier nausea: shame, with a side of guilt. “Ah. Sorry, about all that,” you mumbled, darting another look at the Doctor. She was watching you, a slight smile curving her lips, but her eyes were sharp as they flicked over you, still assessing. “Accepted,” she said, scooting over to you and fishing her stethoscope out of her pocket. “Deep breath,” she said, resting it against your chest. “You don’t have anything to apologize for anyways,” she added.  “It’s not your fault you got served a red, or that someone tried to take advantage of you for it.” You had forgotten about that, had forgotten about that other alien and his heavy, unwelcome hands, and his sharp, hungry smile. You shuddered, and the Doctor’s eyes touched your own, a welcome distraction. “I’m okay, you don’t need to waste time on me,” you muttered, but she was pushing a fresh glass of water into your hand. “Drink. And yes I do, or do you not remember bolting up and trying to climb the  TARDIS console?” You goggled at her. “Apparently not,” she said with a wicked grin. “No, don’t apologize again, it’s okay. You got me out of that bar anyways, I really wasn’t vibing with it. ”You had been awash in horror at your actions, but the Doctor’s last words snapped you out of it. “Vibing with it?” you repeated, incredulous.   She shot you a look, tongue poking slightly between her lips.“Yeah, am I using that right? Ryan taught me.”  You were still goggling at her, but the sound of a door opening and a rush of voices distracted you both. “Ah, finally,” the Doctor said, brushing off her legs and standing up. “I wonder what kept them. We’re in here,” she added, pitching her voice to carry to the others and making no effort to define where “here” was; it was obvious to her, and that apparently was to be enough for everyone else. It was very her. Everything she did was very her, you mused. Not just because it was her doing them, but because she did everything with such one-hundred percent commitment, energy, and enthusiasm. You smiled slightly, watching her as she stood with her hands on her hips. She’d taken off her coat at some point, and she looked smaller without it, more wild and fleeting, something ephemeral. She glanced over her shoulder at you and smiled when she met your eyes. That smile was also wild, fleeting and ephemeral, but it grounded her, a little bit, in the here and now. And you, too. “Hello,” Yaz said, stepping into the room. She looked tired, her hair coming out of its braids, her jacket mussed, but it was a happy sort of tired. “Have fun?” The Doctor asked as Yaz threw herself down on the couch next to you. “Yes,” Yaz said, leaning her head back on the cushions. “Not as much fun as some other people, though,” she added, and turned her head to fix you with her dark, glittering eyes. “How are you doing?” “I feel like death,” you told her, and stuck out your tongue when she grinned. “That’s what you two get for going off-book,” she said smugly, wiggling her shoulders deeper into the couch and kicking off her shoes before lifting her legs and curling them up on the couch. “Oi, I didn’t drink a red,” the Doctor said, indignantly. “Not that I would have been affected, if I had. You humans are so — ” “She been going on like this the whole time?” Yaz asked you, and the Doctor gave her a dark look. You giggled, and it only made your head split down the middle a little bit. It was worth it, for the expression on the Doctor’s face. “Definitely,” you confirmed, wincing as you lifted a hand to rub your temples. “This is the thanks I get, for spending my night chasing after red-drunk humans? Mockery and false accusations?” “Not you,” Yaz said, rolling her eyes. “I was talking about — “ “Hellooooooo TARDIS!” “That,” Yaz finished, turning to watch as Ryan crashed into the room, with an aggrieved Graham in his wake. The Doctor groaned, throwing her hands up. “Ryan! Not you too!” “Guilty your honor,” Ryan crooned, spinning a wild circle and narrowly avoiding the couch with his flailing feet. You hastily copied Yaz, drawing your feet up onto the cushions and settling in to watch the show. “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love! Congratulate me.” “You’re not in love, son, you’re drunk,” Graham said wearily, trying to grab Ryan, but he spun out of reach. And fell over. The room shuddered. You gasped, Yaz clapped a hand over her mouth, Graham cursed. The Doctor closed her eyes. “Ow,” Ryan said, but he was smiling beatifically up at the ceiling. “What happened?” The Doctor asked resignedly, crouching by Ryan and taking his pulse, then pulling out her sonic. He ignored her, still smiling happily up at the ceiling, his toes clicking together as he hummed. He was still firmly in the “fun” stage of the Red inebriation, it seemed. “What do you think, Doc?” Graham answered tiredly, moving to stand by them. “He wanted to impress a pretty girl.” “Did he?” you asked, interestedly. The situation was a lot funnier when it wasn’t happening to you, it turned out. “Well, he chugged a red and challenged some bloke to a dance contest,” Yaz said. She was grinning, and it was the grin of a sober woman witnessing the carnage wreaked by foolish friends. “We almost didn’t get him out of there.” The Doctor stood up, pinching her nose. She came to a decision.“Right. I’ll get him a pill, but I’ve done my babysitting duty for the night. He’s your problem after that.” She stode from the room, and you heard her mutter something about never going to a bar again. Yaz heard her too, and you shared a grin. Ryan, it turned out, had very little interest in taking the hangover-speed-up pill from the Doctor. It also turned out that red-inebriation or no, he could still move very quickly, and it took the combined efforts of Yaz, Graham and the Doctor to get the pill in his mouth. You filmed most of on your phone you'd fumbled quickly out of a pocket, which as far as you were concerned did just as much to help the situation as any of them. The Doctor threw herself down on the sofa next to you with an explosive sigh. “I am never,” she said, tipping back her head, “taking humans to a bar. Ever again.” Ryan moaned from the floor, punctuating the statement with eloquence. Yaz sat down on the Doctor’s other side, then scooted over to make room for Graham who was looking silent and shell-shocked. You found your shoulders rubbing the Doctor’s, and you curled your feet up under you to make more room while leaning your head against her shoulder. You could hear her twin heartbeats, and after a moment she rolled her head so that her chin was resting in your hair.“You’re all on probation,” she said, firmly. You hummed skeptically, and Yaz snorted. Graham was still grimly silent, but you knew he’d come around. Silence, for a moment, interrupted only by Ryan’s increasingly pathetic moans.“Shall I pop in a movie?” Yaz asked finally. “Go on then,” the Doctor said, resigned, but you could hear the smile in her voice. “We’re going to be here for a while.” “‘’m never drinking again,” Ryan groaned from the floor.  He clapped his hands over his ears as you all began to laugh, which did exactly nothing to help. “Humans,” the Doctor said to the TARDIS ceiling, but she was still smiling. “You love us,” Yaz said, standing up and moving to put on a movie. “Yeah,” the Doctor said after a moment, so softly that you thought you might be the only one who heard it. “I do.”

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Impending Paternity

Word Count: 3900+ (oneshot) [AO3]

Genre: Humor/Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Peter B. Parker/Mary Jane Watson

Characters: Peter B. Parker, Mary Jane Watson, Spider-Man Noir, Peter Porker, Gwen Stacy, Peni Parker, Miles Morales

Summary: The closer the birth of his first child gets, the more Peter’s old fears of fatherhood resurface. Fortunately for him, he now has universes of parenting advice to call on and prepare him.

Written for the @dimension-zine.

~0~

Waking up in a cold sweat wasn’t something at all new to Peter B. Parker. That didn’t make it any less unpleasant.

What was new to him was registering the feeling of MJ’s arms around his waist as they slept, the flat press of her chin by his shoulders. Once again, they shared a bed: small, but more than enough room for them to lay pressed up against each other, legs entwined, skin on skin. It was almost enough for Peter to forget what had caused him to sleep more restlessly than he had in a very, very long time.

Even in the dark of the bedroom, the damn pregnancy test is staring directly at him from the mesh metal wastebasket, with its solid pink eye. He’d stared down monsters, mobsters, and maniacs of all sorts without blinking, and yet this damn near ignites his old “curl up in the shower and hide” instinct. MJ’s stomach doesn’t show any signs of change yet, doesn’t feel any different against his back...But there’s going to be a tiny person in there very soon. A person that he helped create. A person that he’ll have responsibility to.

MJ can’t stop smiling about it — this is what she’s wanted for a long time — and her joy is very nearly infectious. Peter had agreed to this, of course he had. It was time for him to quit hiding away from the fears that he couldn’t dodge or punch away so easily. But still, he isn’t sure if he can say he’s wholeheartedly looking forward to it, and still be telling the truth.

He’s never had younger siblings or cousins. He has long since lost Uncle Ben and Aunt May (knowing that other versions of them exist, even meeting them, doesn’t erase the sting). MJ hasn’t said a word to her own parents in years, and Peter has never had any problem saying flat out how unhelpful he’s sure they’d be anyway. So he has nobody to fall back on if he has questions or confusions or fears — aside from MJ, and while he loves her and trusts her judgment in all things, he can anticipate there may be times when an uninvolved third party will be invaluable. 

All of a sudden, Peter freezes, eyes going wide. He has the sudden impulse to jump out of bed that always used to come with a brilliant idea, which he feels are too few and far between nowadays. Obviously he can’t do that now, at fuck o’clock in the morning with his wife’s arms securely around him. It’ll have to wait until the morning, but oh, he can’t wait to explain to her over breakfast what he’s planning to do when he grabs enough free time over the next few months. She still hasn’t heard everything he’s had to tell about his little dimension-hopping adventure...

~0~

“So!” Spider-Man Noir slams this finished egg cream down on the table just as fiercely as he has the past eight glasses. “You’re finally becoming a daddy!”

“How...are you doing that through your mask?” Peter asks hesitantly, sipping on his one half empty glass of the drink. 

“I remember my childhood fondly,” Noir goes on as if Peter hadn’t spoken, gazing nostalgically out his window. He had wanted to take Peter bar-hopping, initially, but a guy walking around all in color attracted too much attention on the streets, and they had agreed that Noir’s apartment would be best for a private conversation. “Don’t remember my own mother or father, but my Aunt May says that she and my Ma used to trade parenting tips out of pamphlets when I was just a grub.”

Peter perks up slightly. “What kind of tips?”

“Well! First one’s for your future mama...Ah, how’s your place looking?”

Peter blinks. “It’s...fine. Better than living alone, no offense to you, but — ”

“No, no, you don’t get it. Is it all pretty?”

“Huh? Pretty?”

“Somethin’ Ma and Aunt May picked up from my granny,” Noir explains. “If a mama with an unborn baby sees ugly things, that ugly beams itself into her brain and straight down into her womb, and gets right into your baby. So you gotta be sure to keep her around pretty things to look at, you see? You want a nice kid, don’tcha?”

“Uh...Y-Yeah! I sure do!” he says, trying to keep disappointment off his face. Noir talks with absolute conviction in his beliefs, but what Peter had forgotten was that these were the beliefs of 1933. Even earlier, if he’s getting this stuff from older relatives. None of it’s going to do his twenty-first century self any good.

So the first chance he gets, Peter slurps down the last of his egg cream (surprisingly tasty, he’ll have to look up a modern recipe to compare sometime) and leaps up from his chair, sauntering back over towards an opening portal. “Thanks so much, Noir, but I gotta run! No telling when I can catch the next portal, y’know?”

Noir waves, unperturbed, pouring another drink. “Stock up on lard! You got to give baby’s first bath with it, get all that scum off ‘em!”

“Sure! Lard! No problem!” Peter calls over his shoulder, nearly diving into the portal.

~0~

Though Ham assures him that the natives find him much stranger and more unsettling than he finds them, Peter never quite gets used to being a real guy in a cartoon world. The lurid colors hurt his eyes, things move too fast and sound is constantly blaring, and for some reason he’s very, very suspicious about the contents of those hot dogs. But the veggie wraps are surprisingly good, and he chows down with one hand while typing at breakneck speed with the other. 

“Hot dog, you’re fast enough to kick some butt at the Daily Beagle!” Ham bounces up and pats his head happily. “Granted, we’re more story-ey than sciencey over there, but you get the point! That file-hunting stuff’s really not giving you any trouble?”

“Nope,” says Peter through a mouthful of tomato and lettuce. MJ’s newly emerging cravings were much less of a pain than either of them had expected: they consisted mostly of something rich stuffed into something bread, and he wished he could bring something from here back for her. “The rules are pretty different from the re -- uh, from my dimension, but surprisingly easy to memorize. I should be able to retrieve what you’re looking for in...maybe two minutes?” 

“Faaaaan-tastic!” 

“Can you keep them busy that much longer?”

“Sure can!” As he speaks, Ham is already whipping a comically large wrench out of his pocket and hurling it at the helmeted boar goons trying to break through the barricaded door. “Take that, you @#$%^&*!”

Peter still isn’t sure how Ham manages to make those sounds instead of swearing, but no matter. As far as he’s concerned, no questions equals smooth sailing. 

Well...of course he does have one. 

“Hey, Ham, this might be a weird thing to ask, but...what would you call ‘good parenting?’”

“Huh, I’m not sure. My parents passed before I was hatched, but Mom made sure her sac was settled in a nice place! My web was in May Porker’s lab for months before I transformed! Good thing, too, I was coming up on the tail end of my lifespan!”

“Oh...Y-Yeah, real good thing,” Peter stammers, fingers momentarily freezing on the keys as he processes that whole spider-turned-pig thing one more time. He’s privately quite glad that he’s never seen what’s under Ham’s mask. 

“I consider myself real lucky, actually!” Ham laughs. There’s a crash, and the metal door starts to squeal off its hinges, the enemy scrabbling to all get through the cracks at once. Ham promptly yanks out a machine gun and lets fly at them. Peter chokes down a laugh at the toy rat-a-tat-a-tat noises it makes. “Aunt May’s the best aunt a Spider-Ham could ask for! Bakes a mean apple pie, talks my ears off about her tech, supports me in all my endeavors. And you know, I can barely even see the bite scar anymore!”

Peter chokes on tomato. “The what?”

“Oh, Aunt May was the radioactive pig that turned me into Spider-Ham in the first place! My memories are slightly muddled around that time, but oh well! Doesn’t matter! Though neither of us had any idea it would do that, soooo...maybe just be extra careful about where your teeth go?”

Peter huffs, right-clicking the elusive file he’s found and downloading it to Ham’s flash drive, which is unsettlingly shaped like a bacon strip. “Yeah. Great advice. Don’t bite my kid. Next you’ll be telling me to keep my window open for the delivery stork to fly in with ‘em.”

“Well, sure, that’s just common courtesy! If ya really want to be nice, you give your stork a nice big tip!”

Peter swallows a groan from the deepest depths of his being, along with the last of the wrap.

~0~

“Six months and I still can’t believe you’re going to be a dad!” Gwen shouts, gracefully backflipping over another laser beam. “Like an actual dad!” 

“Almost seven, actually! And yep! Can’t believe it either!” Peter answers somewhat breathlessly, through his own leaping and punching of the armored thugs rushing in through the legs of the gun-toting robots. “Any ideas for names? Because MJ and I are way out!”

He hears Peni’s thoughtful humming through the speakers of her newest prototype: SP//dr, Mark Three. “Hmm...I don’t know much about historical naming conventions, but I also don’t think they’ve changed very much...Chief Stacy, what do you think?”

Safeguarded inside SP//dr’s cockpit from the onslaught targeting him and remaining remarkably calm about it, George Stacy considers it. “Hm. My daughter’s name is Gwendolyn. I’ve always thought that was the nicest name.”

Peter smirks under his mask, and gently elbows Gwen as she passes him. “Whaddaya think, Spider-Woman?”

He physically feels Gwen rolling her eyes. “It’s fine. Why don’t you just name him after you?”

“There’s millions of me! Maybe more! And besides we don’t even know if it’s a him, yet!”

“What about Ben? Or Benjamin?” Peni suggests. “To honor your uncle!”

“Oh, come on! Doesn’t anybody have an original idea!”

Gwen wrenches a robot head off and lobs it straight into a goon’s chest. “You know what, those will probably be a little easier to come by after we finish getting shot at!”

“Agreed, ma’am,” Chief Stacy says. “Excellent throw, by the way. Hey, Man-Spider, machine gunner at three o’clock!”

No matter how short and no matter how many people fight beside him, Peter’s various battles always seem to last forever as they happen, but the memory of them only lasts a blink of an eye. So it’s slightly dizzying when just a couple hours after the attack has been dealt with, Chief Stacy secured, and a plan for Gwen to hunt down whoever had ordered it outlined, the three of them are sitting on the roof of a skyscraper, eating cheeseburgers while the sun rises before them.

“I can’t even imagine eating a burger with pickles on it,” Gwen says. “You’re really telling me that’s the common thing instead of chili peppers where you’re from?”

“Yep,” Peter confirms, washing a large, hot bite down with a quarter of his soda. “I mean, I’ve had jalapeño burgers before, but they’re like a specialty thing.”

“We eat pickles on our burgers, too, but they’re all deep fried,” Peni puts in. “Crunchy.”

Gwen laughs, the breeze blowing her hair back. After hearing the story of how she’d acquired her undercut, Peter always finds it funny that she’d gone ahead and kept it after all. “So weird.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. “Entirely unrelated, if you need any more help with your dad, you just let me know.”

“And me!” Peni adds, SP//dr waving a leg in agreement. 

“Thanks, guys.”

“Hey...Speaking of dads...” Peter pauses a moment to think before continuing, “What would you call your dads’ best qualities? Like, as a dad?”

“You’re looking for advice again?”

“A little template would be nice, sure!”

“All right, then...” Peni taps a French fry on the burger box. “I always loved how smart and loving my dad was, and that he had faith in me to continue his work when he was gone. Dad always believing in me helped me to believe in myself, when I might not have otherwise.”

Gwen nods. “I feel pretty similar about my dad. He doesn’t know about me being Spider-Woman, and he doesn’t really get the whole rock band thing. But he makes sure I know that he loves me no matter what, and that he’ll support me in whatever I decide to do. Provided I’m not, like, becoming a supervillain or anything, but I’m doing the opposite of that, so...”

Peter feels the urge to start taking notes. “Sounds good, sounds good, and...don’t take this the wrong way, but is there anything they do, as dads, that makes you not like them sometimes?”

Peni giggles. “Of course there was! I didn’t like when he’d work late and not get home on time, or when he’d make me stop reading comics and go to bed, or something like that. I’d get annoyed with him, but I still loved him.”

“My dad kind of runs the house like he does the police station,” Gwen adds. “He can be super strict, a bit like Miles’ dad. Ironclad rules and curfews for me and my brother, endless lectures when we break them. If I were a normal girl, it’d be pretty stifling, but since I have this life that I have to keep secret from him...it can be really hard sometimes.”

“Yeah, I...I can see that. I don’t really know if I should keep who I am secret from my kid, though. Would it keep them safe, or...just make them resent me? Or both?”

Gwen sighs. “There’s really no right answer, I don’t think.”

“You’re worried about being perfect.” Peni pats his shoulder. “But you don’t need to be. Just use your best judgment.”

Peter looks glumly at the street below. “I wish that was something I trusted.”

~0~

There’s a hollowness inside his chest. 

The only light on the wide, empty street are from the street lamps, ghastly white against the pitch black. He moves as if underwater: swinging, roundhousing, throwing his barely-pulled punches. His heart is pounding, but the rest of him and the world feels numb. Cold sweat soaks the inside of his mask, and heavy dread washes over his skin. 

Peter’s fighting shadows, human-shaped pillars of darkness. His strikes go right through them, when he can reach. But everything they land on him feels like being pummeled by a cannonball, and he’s not sure how long he can endure it. 

The end comes out of nowhere. One spectral arm flashes up, there’s a glint of silver, and a soundless explosion that makes the whole world ripple. It hits his chest like a tidal wave, slams him into the concrete. He can’t get up again. In the world of muted, swimming colors, the gushing of blood from his shot-open heart is sickeningly vivid. 

“DAD!”

Everything in him jolts. He lifts his spinning head to see a kid sprinting towards him, as fast as they can but not fast enough to reach him. He can’t tell how old the kid is, or whether they’re a boy or girl. But he recognizes MJ’s bright red hair and blue eyes, and his own expression of utter, gut-wrenching horror and heartbreak. 

“DA-A-A-D!”

He tries to say he’ll be okay and coughs up blood instead. His rib-punctured lungs won’t let him speak. Panic engulfs him: his death is going to be burned into his kid’s eyes forever and there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can do, nothing, nothing, nothing —

“Peter! Peter, wake up, it’s okay!”

The darkness is blue, striped by the thin gold light through their bedroom blinds. His eyes fly open and he grabs for his bare chest: intact, bloodless. It’s soft and safe around him but he still can’t catch his breath. MJ is awkwardly rolling over in bed to stroke his hair and try to hug him. 

“Peter, you’re okay. You were dreaming. Just dreaming...”

She’s no stranger to dealing with him like this, and the guilt stabs deeper. “I...s-sorry, I...”

“Deep breaths. Slow breaths. I’m here.”

“I won’t be,” he chokes out.

“Peter — ?”

“I-I dreamed that someone shot me, killed me, r-right in front of our kid. It...God, it terrified them, ruined them for life, I could feel it, and it was all my fault!”

He rolls over to look at her face, to anchor him to the real world. He half-expects to see irritation in her eyes at his weakness. Instead there’s love and sympathy. 

“It wasn’t your fault. It was just a dream. That doesn’t mean it will happen.”

“It happened to every parent I ever had. It happened to me. What if I do that to my kid? I can’t — I don’t — ”

Trembling, Peter places his hands on MJ’s belly. Their kid, determined to make sure that their mom sleeps as little as possible, kicks a drumbeat against his palms. They don’t know what fear, pain, or loss is yet. How can he be the one to bring it into their life?

“I’m not running away again,” he assures MJ, as her fingers run through his hair. 

“I know you won’t. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave our kid. I never did. I want to be there for you for the rest of my life,” Peter forces out through his tightening throat. “B-But that choice could end up not being mine, after all of this. The things I do, the people I fight, I could die anytime! I’d leave you again. Both of you.”

MJ cups his cheek, leans in to kiss his forehead. “I can’t tell you that nothing bad will happen, Peter. But I can tell you you’re not alone. Like, I worry about the same thing happening to me that happened to my mom. Dying before our baby can even remember me.”

Peter’s heart lurches; he’d forgotten about that. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t —“

She cuts him off with another kiss. “We’re both afraid, Peter. Your job is probably the most dangerous one out there, but you don’t have to go through this alone. All we can do is what every parent has to do: our best.”

“What if my best isn’t good enough? What if I fail, and they hate me?”

“It’ll be more than enough for the people who love you. Always.” MJ smiles. “And they would never hate you. I never could, no matter what.”

Tears slip down his cheeks. He wants to tell her thank you, but he can’t seem to speak, only hug her as close as he can.

~0~

He has one place left to visit. Something he hasn’t been able to face until month nine.

Aside from this world’s MJ, Miles is the most common visitor to Perfect Peter’s grave. After the first time, he’s never surprised to see Peter B. here too. 

“Hey,” he says as Peter walks up, morning dew soaking his sneakers. “How’s it going? Is MJ doing okay?”

Peter nods. “Her due date’s in two weeks. All smooth sailing so far as the doctors say.”

“Awesome.” Miles half-smiles. “So...you had a question for me?”

“Yeah. I just need...one more hope boost before this thing really gets started. Feel free to tell me to kick rocks back to my own dimension if you don’t want to talk about it, but...” He gestures to the gravestone. “This Peter. Your uncle. What was it like to lose them, because of their line of work? I’ve made my life so damn risky, am I doing something wrong bringing a baby into it with me?”

Miles is silent for a long time. “I don’t have a solid yes or no to that. I...I’ll always wish things were different for them both. That there was something I could have done to save them. If I let myself think about it too hard, or too long, I’ll lose myself in it.”

Peter winces. But then Miles goes on.

“I’ve just got to tell myself, what happened, happened. Can’t change the past. The best thing I can do, for them and for me, is keep moving forward. I miss them like crazy and I wish they were still around, I always will. But more than anything, I remember the lessons that they taught me. That they were good men, that they cared about me. It’s the same with you and your uncle, right?”

“I...I do remember him that way. Yeah. But I was going into college when Uncle Ben died. I wasn’t...just a kid. I chose this life, MJ chose to stay with me, our kid didn’t ask for this kind of life.”

Miles shrugs. “I worry about my dad every day. He’s worked a dangerous job in a dangerous city since before I was born. I don’t hold it against him, because I know why he does it. I’m one of the people he’s trying to protect, after all.”

“Yeah, but — ”

“Peter. Come on.” Miles turns to look at him then, with a knowing smile. “You don’t know all of what you’re doing. No one does. What matters is that you’re a good man, and that’s what’ll be most important to your kids, whatever happens: that their dad loves them and would do anything for them.”

Peter feels the same rush of pride and affection for him that he had back at the reactor, along with a sense of security around his heart. He’s surprised to find himself laughing. “You’re the best, kid, you know that?”

Miles’ grin broadens cheekily. “Oh, I know. I try.”

He wraps an arm around Miles’ shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. “Yeah, just keep trying, future godfather.”

It takes a second for the word to hit Miles, and then he spins around to stare at him with huge eyes. “I — their godfather?! Me?”

Peter laughs. “No one out there’d be better than you. Only the best for my kid.”

~0~

After the twenty-seven most stressful hours of their lives, Mira Penelope Watson-Parker emerges into the world with a long, indignant screech. 

Illuminated in the noon sun, in the soft yellow hospital room, both his wife and daughter look like angels in Peter’s eyes. He doesn’t even care that he’s about to cry. “You did amazing, hon.”

MJ grins. “Helps to have a husband whose hands I could squeeze as hard as I needed. C’mere and hold her. I’m sure she wants to meet her dad.”

Peter tries so very hard not to tremble as MJ passes their blanket-wrapped daughter into his arms. He’s never felt anything so delicate in his life. 

“She’s...so tiny,” is all he can manage.

Mira’s hair is her mother’s bright red, just like in his dream. But the dark hazel eyes staring curiously up at him are all his own. 

Peter smiles at her, cradling her close. He really would do anything for her, he knows that already.

“Hey, sweetheart. Hey. Dad’s here.”

[jessmt]

Trust in Me

Summary:  You've always had trust issues. In this world, it's all for one and none for all.

Or, at least you thought it was, until Jesse came along.

~~

A close look into Lake's mind throughout season two and afterwards

Notes: 

So, fun fact! This piece was originally meant for a zine that I'd applied for, but I never heard back from them, so I just assumed that it...wasn't happening anymore? Never even got a "sorry, we went with someone else/we're full" email back from any of the administrators. Oh well.

I've always had a soft-spot for fics written in a second person perspective. It's hard to write well, but some of my favorite fics I've ever read were second person fics. I've always found them so in-tune with the characters' and reader's emotions. I hope I did it justice, because I love Jesse and Lake an unhealthy amount.

AO3

You’ve always had trust issues.

Yeah, yeah, you know how edgy that sounds when you say it out loud. But you don’t mean it in the same way as those narcissistic teenage boys who call themselves lone wolves and act like an ass to everyone they meet for no reason. 

You don’t have a choice. If you were naturally the approachable type with groups of friends in the double digits, you’d be just as happy. You’ve never told anyone, but if you’re going to be honest with yourself, you think you’d actually be happier that way. But it’s not, and it’s entirely because you know you can’t.

Everyone who takes a good look at you for longer than, say, a quick glance, automatically assumes two things about you. One, that you’re going to hurt them if they approach you, and two, that you’re a fugitive. And while there are the passive few who would rather not get involved at all, because they don’t want the Flecs to take them in beside you (even though that’s not how it works at all),  most of them report you on sight. The worst of them will grab the closest reflective surface they can find and shove it in your face. Which is never fair, because all you’ve done since Tulip set you free is aimlessly wander around the train.

As a matter of fact, you don’t even trust Tulip that much. You’re sure that part of it is still because you’re holding a grudge against her for being forced to live as her reflection for thirteen years, which, okay, she couldn’t control. But it took you breaking down sobbing in front of her for Tulip to agree to help you at all, and that was already after one of her friends had called the Flecs on you. 

You’re never just you. You’re a copy, you’re a reflection, you’re a criminal, you’re a sliver. Nobody ever gives you enough time to even ask you for your name, let alone give you enough time to even think of one. You’re not a person, you’re a mistake. Nobody cares about you, and if you need to shut everyone else out just to keep yourself alive, then so be it. If it’s gotta be all for one, then it’s gotta be none for all, because nobody cares about you. 

Or so you thought.

Jesse Cosay changed your life in ways that you can’t describe. Yeah, okay, he never called the Flecs on you, and even when he had the chance to turn you in he refused (and actually listened to your story before he made that decision, Tulip), but that’s not what you’re talking about. 

Anyone can be a good person. Anyone can just say “no, that’s awful, I’m not just gonna turn her in”. Most of the passengers on the train probably would’ve said the same thing, if they thought that helping you escape could help lower their number. Jesse was willing to help at the expense of his number going up, but that’s still beside the point. 

He’s the first person to actually listen to you. He’s a chatterbox for sure, but he genuinely hangs on to what you have to say. 

“I’m MT,” you’d told him when you first met. It’s the first real name you’ve ever given yourself, and you still kind of hated it, all things considering, but the more times he said it and the more enthusiastic he sounded when he used it, the less you started to hate it.

But the less you started hating your name, the more you realized how fleeting all of this is going to be. 

The more comfortable you let yourself become, you realize, the quicker it’ll all be taken from you. Once Jesse’s number hits zero, you’re right back where you started. You’ll be stripped of your name, since nobody will give you the time of day to listen for it. You’ll be a copy, a reflection, a sliver. 

You try not to let it bother you, because you already know what’s going to happen if you do. That’s how Tulip ended up on the train to begin with, by pretending that she wasn’t bothered by her parents separating. I’m fine! She’d claimed, but the longer she tried to convince herself she was okay, the less and less she spoke to her own best friend.

And, well, maybe it’s a bit premature to call for sure, and you’re sure you’d never hear the end of it if you ever said it out loud, but Jesse’s the closest thing you’ve got to a best friend. If you stop talking to him a few days before you’re never gonna see him again, you’re both gonna be miserable, which is just going to make matters so much worse. 

You bury the feeling down, take your anger and frustration out on the Flecs, and that disgusting parasite, and pray Jesse doesn’t notice.

But Jesse “I’m friends with everyone I meet” Cosay notices right away, and he says the words you never expected to hear from anybody.

“I’m not just gonna leave you here with the Flecs chasing after you”.

Not “oh, I’ll try”, or a sympathetic hug, or a teary-eyed premature goodbye hug as everything’s just hitting him for the first time. “I won’t”, he promises, like he’s been planning this since the first time they encountered the Flecs in the Map Car.  

He wants you to come with him. It’s not a fun hypothetical to imagine to pass the time, like all of his mirror questions had been. It’s a demand, rather than a question, because he knows that you’ll be miserable if you stay.

Your cheeks burn, and you’re speechless.

--

You regret nothing, you tell yourself, as tears pour down your cheeks. You’re covered in dirt and mud and every equivalent of blood you can think of, but you regret none of it as you swing your crowbar at steward after steward. You don’t care anymore, you tell yourself. You don’t care if you have to take the damn train apart gear by gear. 

You already lost Jesse, and when the damned train still wouldn’t give you a number after everything, after you’re sure you’ve gone through more trauma than all of the passengers combined, there went your hope. And you’re not the kind of person who feels sad and gloomy when you’re feeling hopeless, oh no. You get angry. You get pissed. You run into the next room, guns blazing, ready to kick the shit out of the next person who even looks at you the wrong way.

Hope and positivity are a rarity for you, so when it’s forcefully ripped from your hands, you’ll do everything in your power to take it back twice as forcefully.  It’s embarrassing, really, that you’re an angry crier, because you really need these sons of bitches to know that you’re paying them back tenfold.  

You never fully understood what people meant by blind rage until you do right now. You just keep swinging, and swinging, since nobody’s paying attention to you anyway.  Someone’s gotta cave eventually, right? Destructive behavior is a sure-fire symptom of trauma, isn’t it? Someone’s gonna come by and realize you’re acting out of hurt, and give you some random number so you can work out your problems and eventually get out of here, right? 

Well, you’re half-right. 

“Hello!” One-One chimes, eerily cheery for the situation at hand. “Please stop destroying my stewards”. 

“Unless you want me to write up your obituary”, his gloomy counterpart chimes in.

And...threat aside, a tiny part of you is relieved. He’s Tulip’s friend, so there’s a chance he’ll understand, right? All you need to do is just explain everything, and you’ll be free to go, right?

You couldn’t be more wrong. He’s just babbling on about how you’re just there to help, how you were never really Jesse’s friend, and you’re close to crying again. You want to believe it’s out of anger, because you know that can’t be true, but you’re too burned out on anger and too exhausted to really fully convince yourself of anything.

Until One-One pulls up his list of passengers, and just two little words on his screen are enough to make your heart stop. 

In-Progress.

Jesse Cosay: In Progress.

--

If One-One is talking to you at all on the way over to the Tape Car, you can’t hear a word he’s saying. Your heart is beating so hard in your chest that it’s making your ears ring, and as One-One carries Jesse back to the Number Car, you’re pretty sure you’re actually vibrating, because you can’t believe this is actually happening. 

It’s an indescribable feeling, knowing that he cares about you. It’s indescribable, knowing he doesn’t take the word promise for granted. 

He came back for you. 

He literally went through hell and back, just to spend more time with you.

Now you feel like crying for an entirely new reason.

-- 

Jesse Cosay is something else. 

You’ve been living with him for six months now, and he still insists on making every day a new experience for you. “Fourteen years on a train is nothing compared to four months off of it!” he’d exclaimed exasperatedly when you asked him about it. That’s not how it works, but you never argued against it.

It’s a sweet gesture. He’s gone out of his way to make you as happy as he possibly can ever since you broke down sobbing the first day you were off the train. You were able to wait until Nate went back home, thank god, but it was the ugly, uncontrollable kind of sobbing that overpowers your body so much that you end up sprawled across the ground looking like a complete and utter fool because you’re too overwhelmed. You’re still not entirely sure if you were overwhelmed in a good way, or overwhelmed in a bad way, but you remember pretty clearly the way Jesse held you in his arms and helped you to your feet when you were ready. 

You hadn’t even told him what happened yet, but he was already promising you that you’re safe, it’s never going to happen, and that he’s personally going to make sure that your experience in Arizona is a significantly better one than the one you had on the train. That made you laugh, because literally anything would be better than what you went through on that train, but you know that he meant it.

You told him, later that night, and for the second time that day he held you in his arms as you shook and focused on nothing else but steadying your breathing. He didn’t say a single word unless you prompted him to, or he wanted to ask a question in the shyest tone of voice you’ve ever heard. It made you laugh, every single time, and you had to lightly tap on his wrist every time to silently tell him It’s okay, I’m laughing, and no, it’s not a stupid question. 

It’s….adorable, how much he cares about you. And not at all in a sarcastic kind of way, either. He’s got this really sheepish smile, and he’s always brushing his hair out of the way, and when he hugs you to comfort you he touches you really lightly like he’s afraid you’re going to flinch even though he already verbally asked if it’s okay to hug you.  It makes you laugh, when you think about it too much, and you’re painfully aware of the blush on your cheeks that accompany your laughter. 

You can’t help yourself. He’s so goofy, and chatty, and cheerful, and friendly, and so the exact opposite as yourself from when you first met. But he’s so sweet, and honest, and caring, and...trusting. He trusts so easily, and where you would’ve rolled your eyes in his direction less than a year ago, it’s your favorite thing about him today, because you don’t know where you’d be today if it weren’t for his trust in you. 

You’re not great at expressing your feelings. You’ve always known that about yourself. You suppose that’s probably the trauma talking, because if you’d even dared to express yourself to anyone on the train you’d be a pile of sand by the next morning. But you’ve been stewing in your feelings for Jesse for nearly two months, and you’re not sure how much longer you can take keeping it in. When you come from a place that always valued telling the truth, even if it was difficult, it’s a hard habit to break. 

Okay, that’s not a hundred percent true. A few nights into your stay at Jesse’s place, you stumbled down the stairs in a fit of insomnia looking for a cup of water just to try and see if walking up and down the stairs would tire you out. Jesse’s mom was in the living room watching television, and you paused, unsure of whether you should keep going or if you should sneak back up the stairs and try again in an hour. 

“Oh, hello, Lake”, she said, turning from her seat on the couch to face you. Well, that answered your question. “Is something wrong?”

You scratched at the back of your head as you made your way towards the kitchen. “Couldn’t sleep,” you replied, digging through the cupboard looking for a clean cup. 

Mrs. Cosay patted at the couch beside her. “Oh, well you’re free to join me on the couch and see if my boring old movie helps to put you to sleep”. 

You snorted at the idea, but figured it was probably a better idea than jogging up and down the stairs to tire yourself out. 

You don’t remember the title of the movie now, but you do remember that it was some rom-com from the 80’s, since Tulip was never interested in those. Which, of course, was exactly the reason you wanted to check it out. 

Spite really is the best motivator, you’d told yourself, but you ended up enjoying the movie a lot more than you thought you did. You’d tried watching a few other movies like it, just to see if Mrs. Cosay had just been watching a particularly interesting movie, but it turns out that no, you just really have a soft spot for romantic comedies. Maybe especially the really cheesy ones set to pop music from the early 2000’s. You’d deny it for sure if you were ever asked about it, but it was...interesting, to learn that kind of thing about yourself. 

Tulip had never really been one for relationships, and here you were, living with your best friend, a class-A example of those soulmate AU fanfictions you definitely haven’t read. It’s not that you necessarily believe in soulmates, or anything, it’s just that you’re well aware that you experience a lot of….feelings, when you read them.

You’ve wanted to tell Jesse how you feel about him all week. Ever since his school let out for the summer, he’s been in an even cheerier mood than usual, and every time he directs that smile in your direction you swear you just want to pull him into your lap and kiss him.

But every time you get close to confessing, you freeze. Your ingrained trust issues always stop you in your tracks. If he says no, your friendship will be ruined and you can’t live there anymore. If he says yes and then you break up, you won’t be friends anymore. If if if if. 

You hate that word. If. You wished it wouldn’t exist, or at the very least, that it would stop repeating itself on loop in your head. You shouldn’t need that word, because you know that Jesse is different. You know that things are going to be okay. 

You trust him. You trust that you’ll be okay.

--

He said he wants to surprise you today. The way he’s practically bouncing up and down on his feet and pacing back and forth while he’s waiting for you to lace up your boots makes it seem like he’s about to take you on the most extravagant adventure you’ve ever been on. You’re laughing again, and pause to lace your boots up even slower, just for the sake of his exasperated reaction. 

You flick him in the forehead, for good measure, and you’re out the door. He insists on walking, for the ~element of surprise~ , which, okay, has got to be the cutest, dorkiest thing he’s ever done. He swears it’s not a walk, but it’s not like it makes a difference to you. You’re walking side by side, and your hands are almost touching, and part of you is wondering if it’s purposeful on his part.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been walking when Jesse stops in front of….an ice cream parlor.

“Surprise!” he beams. “One of my friends from school works here, and he was just telling me they restocked last night before closing, so we can get any ice cream you want”.

You honestly don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re the reason his family keeps running out of ice cream and that this will not, in fact, be your first experience eating the miracle of ice cream, or whatever. You settle for rolling your eyes, hoping that he won’t take your silence for a no. 

Actually, speaking of silence, there’s nobody else here yet, and if you’ve learned anything from all of those dumb movies, there’s really no better time to just go for it then when you’re alone.

“Jesse, wait” you say, reaching out to take his hand in your own just before he can head up to the counter to order. “We should talk”.

“Yeah?” Jesse replies, turning to you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah”, you say, bringing your hands up to eye level. “Everything’s great. I just...wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you, Jesse”. 

He grins, and you swear to god it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. “Aww, you’re my best friend too!” 

Your heart jumps in your chest. You take a few subtle steps closer, and hope he notices. He does, but doesn’t take a step back. Okay, that’s a good sign. “No, Jesse, I mean…” you pause, and the little devil on your shoulder is whispering all the things that can go wrong again. You shake your head, to clear those thoughts, and when you look up to meet his eyes again your foreheads are practically touching. 

“I…” you start, and he can tell that you’re getting anxious, because he’s placing his free hand on top of yours.

“You…?” he asks quietly, his head tilting quietly to the side. 

You take a deep breath. “Jesse...I trust you”. 

And all of a sudden you want to curl up and die. You hadn’t meant to say trust. You had meant to say something else, but you were too busy arguing against yourself that you didn’t realize it until it was already out of your mouth. You want to backtrack, you want to apologize, you want to take it back, but you can’t, because if you try to take it back then it’s just gonna sound like you don’t actually trust him, or- 

Jesse cups a hand to your cheek, startling you back into reality. He’s smiling, but not as exuberantly as he had been earlier.  

“I trust you too,” he says, and leans forward to gently kiss you on the cheek. 

[rochelle-echidna]

@pyro-sea​ I swear I had a draft saved for your asks for the Fic Ask Game, but Tumblr has seen fit to send it to the shadow realm or somewhere equally nefarious **sigh**

SO, I’m going to attempt to rewrite my answers to your questions as best as I can here, since I feel bad you never got a response before now :)

9: Are there any fics you’d love to see but don’t want to write yourself? What are they?

I actually tackled this one here already, if you’re still curious about the answer!

17: What has been the proudest moment for you so far since you started writing?

For a non-fanfic answer, I would say placing in the top 10% in various screenwriting competitions and having my prose work published in literary journals is all stuff of which I’m damn proud - though, I’ll be real, I’ve been less focused on those moments lately since falling back into the fandom void haha

As for what I’m most proud since I specifically started writing fanfics, there’s legit too many moments to name! I always get massively giddy when writers I respect - which is most of y’all tbh - comment on or like my work, or when people say it’s helped them get through something tough or was relatable :D I was also super chuffed to have gotten the chance to work on the @conspire-with-you zine, so that was probably my proudest moment last year lol

But like a lot of creative people, I also genuinely wonder every time I post a story whether this will be the one that bans me from the fandom or if it’ll go “too far” or something... So, in a sense, the proudest moment recently was me posting my latest fic, because I was so terrified of how readers would respond to such an admittedly hard-to-digest topic - but the overwhelming positive reactions made the worry all worth it, and in the end I was glad I’d allowed myself to be a bit vulnerable for a change and actually write again after depression had kicked my ass ;n; I believe creation is all about putting yourself out there and speaking your truth no matter if you write fanfics or compose music or choreograph dance or do whatever you’re compelled to do, so in a roundabout way I guess I’m proud for continuing to write each day and do something I actually love for a change!

Sorry if these weren’t exactly the answers you were expecting, and doubly sorry I took so long to respond - I hope I answered them alright, and that you too know you’re awesome :)

[itsjackgilbert]

Situation Comedy

INSCRUTABLE MUSIC-VIDEO GENIUS MAKES MOVIE. IT'S VERY GOOD. INSCRUTABLE FILMMAKER DOES MAGAZINE INTERVIEW. IT'S VERY BIZARRE. A VERY SMALL GLIMPSE INTO THE INSULAR WORLD OF SPIKE JONZE, WHERE MAKING AWESOMELY STRANGE FILMS, WEARING FAKE PENISES, AND GETTING BEAT UP (SORT OF) ALL ARE PART OF THE SCENERY

BY ZEV BOROW

"He came to visit me once and when he first arrived I got a phone call that I had to come pick him up because his car had been impounded because he'd been chased by, like, ten cops on bikes after he drove his car onto these little fairgrounds and did a bunch of doughnuts. So, then I had to drive him around all weekend." — Three Kings director David O. Russell

"Actors are more consistent. They tend to land their tricks." — filmmaker Spike Jonze, on who is easier to direct, actors or skaters.

"He wanted his brother to be in Three Kings, so he shot an audition tape with his brother doing the Sharon Stone role in Basic Instinct, crossing and uncrossing his legs. It was the weirdest fucking thing I've ever seen." — David O. Russell

I meet Spike Jonze at the production offices of his new movie, Being John Malkovich, which is a bizarre comedy about a love triangle between three people who find a secret portal into John Malkovich's head behind a file cabinet in an office building where the ceilings are four feet high. John Cusack and Cameron Diaz and Catherine Keener are in it. So is John Malkovich. It's really good and weird and funny, though not always in that order. Spike Jonze directed it.

Jonze is 29 years old and sort of famous for directing some of the best music videos ever made: the Beastie Boys' "Sabotage"; Fatboy Slim's "Praise You"; Weezer's "Buddy Holly"; Björk's "It's Oh So Quiet"; and other really good ones, too. He's also made some excellent commercials and two interesting short films. However, mostly because of the exceedingly cool videos he's done for, mostly, exceedingly cool people, Jonze has also become famous for being exceedingly cool. A wide and deep selection of the hippest people alive dig Jonze. They are his friends. This past July Jonze married actress, filmmaker, and fellow sort-of-famous person Sofia Coppola. Tom Waits sang at their wedding. Tom fucking Waits.

Jonze is small and wiry, with the body and demeanor of a skateboarder, which he is. He is relaxed, unfailingly polite, and has a voice suggesting a 15-year-old boy. When we meet he is wearing a T-shirt and scuffed-up $350 Marc Jacobs shoes. He tells me he's supposed to meet with Knox, an as-yet-unknown guitar player, to discuss ideas for his video and invites me along. But first we go to buy a big bag of cat food for his cat.

Jonze says Knox plays "sort of country-funkabilly-Prince-like music...really beautiful stuff." A friend gave him a tape, he says, and he fell in love with it. We get lost trying to find Knox's house.

When we finally arrive, Knox says he was asleep because Jonze was supposed to arrive hours ago. Jonze says he's sorry, that it must have been his assistant's fault. Knox is tall, with short, dark hair styled vaguely pompadour-ish. His apartment is small. Neil Young in on the CD player. An acoustic guitar rests in the corner.

"I'm the only one in the band, so I do the whole gig," Knox says. "My old man was a guitarist and my mother was, like...well, she was a capable pianist, not great. I'm from Tenness–Knoxville–that's why I go by Knox. My mother ahd a baby two years before me, a little boy, and it died at birth, and I am, like, the copy of that kid. And my little brother almost died at birth 'cause of me, so it's kind of all cyclical. But I'm still tweaking it. So, uh, what kind of ideas do you have?"

Jonze talks about making a video that's not very commercial, about something that's cool in and of itself.

Knox: "I just don't want it to be cute. Don't take this as an affront, but some of your videos are...cute. The 'Buddy Holly' thing was little fucking cute. I was thinking more of an early John Cugar-type of thing. Like 'Jack and Diane.' Maybe with some of the words on the bottom of the screen."

Jonze: "Uh, cool.... But it’s also cool to do something maybe not as literal.” He asks Knox if he wants to be in the video. Knox says maybe just his face, as a child.

Jonze says he could come over with a video camera and they could try some stuff out.

Knox: “Like what?”

Jonze: “Well, I don’t want to just throw stuff out.”

Knox: “Well, I’m not going to steal your stuff.”

Jonze laughs, sort of. There is an awkward silence.

Jonze: “How about a video with Xeroxes, just as a cool medium?”

Knox: “Yeah, well, that sounds schticky. Xeroxes are schticky.”

Jonze tries to say something about form. Knox says he likes “the Jazzercize” video Jonze did.

Jonze: “‘Praise you.’ Cool.”

Knox turns toward me and says he doesn’t think Spike looks very into it. Jonze says he doesn’t want to do anything he’s done already. He asks Knox if he saw the video he did for Sean Lennon.

Knox: “Nah. That guy’s too fuckin’ avant garde for me.”

Jonze: “No, I’m not saying that. It’s just I don’t want to make something silly out of your song, but at the same time....” He trails off.

There’s a tense silence, then Knox turns to me and asks if I have any ideas for videos. I tell him I don’t. Knox says “fuck,” loudly.

Jonze: “Look, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, and if you don’t really like my stuff maybe we shouldn’t work together. I like working with people who are....”

Knox: “Yeah, well...fuck.... Well, if you come up with some ideas, any ideas, call, but I just...shit.”

Jonze: “I should go.”

Jonze gets up. Knox begins to pace. Then he screams, “Fuck!” and throws a small wooden chair Jonze had been sitting on against the wall. It shatters.

Jonze: “Dude, chill.”

Knox: “I think you better leave!”

Jonze: “I was just....”

Knox: “Just fucking leave!”

Then Knox pushes Jonze into a wall, hard. I think to myself: Spike Jonze is about to get his ass kicked. Then, like a panther (or jaguar), Jonze jumps at Knox. They hit the floor. Jonze is on top of Knox, throwing punches at his head. After about 15 seconds, I pull them apart. Knox gets up and screams, “Wait right fucking there!” and runs into a back room. Jonze looks at me and says, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” and runs out the door, fast.

Knox jumps out from the back room, glowering and holding a baseball bat.

DRIVING AWAY, JONZE MUSES ABOUT HOW “HECTIC” things got with Knox. He repeatedly pushes his face toward the rearview mirror and asks if I think his eye looks swollen. It doesn’t. He says nothing like that has ever happened to him before, except once “with Everlast, but it never got physical.” We pull into a 7-Eleven and he gets a juice and some Advil.

I try to ask some more questions about the movie. “I’m apprehensive about talking about it at all,” he says, “because I feel like it’s going to cloud someone’s opinion. You think about all the movies you had preconceived notions about, about all the ones you read stuff about until you were sick of them before you even saw them.

SPIKE JONZE’S REAL NAME IS ADAM SPIEGEL. He isn’t interested in talking about why, or when, he started going by Spike Jonze, or how much it has to do with Spike Jones, the 1940s band leader, but it’s probably related to the fact he grew up hanging out with a lot of competitive BMX bikers similarly fond of pseudonyms and alter egos. He was raised in Bethesda, Maryland, a well-heeled suburb of Washington, D.C., where his mother enjoyed photography and his father enjoyed being the scion of an extremely successful family-owned catalog company. Jonze is the middle child (younger brother; older sister) and was into skateboarding, photography, lots of Dischord-era punk rock, and, most of all, BMX.

In the mid-’80s, BMXing’s popularity was exploding, and Jonze was spending much of his time at Rockville BMX, a legendary retail and mail-order BMX shop in nearby Rockville, Maryland. At age 15, he accompanied the Haro pro-BMX team on a summer tour of the U.S., serving as part-time roadie, contest announcer, T-shirt salesperson, and using an old 35-millimeter camera, team photographer. By the time he was 16, he was writing and taking pictures for skate and bike magazines. At 17, immediately after finishing high school, he moved to Torrance, California, to work at Freestylin’, the sport’s preeminent glossy. There, he met Mark Lewman and Andy Jenkins, two kindred spirits.

“We were all living together in this apartment across the street from the magazine’s offices, in the Valley, which was like the epicenter of the skateboarding and BMX world,” says Lewman, who was 18 at the time and is now a creative director at Lambesis, a San Diego–based advertising agency that deciphers youth culture. “We’d skate to work, ride ramps, listen to Black Flag and Eric B. and Rakim, and get into adventures drinking Night Train, being weird, and stomping around downtown L.A.”

They’d also make zines. First, in 1991, Homeboy, then, two years later, Dirt. Clever and funny, they became popular with the 25-and-under, proto-extreme-sport, punk/rap-inclined hipster set. During this time, Jonze also started getting hired to take photos for magazines such as Details and Interview. And he began filming skateboarding videos, including one particular deft collaboration with ‘80s skate god Mark Gonzales titled Blind Skateboard Video.

One night, backstage at a Sonic Youth concert, Gonzales gave a copy of that tape to his friend Kim Gordon, who dug it so much that she asked Tamra Davis–who had just directed her first film, Gun Crazy, and had yet to become the wife of Beastie Boy Mike D.–to work with Jonze on shooting some skateboarding segments for Sonic Youth’s video for the song “100%.” He was 21.

Jonze has always lived in something of a rarefied world inhabited by bikers, skaters, emerging rock icons, and movie stars. Even so, he notes, he first met the Beastie Boys through his sister. She and Adam Yauch met in traffic school. The Beasties and Jonze share an appreciation for the absurd. Yauch and Jonze used to do things like rent police uniforms so they could direct traffic in Manhattan.

A few short years after “100%,” Jonze was established as America’s preeminent director of unusual music videos. This fact seemed to bore him. In 1998′s Fatboy Slim “Praise You” video, the one with the dancers in front of Mann’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, Jonze credited the direction to Richard Koufey and the Torrance Community Dancers. To this day, Jonze denies having been a part of it. Earlier this year, a typed letter arrived at the Spin offices vehemently demanding Spin retract its report that Jonze directed the video. It was signed Richard Koufey and included a detailed résumé for Koufey that stated he was a dancer in the “Thriller” video, the “Love Shack” video, the film Dirty Dancing, and something called “Dancextravaganza” at the opening of a Dellamo Fashion Center.

IN ADDITION TO BEING JOHN MALKOVICH, Jonze has another movie coming out, one in which he acts. It’s called Three Kings and was written and directed by David O’Russell. The two met when Jonze hired Russell to help him write a script for Harold and the Purple Crayon, which was to be a partially animated adaption of the children’s book, and Jonze’s feature-film debut, but never made it into production. Jonze costars in Three Kings with George Clooney, Ice Cube, and Mark Wahlberg. They play four U.S. soldiers who try to steal a secret cache of Kuwaiti gold at the end of the Gulf War. It’s a different, very sharp war-genre picture. Jonze plays a redneck private who is the sidekick of Wahlberg’s more seasoned soldier.

“I’d never really acted before,” Jonze says. “A few little things with friends, but nothing serious. And it’s not like I really want to get into acting. But David was really into me doing it, and Mark was especially supportive. In some ways I feel like I had no right to do it. But it was a lot of fun.”

Russell recalls Jonze’s commitment to the project. “He stayed in character a lot on set, and I think he eventually regretted it because Mark started beating the shit out of him as if Spike was really his tagalong sidekick. We tried telling Mark to go easy on him, but he was in character too. I think Spike was upset that that was happening.

AMONG THOSE IMMERSED IN THE CULT of Spike Jonze, the Weird Al prank is infamous. As partially recounted in an issue of the Beastie Boys’ zine, Grand Royal, Mike D. and Russell Simins, the drummer for Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, interviewed by Weird Al. During the interview, they got the conversation to come around to the Beatles. Precisely at that moment, they had Sean Lennon and Yoko Ono walk by and staged something weird and funny. No one at Grand Royal can remember exactly what happened, but it included Spike Jonze dressed up as a waiter.

I didn’t know of the Weird Al prank until weeks after meeting Jonze. As such, I spent a good portion of my evening immediately following the Knox vs. Jonze incident breathlessly telling friends all about their fight, until a friend, a longtime skater, looked at me and matter-of-factly said: “He staged it.”

Two days after the fight I go to meet Jonze for lunch, and, even though I’m not sure, I tell him I now that the afternoon with Knox was staged. Jonze demurs. “That would be gnarly” he says. “Maybe we should come back to this topic after lunch.

We pull into a Carl’s Jr. Things between us are slightly tense. I keep pressing him on the issue as we walk into the restaurant. Jonze doesn’t say anything until he’s just about to order at the counter, then he says we should walk outside. I follow him into the parking lot toward a parked black sedan. There is a guy in dark sunglasses sitting there, sipping on a Coke.

“Dude, it’s off,” Jonze says. “We’re busted.”

Jonze then reveals that he’d “planned something” for right there, right then, at the Carl’s Jr. We all had back inside the restaurant, where Jonze begins walking around the seating area and tapping on what appear to be lonely Carl’s Jr. diners on the shoulder. There are four of them, strategically placed; two have video cameras hidden on them, on has a regular camera. Two of them, including the guy from the car, who is Jeff Tremaine, the art director of the skateboarding magazine Big Brother, are wearing hidden microphones.

“This was going to be an all-out assault,” Tremaine says. “I was going to walk by and bump into Spike and my drink was going to fall all over me. And then I was going to get all jacked at Spike and knock some shit on him and get into a fight.”

“I was actually going to take a punch this time,” Jonze says, “but I was also going to bite down on some blood pellets.” He shows me two small capsules of fake blood. “I wanted the whole article to be about how I keep getting my ass kicked.”

“I was going to knock over the salad bar,” Tremaine says. “We were going to have the whole thing on tape. I twas going to be a turkey shoot, like Kennedy.”

“You are all extremely fucked up,” I tell them.

Jonze says he started planning for it late last night and tells everyone he’s sorry he didn’t go through with it. Tremaine tells Jonze that he was excited to punch him. Then, everyone tells me some stories of previous pranks, the best of which is described as simply the Hard-On One. It goes something like this:

The guy who played Knox yesterday–a friend of Jonze’s who also pulls stunts like getting himself hit by a car (for a Big Brother photo shoot) and shooting himself with a gun while wearing a bulletproof vest (for fun)–puts on a pair of flimsy gym shorts, out of which sticks a large, fake rubber penis. Then, he goes out and gets into a pickup basketball game. Next, he walks into a guitar store, where, when a salesman hands him a cord to plug in, the salesman is pulled toward the fake rubber penis. After that, he makes a quick stop at a karate studio, from which he is quickly removed. Finally, he goes to get measured for a tux, where, according to Jonze, the tailor exclaims [in a thick Indian accent], “What? You always run around with your dick sticking out?”

“It’s amazing,” Jonze says. “We’ve got the whole thing on tape.”

After Carl’s Jr., Spike lobbies me to concoct a wild, made-up story with him, one I could submit in lieu of the article. He’s got some funny, clever ideas for it, too.

“SPIKE DIDN’T GROW UP WATCHING A TON OF FILMS or even TV,” says Kim Gordon, who has known Spike ever since he worked on “100%.” “So he’s not tied to any sense of history image-wise, the way most people are. He just has a real instinctual feel for what people like. And he’s willing to try absolutely anything.”

“I think he kind of looks at everything like it’s a chance to take a golf cart and make it go 60 miles per hour,” says his old friend Lewman. “It’s always been about having a really good time.” Even so, by all accounts Jonze is meticulous, tireless even, whether it concerns a feature film, or taking down a Carl’s Jr. salad bar. His willingness to go to almost any lengths to maintain the integrity of any project–no matter how seemingly small, trivial, or twisted–is nothing short of spectacular. It is probably the one quality that best portends him making very good movies for a long time. A vast portion of Jonze’s creative energies are consumed by these tiny, hysterical performances that will never make any money, that are solely for the benefit of himself and his like-minded friends.

“But it’s not about being weird for weird’s sake,” Lewman says. “I mean, Malkovich is a movie that, at its heart, is about something everyone can relate to–desperately wanting to be someone else.... I think a lot of how [Jonze] looks at the world might come from skating and biking. You do that as a kid and you don’t look at things normally. You look at a hockey rink and see a place to skateboard. You look at a bench as a thing to do tricks off of.”

I SEE JONZE ONE MORE TIME. HE MAKES IT OBVIOUS he’d rather I not write about the Knox and Carl’s Jr. pranks. Further, he mostly turns off my tape recorder any time I start to ask him anything. He tells me he doesn’t know what to do because he doesn’t want to come off as a guy who is lucky enough to make cool movies with big stars but is all petulant about talking to the press. He tells me again how anything he says as far as explanation of his own work is less interesting than someone’s own interpretation of his, or any, movie. About an hour passes. I ask him to name some of his favorite movies and filmmakers.

“I like stuff that is unpredictable in terms of tone,” he says. “I like Tim Burton, The World According to Garp, Being There, all the Coen brothers’ stuff. I feel really lucky to even have the opportunity to try to make those kinds of movies.”

I ask about his movie, about what Malkovich was like.

“He’s just amazing. Really genuinely eccentric. He heard about the script and contacted us, loved the idea. It was weird because he plays himself in the movie, but it’s not really him, it’s the script’s idea of him. Whenever I see him do the Dance of Despair and Disillusionment, I’m like, this guy is my hero.”

The Dance of Despair and Disillusionment is reason alone to see Being John Malkovich. In the movie, John Cusack plays a puppeteer who enters the body of John Malkovich and forces him to give up acting for puppeteering. At one point, Malkovich acts out the dance he wants to be his ultimate master-puppeteer work, the Dance of Despair and Disillusionment. Just out of the shower, he acts it out in a towel. David Fincher, the director of Seven and Fight Club, fellow former music-video director, and close friend of Jonze, calls it “up there with Butch and Sundance jumping off the cliff, as far as greatest movie moments ever go.”

I try to get Jonze to talk about other things, videos, his commercial work. (Jonze often shoots commercials, the most recent being Lee Jeans’ “Buddy Lee” spots.) He won’t. A few days later, we talk on the phone. He asks how I’ve decided to “handle” the article, says he knows I’ll write “something good.” The next day, I call him back, ask him to clear up some factual stuff, dates he worked on things, how he first met certain people. He’s not into it. But, before we get off the phone, he does answer one question.

Me: Where did the idea for the “Sabotage” video come from?

Jonze: “Australia.”

[everygame]

Cinco Paus (iOS)

Developed/Published by: smestorp Released: 12/02/2015 Completed: n/a Completion: 33 games, 632 points. Trophies / Achievements: n/a

So, Cinco Paus, then. It’s a game I’ve resisted playing for ages and ages largely because I wasn’t that into Michael Brough’s previous games (I somewhat liked 868-Hack, but I didn’t find it very compelling somehow?) but we got to a point where Metanet’s Raigan Burns just bought it for me so I decided to give it the old college try.

Cinco Paus is incredible. It’s also frustrating, unfair, probably taking the piss when it comes to time investment, and yet something that I managed to lose more time, more intensely on, than any game I’ve played in ages. Like legitimately losing 14 hours to it within the first three days.

It’s an easily misunderstood game, so I’m going to outline (first of all) that you absolutely should play it, unless you’re easily addicted to rogue-likes, in which case you probably shouldn’t. Basically, it goes like this:

You’re a wizard.

You have five wands that you don’t know the behaviors of; each wand does five things. Your goal is to compete FIFTY sets of five levels, which are five by five, by getting to the exit on each level.

Wands do a variety of things. You learn by shooting them (drag them to your wizard and point them in a direction; you can’t use them directly against a wall.) They don’t tell you what the thing they do is unless they do that thing so you can’t tell if it hurts an enemy unless you hit an enemy. But you also can’t tell if it does something good that requires it not to hit an enemy (the “buried treasure” ability) unless it doesn’t hit an enemy!

All the explanations are in Portuguese, so ignore them and just look them up here.

You can pick up items.

Books teach you one thing one wand does.

Gems. Collect five gems and you can unlock an artifact (you can have five) which do one (powerful) thing.

Keys. Collect five keys, which you can only do via wand shenanigans (there’s one key per level, and that always gets used up to unlock doors) and you can find a secret level (a hidden door on a wall that doesn’t contain an exit/entrance already) which will upgrade an artifact. Each artifact can have five upgrades. They’re extremely good.

Potions. Heal you one point. This is valuable, but if you’re at full health you can ignore or transform these.

Treasure. It’s just points! If you’re going for score, these are high risk because they give you nothing else. Transform ‘em early if you can, I say.

After a set of five levels, everything resets except for your gems, keys, score and artifacts. So you “keep” some progress.

If you die: you lose everything and start again.

Oh, and every set of five levels is basically the same; the layouts are close to random, but the selection of enemies you face are consistent; level 3 in your fiftieth game will have the same possible enemy selection as it would have in your first game (recounted in this excellent guide).

You die if you lose your hitpoints; you will generally die because an enemy hit you.

Enemies move after you do, semi-randomly.

If you walk into a space next to them, they will hit you. Do not do this! Make sure they move next to you, and hit them.

There are shrimp, lizards, toads and roosters. You don’t want to slug it out with the toads and roosters.

There are also Ghosts, who are weird; they will hit you if you move next to them, but if you are next to them and you move towards them, they’ll move away. That means you can’t kill them without a wand, but is also means that you can move and not get hit by them even if you think you’re trapped!

That’s… a lot. So you might be asking, what the hell am I doing?

Try and learn as much about the wands as soon as possible each run. If you can, track all the big things a wand can do (did it hit a wall, an enemy, etc).

Don’t get hit, and especially never ever get cornered (two enemies next to you) unless you have a big power that will pay off and kill them. On the first level, if you’re deep in a multi-game run, carefully slug it out with lizards if you would otherwise have to fire at point blank range. There are too many ways for things to go wrong on that first level and taking a couple of hits is more survivable than turning a lizard into a rooster, and then having the beam bounce off corners and duplicate it several times (and then teleport you in the center of them. Which could happen.)

Do whatever you can to get as many gems as early as possible; if you can dupe them, do so. If you can use transform on books/potions/treasure to try and get a gem, do it. 

Do whatever you can to get as many extra keys. Upgraded artifacts are so important.

Above all: survive. If you’re fucking up a level, just do whatever to get to the exit. Don’t get greedy. There’s always the next level, or at worst the next set.

Right. So that reads as insanely complicated, I think, but the beauty of Cinco Paus is that it’s actually extremely simple. While there’s a lot of things a wand can do, the things you can do are limited, so the play-space is always extremely understandable (the map is always 5x5; you know you’re getting a particular set of enemies next time, etc.) It’s actually extremely elegant.

The thing about Cinco Paus is that it’s the closest I think I’ve come to truly seeing genius at play in game design. Like, ok, maybe that sounds absurd, but I mean like when you think about a piece of art or music where you think “oh, I could do that” and you probably could, but it’s the idiosyncrasies of the artist that make it something far more interesting and unique and you sort of second guess any critique of that.

I mean listen. This game looks like shit. Just shit. It’s disgusting to look at. I hate it. But maybe that’s totally still necessary to what it is. And I honestly think the decision to make all the text in Portuguese is… problematic? I know it came from a genuine interest in using the language (Brough is, or was, learning it) but that it’s used to make the game more mysterious and alien (for everyone except people who can speak, as he admits, the sixth most spoken language in the world) is kinda… I just don’t think it’s good. 

And the thing is, for me it doesn’t add anything. This game could, I think, look crazy polished and feature some brilliant UI and be in English; like it could track all the things you’ve learned in a big database; fuck it could even cross off all the things you’ve tried. The game would still be extremely challenging, and if anything, more enjoyable as a puzzle.

But… would that actually be better? I’m not sure. I really can’t tell, because it’s a bit like saying Van Gogh should have just drawn normally.

So, you know, here’s to the iconoclasts. Fuck knows I’d probably have been a better games journalist if I didn’t put my best writing in a printed zine, you know? I still did it the way I wanted to.

I suppose the question might be though: why have I stopped playing? Well, I died frustratingly in the middle of my greatest run ever as it turns out Roosters had unlocked a way to warp me three runs ago and, despite being well prepared, I was warped by one where I was surrounded and literally couldn’t survive (some people might quibble.) I didn’t feel any rage, I felt pretty proud of getting that far, but the idea of starting the grind again made me really bored.

You see, in order to get to the point where Cinco Paus is really fun, you have to put up with the “starting grind” where with no artifacts yet you have to play loads of times trying to get a good start and get a few artifacts going. That’s potentially hundreds of games, and after bumping up against that for a few days I just said fuck it.

I know, you can’t question genius by my own parameters here, but I think about a similar genius (uh, actually not similar) Jeff Minter, and how he came up with that genius “high score save” where it just saved the game at your highest score each level and you could restart there. You could always restart too. Here I wish I could just pick a random artifact or two and start at level 5 or 10 with less score, even. Because it’s the getting of those that are the ball-ache when you’re so weak and shitey.

But look. It’s probably good. I kicked my habit. But I’m glad I played it. I’m better for it. I’m still not watching the Wire though.

Will I ever play it again? Maybe if he updates it, which I think has been rumoured. I’m taking a big break from Brough but I’ll be back for Imbrouglio though. Actually excited.

Final Thought: There’s no daily seed here, which might have kept me playing, but I realize that he can’t really do that because one person could just tell you what’s coming, plus doing fifty levels is, what… 8 hours or something? It’s wild that I want a game where everything is so restricted to five of anything still maybe streamlined a bit more. But as I said, what do I know? I’m not a genius.

[mimiplaysgames]

A Powerful Enough Dream (Ch. 3)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua (eventually) Rating: T Word Count: 9,275

Summary: Too many people need Aqua’s help, and if she’s going to do her job as a Keyblade Master, she’s going to have to set aside her personal needs to pull them through... Only to find that something is not entirely alright with her.

Read on AO3

A/N: Ahhhh, I've never meant to ignore this particular fic for so long. ^^;; In all honesty, aside from so many other things going on in my life (I went on hiatus and am due for another, I was dedicated to other projects and I just got accepted into another zine ;-; and there was my stupid, broken computer which is now replaced! :D), I really dreaded writing this one. When I announced that I was splitting this story in two fics, I knew I dug a grave for myself. There is no way to fix this chapter without rewriting the first one entirely, but I figured it was much more important to get started Aqua on her journey and I need this loose end tied as soon as possible. If you're new to this story, I'm sorry this chapter is so bad - I'm totally aware, I promise. I've tried my hardest to make this side-quest as sensible as possible.

****

Crazy

His heart beats hard, fast, irregular, and it's about to collapse.

He doesn't hear how ragged his breath is, running as desperately as he is, and he ignores how much his muscles are screaming for rest.

Then there's the headache. That's the one thing Terra is mindful of.

He trips.

The Realm of Darkness doesn't make it easy, not with how rough it shapes its terrain, like it tripped him on purpose. Cobblestones not fitting well together. Pits in the dirt. Rocks hidden in tall grass where he won't notice.

Flashes of light burst somewhere far behind. It's too foggy to see what's going on. Terra spits sweat out of his lips.

There are eyes - a pair wedged right next to a pebble, near enough to grab his fingers. Another in the hollow trunk of a tree. And one more in the distance, in the direction he was heading, and now he has to choose another way and pray he doesn't fall off a cliff.

Behind him, he hears bubbling, the same sickly sound that always announces the arrival of Heartless.

It simmers across his back and he grabs whatever landed on him and throws it as hard as he can and he summons Ends of the Earth -

But can't. He hasn't been able to, not since he left the beach.

Not since he saw a flash of light and Aqua was gone, sent home to her freedom like she deserves. Not since some tall men in dark, hooded cloaks appeared out of nowhere in the sandy shores. Organization members. They wanted to kidnap him.

Terra had to choose between waiting for his friends to come back in dangerous waters, or running away.

When he can turn back into Xehanort at any moment.

He chose to run.

And now he's surrounded without a Keyblade. He thinks about Xemnas, and even though he's tired, and even though his stomach hurts, he takes that brief memory of what it feels like to be numb, to be detached and disheartened, and waves his hands in a sweep against the earth and flies them upward.

A barrier shoots erect - but not just any protective shield, an offensive one. The type that electrifies the Heartless that ram into it, and sends them flying backwards. The kind only a Nobody can summon.

He conjures more - two by his side, another behind him - to force these damn things to back off, and he escapes when he's had enough -

Tripping again when the Realm tricks a hill to look like a straight path and oops, there he goes, falling in air, rolling against dry dirt and tumbling until he finally halts.

It's dark down here. The headache will split his scalp open.

"No," he grumbles, running fingers through his hair and he wants to rip the strands off. "I can't control-"

His limbs go rigid. "No," he says again. He wants to make sure Xehanort hears him loud and clear.

Terra cannot summon his armor anymore for that matter, since Xehanort has clouded both in darkness. They should be in arms' reach, waiting peacefully in his heart, ready to come at his will… but it's like his Keyblade can't see or hear him either.

He manages a small sob when he loses control of his arms - which are quite literally, moving on their own to grip at his legs.

The taste of loss is bitter, as prickly as the tree roots ripping out of the earth and tangling around him. It's like the Realm sees what he's going through, and wants to point and laugh. They squeeze, tightening so his bones can't reply, and he's left to allow them to drag him.

But light is warm and always there - because without it, there wouldn't be any shadows. It shines like a halo, making the roots writhe and wrinkle away, letting him go, letting him breathe. It eases his headache, which he knows won't last forever, but finally… relief.

"Mickey?"

Two large, yellow shoes - big enough to belong to a clown - step in front of him, a pair of comically round ears leering over him with a huge smile. Mickey is the physical embodiment of a hearth, of everything that makes children happy in the outside world, a complete mismatched reflection of the twisted underground of the Realm.

"Slipped, did ya?" he squeaked.

"Maybe," Terra scoffs, just able to move a finger to trace the dirt. It feels so real.

As real as Aqua's skin when he held her - he held her. That was real. And she escaped. Terra considers this a success, a wish fulfilled, to stay behind so she could taste food again.

… Terra didn't even get a chance to tell her about his feelings. He chickened out in the last minute.

She's smart. She'll free Ven, too. And Terra will drag Xehanort to drown in the darkness together.

If he can manage to keep control of his body that is.

Mickey's Keyblade now dons some new chinks and chips.

If they continue this way, neither of them will last much longer. Terra has already woken up a couple of times, right in the middle of a duel with Mickey, a silver Keyblade high in the air and ready to strike, only for Terra to realize what he's holding and drops it. It's flashes of moments that in reality may have lasted only minutes but seem much longer. If Xehanort keeps hacking away, Mickey's Keyblade will break.

And then Terra won't have anyone left to help him.

But it hurts, that headache.

"Chin up, Terra," Mickey says, surveying where they should head to next.

The fog dissipates and gives them two paths: one paved with a line of lanterns illuminating the way, the other a rocky uphill hike into a forest.

"I… need to rest," Terra breathes, wanting to take back the words. If he rests, he'll lose control again.

"Aww, Terra, don't worry."

"I'll hurt you again." He chokes on a whimper, the headache roaring this time. "I don't know how Aqua survived years of this…"

Hands take hold of his shoulders, and this small mouse, barely as tall as his knees, takes Terra's entire weight onto his shoulders to sit him up. "Remember, I got ya."

"What are we going to do? I can't summon my Keyblade anymore and I just don't-"

Terra doesn't know what to say. I just don't know if I can keep waiting for anyone to come back?

"Well," Mickey muses, "we'll have to keep moving."

Thanks, Captain Obvious.

"I don't know how you do it, either."

"I don't have Xehanort weighing me down, and I think that makes you pretty strong. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"This place doesn't make you sad?"

"If I think about it…" A frown on Mickey's face is ill-fitting. "But we don't have time for that."

Funny, since the Realm will be sure to give them all the time it has to offer. The Realm will be sure to give them reasons to stay.

Maybe it's darkness creeping in, or maybe Terra had enough of reality to taste - it's sour.

"I don't see how anyone is going to find us," he says.

Mickey is silent for a moment.

"I had an old friend," he starts, "who used to have a motto he lived his life by."

He holds a fist up, and releases each of his four fingers with every rule: "'First, think. Second, dream. Third, believe. And finally, dare.' To honor him, I have to believe that every step we take will get us closer to freedom."

As if to prove a point, he faces Terra, and finishes with, "I think that's what helped Aqua last this long down here."

Condensed simply, those all sound like tenants of a Keyblade wielder.

"Was your friend a gentle man?" Terra asks.

Mickey smiles with a shrug to his shoulder. "Ohoho, he also said something to the effect of, 'You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.'"

"... It makes you stronger." How often has his own Master said the same thing? The Realm will kick him when he's already down, and he's supposed to stand on his own two feet and carry on like it doesn't hurt.

"Something like that." Mickey points to the rocky uphill hike. "My heart tells me this will be the safer way to go. C'mon Terra. How's about we keep going? Our friends think about us all the time, and they will light our way."

Terra grunts like his legs hate him, and he rolls his neck. It helps soothe the headache.

"Okay."

It starts with the suggestion by a simple-minded mouse, and Terra gets on his feet, fighting off dizziness, to face more odd nights.

****

The clock still hasn't struck ten and if the way her legs are shaking are any indication of how… is annoyed is the right word? Anxious?

Impatient. Aqua keeps crossing her legs and checks the time, and for a second she thinks she's back in the Realm of Darkness when she swears the minute hand went backwards.

The lights in the lobby are dim, the carpet as red as a deep wound. The chair she's lounging in is comfortable at least, but it nags at her back and she's desperate to move. She's still in the hotel, her heart torn by her duty to the people she swore to protect, nowhere near Ventus, nowhere near Terra, nowhere near anywhere she truthfully wants to be. If it continues to tear in opposite directions, will her heart break in two?

Rydia is also slouched in a lounge chair of her own, and has a radio playing, the static clearing to the lullaby of an accordion and violin. Their story is a long trek through a city filled with the lights of a harp, guided by the sad, gentle canals of a tuba. The violin abandons the accordion, and the tuba reassures the accordion, and it's lonely until they all reunite powerfully at the end of a long night.

Rydia is dressed stunning as always, her empire sleeves in gold trimming piling on top of the floor as she braids and unbraids her long green hair, a gentle smile on her face as she eases into her chair, losing herself to the song.

Everyone around Aqua is either doing two things: hustling to wherever they need to be - the infirmary, the battlefield, to their families - or, they linger, living out the seconds until Kefka comes.

Until Kefka comes: that is what is on everyone's mind, and Aqua can't bear to pass more than a second of thought to it.

But she'll stand corrected when the clock finally hits ten, and after ten strikes from the clock tower, here come the sirens.

They wail at first, getting louder which every passing vibration until she can't hear anything else, and she feels Rydia getting stiff right next to her. The sirens keep blaring.

They quiet, only to come back around and Aqua realizes the town is desperate because there won't be a place that could possibly escape the sound. They need her help. Terra and Ven need her help. Too many people need her help.

Focus, Aqua.

Silence, and her heart still drums in her ear.

"I swear that clock tower is haunted," Rydia says, slowly letting out breath as if letting it go all at once would make too much noise. The music sounds softer, as if the sirens had intimidated it, and Rydia leans over to bring her ears closer. "It always knows when to interrupt the best parts."

When Aqua stares at her with uneasy eyes, Rydia continues, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

Aqua never wants to hear them again.

The bustling energy in the hotel took pause during the sirens, and is now at full speed again - maybe even faster, knowing the minutes are ticking. Kefka arrives at eleven. One hour.

Cid barges through, keeping the double doors to the lobby open with a lit cigarette pursed in his lips, and a scowl worse than his usual attitude. "Incomin'."

In comes a tall, blond man with ridiculously spiky hair, and a giant blade strapped to his back (giant is an understatement), dragging carts of wooden boxes, throwing them open to reveal potions - as much as a store inventory.

Aqua recognizes him faintly from the night she came through the Door to Light... and suddenly she feels that twist in her gut, a sweaty coldness that only comes with what she must be most familiar with at this point.

Darkness. This man has the trace of it… and Cid is helping him like no one is in danger and Rydia is welcoming him like he's a friend.

The man pauses his hyper-focus when he sees Aqua, the severe look on his face softening with… pity.

"You're Aqua, right?" he asks her.

"That's right." She hates the way he's looking at her. "And you're…?"

"Cloud." Here it comes. "I'm sorry about Terra."

She has to remind herself that people mean well (and once she frees Terra, everyone will stop trying to apologize to her).

"Thank you," she says and she's relieved she doesn't sound ungrateful.

Cloud looks away at first, minorly distracted by Cid's grumbling about how they only have one ram left for the fight. Then he stands up, approaching Aqua.

"I was really torn up when I heard," Cloud says, uneasy like it's weird for him to be so open-hearted, "but I respect his decision. He has a good head on his shoulders."

Then he extends his hand to her. "Welcome to the team, Aqua."

Cloud has a gentle half-smile on his face, and darkness extends its hand, expecting her to shake it.

She's expected to be polite and she tries - she really wants to try - but her hand limps in his firm shake. Cloud gets the message, dropping his own and turning over his shoulder. "I'll be at the site," he tells Cid. "Hurry it up."

Cid groans, and saying out of ear shot, "Kid swears he's a hot shot."

Aqua rolls her lips inward.

"You alright?" Rydia asks, leaning forward.

"He has darkness." It's impolite to say, but Aqua has little patience to play with the dark.

Rydia cocks an eyebrow, her gray eyes searching for a proper explanation. "Your point? We all harbor darkness within ourselves."

"That is true, but… it's not normal to be able to sense it."

Rydia sits back, nodding to what she's understanding. "I suppose Cloud has been through so much, considering… what I don't understand is why it has to be such a black and white issue."

"What do you mean?"

"Where I come from, darkness isn't considered to be evil, at least among mages. We have white and black magic, but it has more to do with how you wield them. Darkness alone says nothing of your character."

Then Rydia smiles, to prove her point. "I trust Cloud with my life."

Aqua supposes she's being unfair - after all, her reflection has proven to her countless times that there are cracks within her very own heart, and it's unrealistic to believe they have all been sealed and darkness-proof.

There's been a lot of nights when Aqua had wondered if she should end it, pierce her chest with her Master's Keyblade and let the ocean take her. What darker sadness could there be besides that?

And then there's Terra… he has darkness, and maybe it's strong but it's always outshined by his spirit. He will always be a good person.

"Cloud, the sad hero," Cid gruffs, pulling potions out onto tables so everyone who passes by can easily pack them. "Basque in his greatness when he feels sorry for you."

Rydia takes a sleeve her mouth to cover her chuckles. "Where is this coming from?"

"He's more depressin' than an opera." He takes a puff of smoke. "But eh, I can respect 'im. He gets shit done."

Cid glances over to the hallway, suddenly switching gears and gives the two girls a fair warning: "Look sharp."

It's for Garnet's arrival, who is followed closely by Lulu, the organizer of the orphanage... So she hasn't followed the children to safety after all.

Garnet walks like she's on air, the most feminine Aqua has ever seen, her head held high like she's not as small as she really is, her hair and her bubble sleeves floating like there's a breeze that only graces her presence. Her heart is determined and open, embracing what's to come.

Lulu has her arms crossed, her face contorted in annoyance and a touch of impeccable, heavy makeup, her fur and leather-trimmed gown trailing long behind her. She walks with responsibility, but her heart doesn't want to accept what's going on around her.

"You're going to find me hard to submit, Your Highness," Lulu says, her voice as serious as her disposition.

Garnet whips around. "What you propose is preposterous."

"Your point?" Lulu scoffs. "I didn't stay behind to let you do what you please. I'm speaking for what is best for everyone else."

Garnet huffs. As if to end the conversation, she pretends to organize through potions even though they are all the same color, handing over some to Lulu, taking more for the battle ahead.

Lulu apprehensively accepts, and proposes something: "When the children want to win an argument, they play a game called Snap. Winner gets the final word."

"Is that so?"

"It's a game of magical prowess. Hold a coin flat in between both palms, and you fight to keep it."

Garnet straightens up, understanding exactly the kind of filibustering Lulu is trying to do, and extends her hand, gesturing to be given something. "Let's have it, then."

Out of Lulu's bra comes a large silver coin. She holds the coin together with Garnet's palm, like they are slapping it in place. Visually, nothing seems to be happening as their faces lose themselves to concentration, but Aqua recognizes the energy in the air: there is magic bustling in between their fingertips, and whoever exercises more willpower gets to keep the coin.

"Now," Lulu says and they pull hands apart like they're avoiding harm.

It takes a moment to process, and Garnet flips her fingers to reveal that the coin has stayed with her. Whether it's beginner's luck or she's that more skillful, Aqua doesn't know enough to figure.

"I've won," Garnet announces.

"Except you've lost," Lulu says with dejection, with concern, with stern ambition. She hovers over to Rydia's side.

Rydia has cast her eyes downward, avoiding the game altogether, a profound look of guilt betraying her need to keep a straight face.

Three women standing on one side of the room with Garnet opposing them.

It's enough for Cid, who's sitting on his own away from the drama, to throw his hands in the air, as if saying this isn't worth the trouble. "Women."

"What is going on?" Aqua asks.

Her interruption makes Garnet jump, but the princess ignores the question.

So Lulu answers, her tone as exasperated as her eye roll. "Garnet thinks she can get away with sacrificing herself."

"You haven't left me with much choice," Garnet says, sending a glance over to Rydia. "I have been blessed with more time to be there for those in need of me. And yet, I have to do what is best for my people, and I cannot sit idly by to watch you play the sacrifice on my behalf."

Aqua stands up. "I don't understand what you're implying." Except she does understand. She just refuses that there's any justification to it.

Garnet breathes, ignoring Lulu's scoff. "Kefka demands female mages… Turn them into Heartless or else it will continue to haunt us every single night, and I cannot have this when we are in the middle of evacuations. I must ensure the safety of my peers."

Garnet then holds a hand to her heart. "Speak of nothing to Noctis. He'd never leave me out of his sight if he knew."

Hands gripped into themselves, shaking her head, Aqua groans and doesn't know what to say. "Riku never…" Said anything to me.

Just to stay behind and protect the hotel, out of real harm's way without giving her a choice.

So Aqua sets her sights. "Kefka is supposed to come every other night, right?"

"That is correct."

"So you'll buy one night with your life?"

"...Yes. We are the last ones." She gestures to herself, Lulu, and Rydia.

The entire room is quiet, weighed down by the severity of what was said.

They are the last ones, and does it matter really which order they get taken out, one by one?

It's not fair. It's ridiculous, and Aqua, Keyblade Master, is not going to tolerate it.

"Your Highness," she says, "I don't mean to show disrespect, but I think you should listen more to your peers."

Rydia leans forward, like she's looking for a speck of hope. Lulu thanks some force out there that someone around here is speaking reason.

"What would have me do, Master Aqua?" Garnet asks gently. "Shall I be content in my path to survival while those who've paved it for me waste away?"

Aqua swallows hard. The job of a Keybearer will sometimes have easy missions, and sometimes impossible ones, but they are all equal in the importance of saving lives. This decision is a no-brainer.

Even if they buy just one more night of peace, Terra is rotting and Aqua has to get going. Ventus is waiting and she promised…

"If Kefka wants a female mage, I'll give it one," she says, starting to head to the exit.

Garnet drops her jaw. "Are you mad? In your condition?"

"I don't have a condition." Aqua stops at the ornately carved wooden doors, and turns to face everyone in the room. "Cid, can you take my place in protecting the hotel?"

It's not just Aqua and the other mages squaring themselves against Garnet's judgment - Cid proudly dusts off his shoulders, nodding. "Better than facing that crazy clown."

Crazy clown doesn't seem to cut it as an appropriate nickname for the terror everyone around Aqua is feeling.

Aqua glances over to Rydia, who is still healing from a wound. "You need to always be by her side. Rydia, are you okay with this?"

Rydia has fire in her eyes, grabbing her longstaff and using it to keep herself standing. "I don't need to move much to destroy Heartless. I'm strong, and I'll stay."

"You're either really naive, or really powerful," Lulu says to Aqua. "I'll take my chances. I'll follow." She picks her potions like she's heard good news, taking her place across the room.

Garnet stands silent, defeated, with an expression that makes Aqua feel horrible, as though the Keyblade Master is really asking the princess to commit to something that is extraordinarily difficult and painful.

This morning, she had such a bright light within her that her healing touch shone white. Now it's dim, her eyes an empty black.

"It's my job to protect you," Aqua says, attempting to comfort her.

And Garnet only stares, like she doesn't believe it. Like she's faced this too many times, and knows from experience that they will all lose.

****

By the way she breaknecks towards the third district, Aqua can feel the clock ticking, even though the tower is quiet.

She takes long strides, stepping on the occasional puddle, leaving a poor Garnet to jog with her short legs in order to keep up. Traverse Town is decorated in lights, but it's otherwise a vacation town for ghosts. No one to dream about fancy jewelry, to admire the latest fashion, to salivate at the aroma of tonight's dinner.

The third district would have been a sight if it wasn't already halfway-destroyed - debris piling on colorful electrical wiring, lanterns that have been bent in half, a water fountain that has been blown open, and apartment homes with all the lights off, wind blowing through curtains. No one lives here anymore.

In the place of a bustling modern district are a bunch of wooden crates, tossed around between people to gather potions and weapons. ...It's a lot of fighters for one Heartless. Aqua would make the fourth Keyblade wielder up against this thing.

A part of her has this sudden apprehension to take another step forward - these people follow her now, swayed by her confidence that all of their worries will end tonight.

What if she has given them false hope?

Could she cope with it?

It's cold. Someone is watching her.

Aqua recognizes this feeling, since she's been faced with it for the better part of twelve years. There's already Heartless here, and she looks every which way to see if she could spot them hiding among the shadows.

Whatever is there is already studying the people gathering here, honing on the way Garnet and Lulu stride towards the middle of the square, pleased by how frantic people are rushing to finish preparations.

She whips around to find the clock tower in the distance, a great vantage point for anyone to stalk from. It's twenty past ten, but…

It's very cold.

Kefka is already here. It's just waiting for the time to start.

It's a sick situation, Kefka twirling these terrorized people in its fingers.

Aqua's expecting to find a certain pair of yellow eyes that would normally come from feral demons, but a different pair perks up when he sees her arriving to the third district.

And they belong to none other than Lea. She is surprised that he even cares that much.

Or maybe he's just really dramatic, but something about the twitch of his lips tells her that he isn't exactly pleased with her presence there.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he says with a smirk, feigning surprise and she doesn't know why he tries so hard to plant certain impressions on other people.

Aqua has no other answer for him except the obvious: "I have to help."

The facade in his eyes flicker out like a lighter turning off. He places his hands on his waist, letting himself be more honest, yet still keeping a hot air of distance between them. "Are you sure it's a good idea for you to fight something this malicious?"

The nerve of him. "I've faced more nightmares than anyone has ever slept with. I can take care of myself."

"Even after what Terra went through to get you back? Do you think that's fair to him?"

Aqua stammers. It isn't fair to drag Terra into this… "I don't need your permission to fight."

She leaves him with his mouth wide-open, searching for words and failing to find them.

Which only leaves her hearing the words, "She's just as dense as him!" fading behind her. It makes her smirk. Terra hasn't changed - when he has his mind set, he can become the worst kind of stubborn, as immovable as a boulder.

On her way to the middle of the square, past some men mapping out the upper levels where long-range fighters should situate, Aqua finds two particular individuals in one of the highest balconies who take way too much interest in watching her.

A well-dressed man, impeccably so, his silk sleeves a clean white like he's never been to battle, bracelets like he appreciates the finer things in life, and an exquisite embroidered vest like he can afford it, and a rifle sitting casually on his shoulder. He's not the one who initially took an interest in her - he only does so when his partner whispers to him about her arrival.

Said partner is a dark-skinned woman, with long, stark white hair that reaches her thighs, and jackrabbit ears stretching high into the sky out of her helmet. It only makes her look taller, taller than the well-dressed man, taller than Terra. Something about this woman makes Aqua wonder if she's seen her before, but this is no time to sit and think about it - that can wait until later. This rabbit-woman immediately takes notice of Aqua, tightening her grip on her bow.

Now there are two more pairs of eyes watching Aqua's back as she continues onward, out of ear-shot of whatever their opinions are.

Aqua comes across Cloud and Noctis, the latter with a clipboard filled with a checklist to make sure everything is in order. Occasionally he asks Cloud about the setup. Garnet and Lulu are already making laps around the square to check in on their sole wooden ram - Aqua gets the sense that Garnet is avoiding her, and Lulu is only following to make sure she doesn't do anything drastic.

Without really looking at Cloud in the eye, Aqua reaches over to hold Noctis' elbow firmly. "Make sure to keep an eye on Garnet," she says softly.

Noctis stammers before getting grim, and he's disappointed. He looks over his shoulder, where he sees Garnet cheerfully speak to a man like nothing is wrong and no foul plans are being made.

"Make that four eyes," Cloud says, smirking, and Aqua can't bring herself to smile back.

"Thanks for the warning," Noctis says. "She never learns."

… That's the weird thing about the people here. There's so much sadness, in Noctis' eyes, in Cloud's, in Garnet's… and they try smiling anyway like they're tricking themselves. Aqua doesn't remember if she's ever really smiled the entire time she's been in the Realm of Darkness.

Maybe once, when she saw apparitions of Terra and Ventus, but when they disappeared, she reasoned that she was being too hopeful. That it was never really truly a smile, because she can only give one around the people she loves. Not ghosts.

How grateful she is that a super-friendly face comes running up to her, bright (huge) yellow shoes splish-splashing through puddles to greet her, Donald and Goofy closeby.

"What are you doing here?" Sora asks, skidding to a stop.

Aqua really wishes people would stop questioning her drive. "Where is Riku?"

Sora takes a pause, his eyes darting for a moment towards the ground. "He's not here yet."

So it's not four Keybearers against Kefka, but three.

A faint thought nags at the back of her mind again. "He never told me about the female mages."

Sora's eyes widen, like he forgot that detail. But he lets it melt away into a small smile. "Riku hides stuff from me, too, sometimes."

"You've fought it before? Kefka?" Aqua searches his eyes for the truth, and she realizes that she actually sounds apprehensive.

She could fail this mission. It wouldn't be the first.

"Ah, phooey!" Donald scoffs, waving his arms like he's shooing a gnat. He's in a really bad mood, and how can he not when he's stuck here for duty's sake just like everyone else? "It's just a clown."

Sora brightens up, a triumphant fist in his palm. "We have a good team here."

His smile is ill-fitting because it's genuine. Nothing like the others who try to hide their fear, but he makes his out of immense faith. Sora's light is powerful, and… rare, Aqua thinks.

"We do," she says, remembering Ven's smile. Something about Sora reminds Aqua that there are reasons to look forward to happier times.

But everything pleasant is short-lived, and maybe that's a sad fact of life.

Someone screams. Points to the clock tower.

The minute hand speeds up, gaining velocity towards the top of the eleventh hour.

It takes three strikes of the bells for everyone to decide whether this is a joke or it's actually happening early.

Two more strikes for Noctis to yell, "Get aggressive! Stay alive!"

Three more for Garnet to whisper a spell that shines a light upon every single person in the area, and another two for Aqua to witness a faint crystal wrap and spin around her before fading away.

A protection spell, something completely unique and rare. Garnet's light is pure and blinding.

One more and it strikes eleven. Ten minutes to do the job or Kefka walks for another night.

The bubbling that signals the arrival of Heartless gargles, a dark mass growing and growing and growing to the size of a building, before an enormous clown steps down, shaking the ground underneath its mismatched shoes and socks.

It laughs, piercing like a speaker is about to blow her ears. Aqua clutches her heart, protecting it from ripping out of her chest - everyone else is gripping their heads like they're containing a massive migraine.

Kefka leans forward just to take a peek at Aqua, its stupid-looking collar a vomit-inducing mix of yellow and red, three swords carried on each shoulder, its white mask welded onto its dark face, bright yellow eyes in circles wide and without lids, a smile painted and screwed together -

And two huge gashes diagonally across its shield of a face, exposing the skin of a shadow underneath.

They all have been saying this thing is impenetrable. Sure.

Aqua summons her Master's Defender.

The clown's hands shiver, and its jaw widens just like a machine - it lets out a screech that sounds like gears out of control, getting louder and louder like Kefka is offended by her weapon.

And it cuts off.

A cleaver flies into its face, knocking it out of place. There's no way someone has that kind of strength but there is Noctis appearing out of nowhere in its tail, like the weapon is a destination. He strikes and Kefka barely blocks it with its forearm. Noctis throws his cleaver elsewhere, and wherever it appears he warps to. He sends a spear to strike Kefka's shoulder. Disappears. A sword, and then Noctis again, attempting to jab the clown in the eye.

Either way, Noctis stays up high, distracting the clown from doing anything else, like a fly determined to be annoying.

"Light!" Sora yells.

He beams, a force bursting out before racing back to his body, and suddenly he illuminates white and takes two Keyblades (Two? Aqua can't think about it right now), sending himself flying high, his weapons a passion to be reckoned with.

They are both heavy hitters, Noctis and Sora, black and white, one sneaky, the other forward, both brave.

Aqua has much to catch up to.

If it's aggressiveness they want, she has plenty of it. Her magic swirls around her as she charges forward, drawing her thoughts inward to her belly, letting her body twirl faster and faster to hurl the energy out in whips and circles.

Donald and Lulu tag team, throwing lightning strikes, icicles, fireballs on the top of the clown's head. It really, really hates having its face touched, and between those spells and Sora and Noctis zipping around like insects, there's already enough distractions.

Cloud thrusts at its metal calves with his giant sword, an impressive power from below to add to the frenzy.

The well-dressed man and the rabbit-woman take calculated shots from afar, aiming for the eyes and only when the clown has an opening.

Lea also takes that cue and throws firey pot shots from afar even though he's a Keyblade wielder (maybe it's smarter to keep a distance).

Goofy is a little all over the place, but his attack, inspired by a tornado, hits the spot when it does, joining Aqua in the mess she's created.

That's… ten fighters at least against one Heartless and it doesn't do much.

Kefka instead takes a moment to just… stand there and take the heat like it isn't bothered. It can't be this easy.

It's not. Like it suddenly woke up, Kefka stomps the ground, and with it comes a roundabout of explosions that start at the rooftops right behind it and circle the entire third district, tossing debris into the ground and causing several people to succumb to coughing fits.

Garnet immediately checks person to person, her light shining to heal. Noctis is already at her side, and she pretends not to notice.

Cloud starts yelling commands to get the ram ready. He's trying to maneuver it and several men crowd together with him to make it move faster. "Aim it toward our bombs. Let's send it back to darkness!"

As though Kefka heard him, it sprints directly towards Cloud and his group of fighters, as if ready to run them flat. They all scream.

Sora scrambles for the feet with his double-weaponry and misses - just because Kefka likes to hop and skip around.

The clown freezes before it takes the last step, one knee high in the ground like it's deciding to squish them, and a hand outstretched - and balls into a fist.

Aqua expects another explosion, and the fighters scream again in fear.

The fist makes a honk - like a toy car.

Kefka laughs and everyone hurts, hands gripping heads to ease the headache, Aqua holding her heart still.

Now Kefka ignores the men it has targeted.

It instead whips around and with that same balled fist, it throws a blast of dark energy at the group of fighters on the opposite side - throwing bodies, slamming doors, disheveling potions and ripping weapons from their holders.

Aqua stumbles from the quakes, and she sees freed hearts, softly glowing, floating gently as the bodies disappear - three of them at least, heading towards the sky.

"No…"

Three lives lost already. She's failing.

Lulu is on the ground, clutching a Moogle doll closely to her chest as Lea holds her by the shoulders. Garnet is frantically throwing light to various people. The only healer in the group.

Both female mages are okay for now.

Kefka loses interest in Cloud's group - who are still preparing the only ram - to strut across the square like no one is watching, right toward a vulnerable Lulu.

Not like she's the type to get intimidated. She raises a fist close to her face, a succession of explosions slapping Kefka in the face and keeping it at bay. She's shaking it like she's grabbing hold onto something stronger than her and the explosions keep going until she has no choice but to let go.

Here is where Lea follows her patterns, but he's not as skilled at the Keyblade. Blessed with deception, definitely, his movements just as unpredictable as Kefka's, throwing fireballs to distract the clown like tossing bees, only to look like he'll dodge in one direction but he really dodges another.

All to keep the clown's attention away from Lulu.

"Cloud!" Lea yells. "Now!"

Cloud and two men push the ram with all their mind, Cloud yelling about making sure to hit it from the southeast direction or they'll miss the planted bomb.

Then the ram loses a wheel. Dilapidates onto the ground.

Kefka takes notice. It always smiles at the expense of others.

A loud whistle, and the sound of water. A wave. A tsunami, really. The well-dressed man blew the whistle, summoning a massive wave to overflow the district and head straight for Kefka.

A new ram, built by exquisitely rare water magic.

This is no time to admire, but an opportunity and Aqua takes it, throwing a trail of ice onto the water as it passes by her and she skates it up, up, and up. When she gets to the crest, she spreads the ice all over the thrash of ripples, turning them into steely icicles, straight into Kefka's torso, right onto the building behind it.

She missed the planted bomb but she's got it pinned. Standing on an icy wave, face to face with the smiling beast. It struggles against the ice, and she readies her Keyblade.

"Time to take care of you," she says.

Kefka stops, leaning its head forward with whatever movement it has left to stare right into her eyes, and even though it's programmed to make only one expression, it almost looks like it's smiling wider.

Aqua lowers her Keyblade. Kefka isn't in front of her anymore but there are flashing pictures of a man. A funny-dressed man, a river, throwing poison into the water, so much that it turns dark. There are many people dead and there's a laugh, and a trial, and a battle, and powerful magical transformations.

The worst kind of people become the worst kind of Heartless.

There's a voice.

"Crazy is just a word they use to describe us."

Aqua has never known a Heartless to be able to talk. It can't talk, it's all in her head.

"What?"

"What are you doing?" Donald yells from the ground below.

Kefka has its large hands around the brim of her icy prison and breaks it piece by piece, thrashing against the building, and she slips and slides off the back of the wave, away from its inevitable freedom.

"Let's go!" Sora and Lea zoom past her, aiming for the clown before it sets loose, but Lea is smarter and backs out when he realizes it's too late, and Sora keeps going until he's exhausted.

One of his Keyblades fade away and he falls, Goofty barely catching him while skating on his shield.

"Keep it up, come on!" Noctis yells to a huge disheartened crowd, followed by Cloud for another barrage of assaults.

Not that Kefka is particularly interested. It hops and dances, skipping along the block and every step it takes strikes a random explosion in a random location, some hitting nothing, others being blocked by Lulu's powerful barriers. One hits near the balcony where the well-dressed man and the rabbit woman were standing, leaving rubble and two long-range fighters onto the ground where they have less of an advantage.

It's dusty and Donald's fireworks sprinkle the air in bright colors that combat the sound of bombs to the point that Aqua has a hard time following Kefka.

She tries but a lot of her attacks end up missing because of Kefka's erratic movements. She has to rely on widespread attacks, which drain her and she takes deep breaths in between to keep herself going.

Sometimes when Kefka runs, it attacks where it aims for, and sometimes it decides not to. It's hard to keep up.

Garnet slips by in all directions, her main concern is healing other people - with such sharp determination that she doesn't care whether Noctis is trying to protect her.

Just when Aqua thinks that Kefka doesn't see her, it attacks, and Garnet is flung straight into a wall, her protection crystal shattering.

"NO!" Noctis yells.

She slumps and doesn't bother to get up. She folds her arms around herself, waiting for the next hit, and Aqua summons another trail of ice to get there faster (faster, faster). She can't let this happen on her watch.

At this point, Aqua is shielding a stupefied princess with her body, and Kefka will attack the both of them, already ready with a dark mass bubbling in its palm.

But it gets hit from behind by a massive… missile? It's forceful enough to actually make the clown stumble.

The droning sound of machinery draws near, a flying gummi ship coming close. Kefka laughs and everyone hurts, Aqua gripping Garnet tighter to quiet the squirming princess.

Kefka telepathically takes all six swords and glides them in a sweep, up right through the middle of the ship, cutting in half, and Riku vaults out of the captain's seat, rolling off a roof and landing with a huge thud right next to Aqua and Garnet.

"Just in time," Riku says, summoning his new Keyblade. It's heavy and massive for his size.

Garnet snaps out of her stupor, heaving because she's just escaped death. Her eyes flash anger, and she takes her shortstaff and holds it in the air. A column of light bursts through the cobblestone with a loud punch, shooting right into the sky with such a trembling force that Kefka is knocked away from them.

"Thank you, Aqua," Garnet gently says as she picks herself up. She casts another spell, encasing herself and Riku in crystal.

Even though he has his Keyblade ready, Riku gladly waits for her to finish like they've done this routine one too many times and it's the best they can do to keep an eye on each other.

But Riku doesn't wait for a command though, chasing as soon as his crystal stabilizes itself. It's Cloud that sprints by his side and gestures an order without saying anything. In sync, they hit both of Kefka's ankles with their massive weapons, tripping it to its knees.

Garnet is also on her knees, exhausted. Whatever attack she conjured, it drained her of power and Aqua slumps her over her back - Garnet may be short but she's heavy.

Some force of wind takes Aqua off her feet, and Noctis suddenly has his arm around the both of them, and they glide over the ground until he reaches his next waypoint and drops them right behind Lulu, who is frustrated, worried, and determined to keep Garnet behind her.

The look on Noctis' face is awful as he takes a glance at the chaos: Kefka easily standing up after being tripped, Cloud and Riku desperately attacking its shins, the ram since abandoned. Goofy and Sora attacking its ankles from behind, Lea acting like bait, the well-dressed man shooting his gun upwards and missing, the rabbit-woman shooting an arrow and hitting the clown straight in the eye, but it all does so little.

Noctis is tired - not just exhausted, but the kind of tired Aqua dealt with for years.

Not the kind when he's had enough and he's angry - the kind when he's had enough and it's time to give up.

And Aqua's had enough.

She charges forward with a yell, jabbing her Keyblade straight into the air. She summons a giant snowflake, spinning and flashing until it stabs Kefka right at the hip.

In reaction, Kefka commands its swords again, and throws them all at her with a huge swipe, and Aqua doesn't dodge. She blocks, each slash of a sword against a properly placed Keyblade. Kefka is strong, and Kefka is big, and these swords are twice her size - but none of them matter. She's been training with two large men her whole life, and Kefka doesn't compare to her Master's skill or Terra's ferocity.

"You're pissing me off!" she cries when she blocks the sixth sword.

It takes a lot out of her but they are not called special techniques without a good reason.

Her Master's unique chains, first encircling her in a glow of golden light, then lurching until they wrap around Kefka. At the touch, these chains burn Heartless - they've certainly burned her when the Master first taught them how to use it.

Success. Kefka's arms are twisted tightly against its torso, and one of the links wraps under its thigh and actually keeps the stupid thing on its knees, a perfect target for everyone else.

The air chills, fog rolling in and Aqua at first considers a new threat but it's actually a dragon shaped out of mist, bobbing in the air before landing on the roof. It blows steam onto the clown, carefully skipping allies like they are precious, leaving a clown squealing like an unoiled engine.

"That's my girl," says a breathy Lulu, who barely has the energy to stand up.

It has to be Rydia's summon. Such powerful magic, Aqua has so much to learn still.

But a dragon twice the size of Kefka still doesn't make a dent (what the stars is its skin made of?), and it soon dissipates, leaving a dumbfounded Aqua - but no one else seems surprised. They keep throwing attacks, and Aqua is getting drowsy. She can't hold onto the chains much longer.

Ah, Kefka's floating swords, she forgot about them. They strike against her chains. They'll break. The damn thing.

At this point, Aqua has nothing left to give and so much to lose.

"Noctis," she says, whipping around and holding him by the shoulder. "Can you fly me up?"

He has dirt on his face and defeat in his eyes, but why not? He grabs her by the waist and throws his dagger up in the sky. She flies, then he grabs her again, throws his dagger even higher, making her soar to heights she couldn't possibly jump to on her own.

Aqua lets herself float, aiming for the sword nearest her. She grabs the grip of the hilt. Her feet stomp the guard and she stands straight.

She ignores Noctis when he freaks and screams, "Don't touch those!"

The sword spins to knock her off but she has a direction she wants to go and this thing will obey.

Down she goes, the point of the sword cutting straight through the air with one very particular destination: in between Kefka's shoulder and clavicle.

She rips into it, metal creaking and gears popping apart until she hits a thud that she's sure is the ground. Like a needle, Kefka is pinned in place by its very own. Aqua's chains flickjer but still - it can't move.

Kefka can't turn its face well to get a full look at the Keyblade Master triumphantly standing on its shoulder, right in between its lost limb.

"Get off of there!"

"Don't touch that!"

"Are you nuts?"

Voices by some she recognizes and some she doesn't, she ignores them. Instead, she watches Kefka's eyes, hard on her. The smile on its face doesn't waver even though she can tell - she can feel - rage building.

Several gears choke right under its chin, still turning but only barely. It's so weak under the frame - most of its inner skeleton is just metal beams and a cloud of purple smoke for organs with a black balloon for a head, all wrapped in a tacky costume. For a Heartless, it cannot create a hard shadow body like all the others, so it made itself a hard shell instead.

Like that of a man with a soft ego, too short-sighted to see his his arrest and execution coming, the ghost of a crazy clown who never wanted to be weak again and has only proven himself so.

"It's not as fun like this."

Aqua studies the two gashes on its mask, burnt at the tips and curving outwards.

"Terra did that to you, didn't he?" She scoffs. Her hands are melting into the swords hilt - this isn't fully solid either, and she can feel Garnet's soft puffs of white light healing her fingers the longer she's touching it. "I've faced worse than you in the Realm of Darkness."

She summons her Master's Defender. In darkness, only light slices the way. Even though the Keyblade is blunt and rounded, the point is to reach the heart - and every darkened heart has a weakness to exploit, the very same insecurity that haunted its former human.

Aqua has felt it all with every Heartless she's defeated in the Realm: the grieving, the enraged, the depressed, the vengeful, the feral, the crazy.

She yells, the light off her Keyblade aiming straight for the neck - she promised to be a Wayfinder, and for darkness that simply means releasing them.

Her Keyblade sparks against the gears and she has to look away, and this force burns like steam but she keeps at it. She's not letting this thing dance away tonight.

Kefka screeches.

There are yells about abandoning her with the clown.

Sora yells back that they have to help her.

Riku agrees.

Lea (apprehensively) follows along.

And Aqua keeps doing what she's doing.

Kefka's shoulder budges the moment the purple smoke of its insides release like gas, into her face and up her nostrils. It's putrid and it burns behind her eyes. She coughs but she stands strong until her Keyblade gives way and suddenly there's another collapse and she's falling backwards with the arm.

Something large topples on itself as there's a shimmer in the air.

Cries of amazement. Hollers. Yells to get back as far as possible. Aqua can't tell, it's cloudy in dark purple and she can't see in the gas.

Two pairs of hands grab her by the shoulders and drag her, and there's so much coughing - her throat burns and she hears Riku telling Sora to hurry up and he coughs as well.

It's clear now, the gas slowly fading away and whatever is left of the clown slowly - slowly - topples away like it still wants to resist. First the entire right arm where she chopped it off, then the left, until the knees buckle and its head rolls forward and it all turns black and gets blown open by sparkles of light.

A large heart floats upward, the crowds watching in silence like it's a stunning show they respect too much to interrupt. They don't shift until it floats higher, somewhere high in the sky where Kingdom Hearts will eventually accept its arrival.

The crowd doesn't believe it at first even though it's as clear as day. Claps start, then sobs, then whoops, then hugs and kisses, and a melting of relief rolled into a platter of overused desperation that still needs a place to be served.

The fight is over, and the night is as bright as the dawn.

There's so much happiness but all Aqua feels is shivering - it's so cold all of a sudden and her teeth chatter.

Riku is on his hands and knees, hacking.

Sora is on his side, his hand rubbing a massive headache and he moans.

Donald and Goofy run to his side, the former giving him a lecture instead of congratulating all the accomplishments of the night, and Goofy swings Sora over his shoulder to carry him away.

Lea throws Riku's arm around his shoulders. "Come on, buddy," he says, patting Riku's back.

Cloud gently carries Aqua in his arms, whispering, "I wasn't expecting that. It's impressive."

But it hurts to swallow and she doesn't say anything back. He lowers her onto a stretcher, in between Riku and Sora, who each have their own.

Riku rolls his head. "I can't quite believe it. Stupid clown."

Sora makes a trembling thumbs-up. "We did it." It plops down.

Gasps and sobs make way near them, and Garnet wanders into view, unable to keep up with her smiling tears, her gloved fingers intertwining with Aqua's.

"It is done. It is over," she says.

"What is happening to me?" Aqua asks hoarsely.

"Oh, you've been poisoned, dear," Garnet says with a sweet smile, leaning over her. "Not to worry. Terra has made sure we've plenty of elixirs."

"Terra…"

It's just like him to always be there.

Even during treasure hunts, where he left clues through the forest to make it easier for her to find him. Like stepping stones on an ocean so she could walk across, and she follows.

Garnet melts into tears again, the cheers silencing her quiet sobs and Lulu is asking for her, gathering everyone except the poor souls on stretchers into a huge embrace.

Celebrations are just as chaotic, nothing like the stars.

The stars. Aqua gasps when she sees them, and it sends her into such a coughing fit that Cloud has to put an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.

But there they are, dim due to the light pollution. They're her first since she's been freed, and she's forgotten how special she always thought of them - a light to pierce the darkness. Guides to give people directions. Reminders of hope. Wayfinders for all the dreams she's had.

They're beautiful.

[rustbeltjessie]

Five years ago, I began putting a book together—a collection of my writings themed around punk music/punk subculture. They were all written between ‘99 and 2014, and had previously appeared in my own zines that had since gone out of print, or other zines or online magazines that had gone out of print/gone dark; style-wise, they ran the gamut from CNF to lyric essay to music criticism. I decided to crowdfund and self-publish the book, but at that point I didn’t really know what I was doing in regards to either crowdfunding or publishing full books. The book was almost ready to go but the artist I’d commissioned never finished the cover art, and my crowdfunding campaign hadn’t been entirely successful, and I wound up not having enough money to publish it.

About a year after I realized I couldn’t do it the way I’d initially planned, the book was picked up by a small press. My plan was to buy enough author copies to fulfill the initial crowdfunded preorders, and hopefully sell even more than that. With the help of an editor, I partially rewrote some older pieces and wrote some new ones to flesh it out a bit more. They found someone to do the cover and interior art, and put up a preorder page; I got blurbs from some of my favorite writers. It was all basically ready to go. But shit happened, and the press folded, and the book was once again dead in the water. (I’m not naming the press here, because my intention here is not to call anyone out. The people involved in all that are friends of mine, and as a small press owner myself I understand that shit happens. The saddest part about that whole thing is that I don’t get to use the cover and interior art we had, because it was amazing.)

I’ve recently realized that I need to get the book out in some way, because I need to put it behind me. For one thing, I feel badly that the people who crowdfunded or preordered never received anything. For another, I just need to move on, and I can’t fully move on until I get it out into the world. So I’ve decided to self-release it. For right now, I’m only making a digital version. I know, I know, print is way better, but I don’t have the funds to print it right now, and I’m certainly not going to ask people to pre-pay for it a third time. I’ve redone it somewhat—took out some of the weaker pieces, added in some others I’ve written in the past three years—and I’ve used my own artwork for the interior and done the cover in a zine-y/Xerox art style. I’ve uploaded it to Payhip, for a sliding-scale, pay-what-you-want price. This way, people who already paid for it (or just can’t afford it otherwise) can download it for free, and other people who can/want to throw a few $$ my way can do that. Most importantly: finally, finally, five years later, What We Talk About When We Talk About Punk will be released unto the world. — Here’s what some rad people had to say about WWTAWWTAP in its original incarnation: Love letters to way-too-late whiskey-drunk nights, stolen hearts and stolen kisses, small- town parking lots and bad decisions and even badder girls, WWTAWWTAP is a gritty and gorgeous series of riffs on living and loving punk. Like your very first show all over again, it'll set your blood on fire. —Sarah McCarry, author of the Metamorphoses trilogy and editor/publisher of the Guillotine series What We Talk About When We Talk about Punk distills wild nights of loud music, cheap whisky, and fugitive romance into a pure tonic. Jessie Lynn McMains’s voice is as indelible as a stick-and-poke tattoo and her autobiographical stories vividly capture the highs and lows of punk-rock youth. Pull on your leather jacket, grab a bottle of something, climb up onto the roof, and read this book. —Jeff Miller, author of Ghost Pine: All Stories True Wearing music like a jacket, that’s one of the things Jessie says about herself in these pages. I find that very admirable and inspiring. It gives a wonderful perspective to not only observe oneself in the moment, and in the past, but to feel the effect of that topic of study and passion on you, pressed against your skin. Jessie’s very subjective approach succeeds, and doesn’t fall into, impenetrable in-crowd self absorption, because she is smart enough to allow an adequate amount of objectivity and analysis to let her audience vibrantly see and feel her own experiences as if we are there with her. Music is a good reference point because lyrics, rhythm, and melody hit deep beyond the intellect into the emotions. You can always put on a CD, or vinyl record, or cassette and be transported to other places and times. These personal essays did this very thing to me, like listening to music. She becomes the jacket that we put on as we hear the lyricism of her stories. We are always with Jessie in her writings. The hyper-awareness that she uses to capture her memories to be pondered again and again, as we read on, immersing ourselves in her writing, is crucial. We are reading something that is alive and learning it’s own lessons. We can picture her being transformed by her own documenting of her experiences, becoming a complex being, a well informed member of humankind. She is infused with the playfulness and philosophy found in music and she demonstrates the frightening willingness to view oneself through a microscope. I find this fascinating. Therefore, because of this heart-on-her-sleeve writing style, when we allow ourselves to engage with her words on the page, to be as vulnerable as she has allowed herself to be, we too are transformed. Her words have gone from jacket to skin. We are there feeling her sexually charged reaction to Rock and Roll. We experience the sensual allure of the human body. With her we dive head first into decadence, decay, nostalgia, and hope. Her bouts of loneliness and need for community are palpable. We are bruised by the violence, the drugs, the suffering. We are stifled and also warmed by the dying and the regenerating of a constantly changing musical style. We witness the passing of friends and idols. We share in her understanding of what it means to be an outcast, and more specifically, how it feels to be a female outcast, to be a mother and a rebel. Through the willingness to wear this book like a jacket, like a skin, we not only see who Jessie is but we learn about the daily life behind the music, of people, inspired by their own creativity and the creativity of others, trying to simply be, to live a life worth living. This isn’t just a collection of diary entries, a memoir, it is an opportunity to look at oneself. Why are you a punk? Or perhaps even more importantly, why aren’t you a punk? —John “Jughead” Pierson, podcaster (“Jughead’s Basement”), musician (Even in Blackouts, founding member of Screeching Weasel), author Jessie Lynn McMains weaves the threads of her own life with a typewriter ribbon on a loom fashioned from melted records and empty 40's. The end result is fascinating, an ultrapersonal look at a life shaped by punk, forged by punk, fired by punk. What We Talk About When We Talk About Punk has music at its core and surrounding it on all sides, but its main muscle is the reaction to that, the response. Thoughts thought while listening to a perfect mixtape that takes you far away from the blah street you've found yourself living on (and a secret peek at the science behind that perfect tape), the thrill when a cute girl comes into your crappy job and gets why the 1" button on your jacket is so important. Notes scrawled on diner napkins and on the back of show flyers, now compiled into book form! —Ocean Capewell, author of The Most Beautiful Rot and High On Burning Photographs zine At 16 I cut my hair with a razor and dyed it black, looking at my reflection in the mirror that night I was convinced I was the spit of Richard Hell. When I think back through my own punk history, the bands, the friendships and the crushes; the obsessions that took over my life, led me to zines and the community I was desperately searching for, I can see with perfect clarity how I arrived at this point. As an adult woman these things are intrinsic parts of me. And that’s what Jessie’s writing does, it kicks you in the gut then hands you a cold beer. She knows. Jessie is the real deal; she is the girl Cometbus, one of the great zinesters of our time. If you want me, I’ll be in my room listening to my tapes. —Cherry Styles, writer, editor/publisher of The Chapess — You can download it here. Then listen to the official soundtrack here. (Pretend it’s on a tape, okay?) xoxo, the writer formerly known as Jessica Disobedience

[calucadu]

The Camping Trip, a Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia One Shot.

This is my piece for the @summerexplosionzine! I love going camping and I couldn’t this year so at least I still got the chance to experience it by writing this. I had so much fun writing it and I'm actually really proud and happy with the result! I hope you like it too ❤ It's a free zine full of incredible content and vibrant colours and I really recommend downloading it!

Summary: Kirishima, Bakugou and Uraraka go on a camping trip together!

Pairings: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou/Uraraka Ochako, Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou, Kirishima Eijirou/Uraraka Ochako, Bakugou Katsuki/Uraraka Ochako

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Uraraka Ochako.

Rating: Teen and up

Read on AO3

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I feel like a little kid again as I kick my legs, enjoying being driven around. I’m in the back seat of Eijirou’s car, and he’s taking us to the campsite where we’re going to be spending the next day and night. We weren’t able to get more time off work, unfortunately, but I’m still looking forward to our small trip.

Since the redhead is driving, he has total control of the music being played. He brought a mixtape he’d made and is now blasting it at full volume while tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the songs I know he picked for us. I know this because the first one that starts playing is Katsuki’s favourite.

The blond, who called shotgun weeks before our trip, gives an exasperated sigh as he looks at Eijirou before snorting and rolling his eyes. The redhead excitedly slaps his arm, trying to verbally encourage him to sing along with him. The other just looks away, hiding his mouth with his hand, which I know he’s doing because he’s trying to pretend he’s not actually smiling. I squeal, watching as his reflection blushes.

The next song that starts playing is a soft piano melody. The redhead adjusts his rear-view mirror to look at me cheekily before nudging Kat again.

“Hey, sing this one with me.”

“Hell no! This is one of those romantic slow ones. I ain’t singing shit.”

Ei chuckles, but clutches his heart dramatically, belting out the first few words of the lyrics. The blond groans audibly and shakes his head as he feigns having lost interest. The redhead persists, tilting his head towards Katsuki when traffic allows him to and singing romantically to our boyfriend.

“Shove off!” Comes his answer, pushing the other away gently.

Eijirou laughs just as the melody slows down again but continues intoning. “And you’re my sun and my moon, you’re my stars” I croon with it, since I know the song well. The redhead lifts his gaze and our eyes interlock through the reflection in the rear-view mirror. He smiles at me and I feel my heart swell in my chest.

The ballad ends with Katsuki threatening to go back home the moment we arrive if Eijirou plays another romantic song. The latter chuckles but puts another one of the blond’s favourites on to lighten the mood.

The rest of the drive goes by quickly enough. It’s not far anyway, and since it’s not a holiday there’s not much traffic. I spot the sign for the campsite when we’re still on the highway and I immediately start bouncing up and down in my seat excitedly. I’ve never been camping before, and if I recall correctly, neither has Eijirou. We both know Katsuki used to do it a lot with his parents when he was small, and when the redhead decided to surprise him with this nostalgia trip, neither of us missed the glint of happiness in the blond’s eyes. We knew just how important camping and hiking is for our little hothead, and how much he enjoys doing these sorts of things, so we planned this holiday for him. He helped us with the details of it, since he’s the one with experience, but now I’m as excited for the trip as he is. I know he worked hard on it so we could enjoy our first time and I’m very proud of him.

The campsite is gorgeous! The entrance is in the middle of the forest, but there’s a giant sign at the entryway, like in a film. I gape at the parked caravans in amazement as we drive by them. There are also cabins, but we drive past them as well, since we’re heading over to the area reserved for tents. They give you a spot in the middle of the woods and you can park your vehicle there. There are plenty of trees surrounding our section, isolating us from any potential neighbours – although they seem pretty far away so they won’t be much of a problem – and giving us a lot of shade.

The first thing Katsuki does when we arrive is set up his hammock. He lies on it as he watches us struggle to pitch the tent, smiling smugly and boasting about how easy his job was.

“You’re helping with this too!” Ei counters, going over the instructions again. He frowns as he reads. “After all, you’re supposed to be the one that’s good at this sort of thing.”

The canvas is a small four-person dome tent that was the Bakugous until their son decided to take off with it a couple years ago. It’s a bit battered and old because they used it a lot when Katsuki was younger and they took him on camping trips. It’s got a few holes here and there, but it still works perfectly. It’s not really visually appealing, since it’s a creamy sort of colour, but it’s supposed to be functional and practical, not pretty. It seems relatively easy to set up, even though both Eijirou and I are having trouble figuring it out.

Katsuki grumbles and hops off from the hammock, going over to us in two strides and extending his hand to ask for the instructions. The redhead clicks his tongue, frowning slightly as he gives them to him.

Turns out that even the blond finds setting the tent harder than he thought. He complains that it’s been a while since he last used it, and even then, he’d been a child and didn’t recall helping his parents, to which Eijirou remarks a low ‘what a surprise’ that Katsuki outright ignores. I manage to calm him down by pressing my lips lightly to his, and he immediately gets his act together, picking up the poles and instructing us on what to do.

We end up setting it up pretty quickly after that. It isn’t perfect – especially on my side, I don’t think I pulled the corner guyline as far as it could go, and I didn’t have enough force to put the pegs in properly – but it’ll do. Ei makes it steadier by hammering my loose pegs into the ground a bit better and then he smiles at me proudly.

“I knew we could do it!” He announces, tying the door flaps to the side neatly so the mesh entryway is open.

“Don’t do that, you’re going to let the bloody spiders in.” Katsuki scolds, coming over to quickly undo his knots.

Eijirou huffs, rolling his eyes lightly. “Whatever you say.”

“Of course it’s whatever I say. I’m the one with the experience.”

I stop their stupid bickering by asking them if they want to eat, which they gladly prefer to do. Lunch consists of the sandwiches we brought. We all made different types to share with each other, sort of like in a picnic. Katsuki eats his in his hammock, gently rocking himself in the shade. Ei tries to get him out of it – I suspect so he can have his turn – but the blond won’t budge. I eat my tuna fish, mayonnaise and sweetcorn sandwich sitting in the front seat of the car, fiddling with the radio while they’re distracted squabbling.

I feel so content just by listening to a low song play, the musical notes intermixing with the various sounds of nature. I can hear some insects buzzing in the background, and instead of finding it creepy or disgusting like always, I think it’s interesting. My eyes roam over the leaf shaped shades dancing on my legs as I dangle them out of the seat. Everything’s perfect.

We head out for our walk after lunch but not before Eijirou’s finished fussing about us. He always does this, and while I should probably be annoyed about it, it honestly makes my heart swell that he’s there to take care of us in his own way.

Kat and I are prone to getting sunburnt. Ei, on the other hand, easily tans. It’s only been half a day and he’s already a lovely brownish colour, his freckles showing thanks to the sun.

He’s overprotective of us, though, especially about this. He’s the one carrying the cream and applying coat after coat of it all over our skin, tenderly reminding us that it’s for our own good.

I don’t complain; it’s fun to watch Katsuki squirm as Eijirou rubs sun cream on his nose while saying “remember what happened last year?” until the blond finally gives in and stops struggling, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest.

And he got us hats for this trip too. Mine’s a pretty pastel pink sunhat and Katsuki’s is a rather tacky looking black cap, a skeleton on it probably with the only purpose of satisfying the blond. Ei insists we wear them before going on our walk and puts them on both of our heads after applying a generous amount of sun cream on us. He puts on his own ugly red cap and beams at us.

The redhead offers me his hand, which I of course take. He smiles at me as we stroll, watching as Katsuki quickly overtakes us, grumbling at us to hurry up.

The chirping of the birds mixed with the slight breeze rustling the leaves in the trees makes the walk all the nicer. It’s comforting to hear my other boyfriend treading hard in front of me. Kind of makes me feel like I’m not alone, that he’ll be there in case I need him. I know it’s stupid to think that, especially when I’m walking hand in hand with Ei, but I just feel complete when I’m with them.

I find that the trail is pretty simple. It’s not a long or hard walk by any means, so it’s a nice opportunity for us to relax as we enjoy nature. I amble at a leisurely pace and stop from time to time to have a better look at interesting insects and pretty plants. Eijirou sticks with me, maintaining an engaging conversation as Katsuki marches off on his own, glaring at us from time to time and complaining about how slow we are. I laugh it off because I know he’ll never really leave us behind.

My feet are a little sore by the time we get back. It’s obvious I’m not used to my mountain boots, so it’s comes as a relief when the redhead suggests we play in the little stream near the campsite.

We change into our swimming gear quickly and head over there. Ei is wearing those ridiculous lime swim trunks he likes so much. They’re flashy and tacky, but at least it makes him easier to spot when at the beach. Kat’s are a dark red, a white pattern all over them; and I’m wearing the pink and purple bikini they got me as a present for my last birthday.

It isn’t a long walk to the river, but as we make our way towards it, we cross by friendly people who wave at us and wish as a pleasant day. Eijirou and I answer back cheerly while Katsuki mumbles out a curt hello when the redhead remembers to nudge him in the ribs.

The area we finally decide to relax at is mainly in the shade, and it’s littered with big rocks. We’re far away from the families with kids and couples being all affectionate in public, so we’re in a relatively peaceful spot. I make my way over to one of the boulders and sit myself on it, taking my flipflops off to soak my sore feet in the cool water. A relieved sigh escapes my lips as the cold temperature soothes them.

The stream is nice, and the water is so clear that I can see the little insects and fish that live there play around and do their things. Sadly, their peace is violently disturbed by Ei and Kat, who jump in and start splashing around.

I would normally be annoyed, but I care too much for them to find their shenanigans anything but adorable and charming. The redhead howls in laughter as he chases the other around, trying to get him wet, but the blond is agile even in water and manages to not get drenched.

He goes over to where I am and threatens to use me as a shield. I shriek, playing along, until I have to actually cover my face because the redhead has decided that I’m worth sacrificing for the greater good.

It’s cute how they have fun. I pretend I’m above their childish playing, but I indulge myself and splash them too, which spurs them on. The three of us end up turning it into a competition to see who can wet the others the most and we scream and giggle as we run around.

We play, splash and laugh for what seems like hours until we get tired and go back to sitting on a rock big enough for the three of us. Ei intertwines our hands together and kisses me on the cheek lovingly before rubbing our noses together cutely. Kat pretends to be jealous and starts splashing him again, but the redhead laughs and pecks me on my lips before asking us if we’ve had enough.

Since I can’t feel my feet because of how cold the water is and Kat seems to be getting tired, we get out of the river and dry ourselves before heading back to the campsite. Ei talks excitedly about how lovely the day’s been and how pretty the sun is now that it’s setting as we walk, towels wrapped around our necks.

Katsuki made our dinner at home, which is a relief since by the time we get to our car and tent, the sky’s already dark. When we’d been preparing the trip, we’d gone over the equipment we would need, and found his parent’s old camping stove. He had complained bitterly about how much of a safety hazard it seemed and had forbidden Ei from even coming close to him while he was using it, if he decided to use it. Instead he’d chosen to bring a nice pasta salad that we could enjoy cold.

We take turns to grab a plate and sit in a circle this time; the hammock completely forgotten at this point. The meal is really nice, and unlike Kat’s usual cooking, it isn’t spicy. We devour it quickly and in silence, tired from all the fun we’d had all day.

After we’ve eaten and we’ve cleared the plates up, Ei picks up his guitar and sits on the ground in front of the tent. He strums his instrument, humming lightly to himself. I turn my head to watch him just as his head drops back and his eyes glance at the sky, a smile forming on his lips. He agilely moves his fingers of his left hand to form the chords he needs for his song, and immediately starts playing. His voice starts off low as he glances nervously between me and Katsuki.

Surprisingly, the blond doesn’t even click his tongue. He sits down next to him, his eyes fixed on the ground as he starts to sing along with him. It’s a song I don’t recognise, but it sounds lovely. It’s not slow but it isn’t fast paced either; the rhythm is gentle and sweet.

There’s something about the melody that raises goose bumps all over my arms and legs. It’s not a sad song, but I feel myself being moved by it nonetheless. It looks like they’re both quite fond of it, too, especially since the blond is singing along. It feels powerful for some reason I don’t understand, and, for a moment, I feel left out.

Ei and Kat are glancing at each other. They share this song and whatever memories they formed while listening to it the first few times they did. I’ve never heard it before. I don’t know anything about it.

It’s true that they started dating before they included me in their special relationship, and, sometimes, more often than not, and despite how hard they try to not make me feel like this, I feel weird. I feel like a stranger in their love. Not because they don’t love me – they do, and I know, I can tell – but because of their history together. They did so many things before I arrived that it makes me feel insecure. Like I don’t belong with them, like they’re better off without me.

I try not to let the sadness overcome me as I sit myself on the redhead’s other side. Clenching my fists against my legs I force a smile on my face and wait until they’ve finished.

“Chako.” Ei mutters, his eyes never leaving his guitar. He’s still strumming it, his movements slower and less fluid than before. “That’s the song I wrote for Katsuki. I wanted to confess to him with it.”

“But you never did.” The blond whispers.

“But I never did.” He chuckles, but it sounds dejected and wrong, like he forced himself to do it.

“It’s only ‘cause I did it first, dummy. Don’t get all sad and nostalgic on us.” Katsuki berates him, but his voice lacks his usual gruff tone, and instead just seems tired.

“Yeah. He’s right. And I ended up singing it to him a lot anyway. I don’t want you to pull that face ever again, Chako.”

“Wh… what face?” I stammer, trying to laugh it off.

“I saw you. You looked sad. I’m going to play it again, so you can listen to the lyrics.”

“Ei…” Katsuki warns him, his voice softer than before.

“But it’s okay, I wrote a song for you too.” The redhead whispers, locking his eyes with mine. The melody starts again and they both start singing.

It is about Katsuki. It never says his name, but now that I know the meaning behind it, I can tell it’s about how brave and strong he is, how he looks like he’s hard and undefeated on the outside, but he’s actually as human as the rest of us are. It speaks of how soft he is with the people he loves and how he’ll do whatever he can to make them happy, in his own way. Every word in the lyrics is beautifully arranged to make the most perfect song to describe the most perfect blond I know. Speaking of, when I manage to peel my eyes off of Eijirou, I spot tears running down Katsuki’s cheeks. He wipes them away discreetly, but we’ve already noticed the song brings out an emotion he tries to keep locked away.

The song slowly dies down and the redhead clears his throat before he starts a new one. This new melody is much more upbeat, but the lyrics are no less deep. It’s about a pretty face that doesn’t try to deceive you, because she’s as sweet as she looks; cute, simple and strong in her own way. It tells a story of how she saved two boys and how she never knew just what she meant to them. It’s beautiful, too, far prettier than I expected anything sang for me could be. Tears are rolling down my cheeks by the time the song ends. Ei is looking at me expectantly while Kat is doing his best to avert his eyes.

“We kind of wrote it together.” The redhead mutters, a small smile on his face.

“He wrote it basically. It was also his idea. I just helped.”

“You called her pretty and insisted I added that into the song.” Ei teases him, nudgingly him gently in the ribs.

“Shut up!”

I can’t help myself and start laughing, closing my eyes to try and stop the emotions bubbling out of me. The tears can’t be halted at this point, but it’s okay, because I’m smiling despite them. Before I know it, I’m being pulled into a hug, and I feel overwhelmed by their warmth and love.

When I’ve finally calmed down enough, I ask them to let me go and they do, slowly releasing me from their embrace. Kat looks at me worriedly, but I reassure him that I’m fine with a sweet smile and he ruffles my hair lovingly. Ei picks the guitar again and positions himself once more to continue playing songs. This time he sings some classics and I try to keep up to him, but I can’t remember most of the lyrics, so I just hum along when I don’t. The blond sometimes sings too, but he prefers to look up at the sky and enjoy listening to us.

I mimic Katsuki and tilt my head up. The stars look lovely in the sky tonight. There’s just something in the atmosphere that makes me feel happy, blessed to be there with them and glad to be alive. The gentle music in the background, the lovely sparkling lights, the feeling of love and friendship and being with the people you can’t live without make me feel elated. I don’t want this to end.

“Do you think it’s going to be colder later tonight?” I ask a bit later, frowning as I gaze at the dark sky. I got lost in the songs and time flew by, and now it’s a little bit chilly.

Ei sets his guitar aside before moving closer to me and wrapping an arm over my shoulders. He pulls me in tightly, nuzzling me against his broad chest. “You’re not cold, are you?” He asks, worriedly.

I snuggle closer to him and shake my head. “I’m fine like this.”

“Good!” He hugs me closer to himself, and even invites Kat into the embrace as he whispers: “I’m having the best day!”

It doesn’t take us much longer to crawl into the tent. We’re tired and I can feel my own eyes closing. Once inside, we spread out our sleeping bags and mats, trying to decide how to lay them and where to sleep.

Katsu’s looking at his dark blue sleeping bag in disgust, pondering something. When he finally gives in to his thoughts, he sighs, letting it drop onto his lap.

“It’s going to be hot tonight. In the tent I mean.” He mutters, calmly.

Ei looks up at him, frowning. “So?”

“So, we won’t need these.” He answers back, sounding exasperated.

“What if it gets colder later on?” I ask, unzipping my red one.

The blond grumbles something under his breath before he picks his sleeping bag again and tosses it to me. I just look at him, watching as his eyebrows frown and his lip curls slightly.

“Just… fucking… understand me already or whatever.”

Ei laughs gently, crawling over to the other.

“You okay there, bud?”

“I… just… look. Let’s just sleep together.”

The redhead pulls away and looks at me with his ‘adoring Katsuki’ face. “He wants us to open the sleeping bags and use them like blankets.” He coos lovingly.

“Oh my god, that’s adorable! He’s so cute!”

“He is!”

“Shut up. I can hear you perfectly and it’s creepy.”

“You want to sleep with us so much, Katsuki?”

“Stop talking like that or I’ll change my mind!”

“Okay, okay!” I whisper, unzipping my sleeping bag completely and spreading it. “Let’s do it!”

“Alright!” Ei enthusiastically nearly yells as he forcefully unzips his. Kat does his very unenthusiastically, and still blushing. He avoids looking at us as he lies down next to me and spreads his sleeping bag over me.

“Wait.” I say, pulling his down a little bit and taking a closer look at it. “We could zip them together.”

“That’d be so cool! But is it possible with our sleeping bags?” Kiri asks, searching for his zipper.

It turns out it’s very possible and we link all of them together to form a blanket of sorts. Katsuki pushes me back so that I’m lying in the middle and tells Eijirou to hug me too. The redhead smiles and snuggles up to me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me towards him just slightly. The other grunts as I’m taken away from him but gets up just slightly to kiss me on the mouth and wish me a good night. He presses his lips to Eijirou’s too and turns the light off before going back to my side, where his arm goes to join the redhead’s at my waist.

Honestly, I’ve never been happier.

[ohmytheon]

transluscent -

summary: (Psycho Pass AU) Despite being an Inspector in the CID, Uraraka's psycho pass score has always remained low and consistent, but when a bank robbery goes terribly wrong, she must decide if one of her most volatile Enforcers, Bakugou, is worth saving.

notes: This was originally supposed to be for a zine, but, as you can tell by the word count, it got a little too big. I've got a few more ideas for this AU that I couldn't fit in this one-shot. Not sure if I'll write them or not, but it's a possibility. It's been a while since I've watched Psycho Pass, but it's one of my favorite animes of all time. (That includes the second season.) I wrote this entirely doing sprints, which is wild, but it did help me finish this in like two or three days. At least one of the roles in here will be surprising, but I've got a lot of headcanons already for this AU. I hope you enjoy the ride!

Uraraka had never been one to believe that she was a better person simply because her Psycho Pass score was better than others. She’d always had a remarkably clear hue, even at a young age. Despite every day stressors that couldn’t be avoided and the harsh realities that life dealt her sometimes, her hue remained a beautiful light pink. As her friends struggled and their scores slowly ticked up as time went on, she stayed so neutral that even her teachers noted how unusual it was. Even if she did show outward signs of stress, her hue rarely ever changed.

She credited this success to her parents, who had taught her to remain optimistic in the face of difficulties. Despite her father’s business floundering from time-to-time and struggling financially throughout her childhood, their scores stayed safely below the latent criminal level to keep them out of trouble. She wanted to be just like them, a model citizen, but also something more. Watching her friends and family struggle to keep in line even over the simplest things made her realize that she was meant for something greater than following in her father’s steps.

If she had a talent in keeping her score low, then she should use that ability for the greater good.

Before she’d even graduated, Uraraka had known that she wanted to join the CID. She wanted to save people. Growing up, she had spent a lot of time watching movies about heroes that saved the day. Yes, it was romanticized, but she couldn’t get over the idea. Many people weren’t as lucky as her. She had watched as classmates were taken away in the middle of exams, marked as latent criminals, never to be seen again. No one questioned it, but she couldn’t help but feel that there was something else that she could do.

Even worse, there were victims of crimes that ended up with hues too clouded to be fixed. If there was a chance that she could save people from not only criminals but themselves, then it was her responsibility to do that. She’d learned early on that her crime coefficient rarely wavered. After being bullied relentlessly for her thrift shop clothes, the school’s counselor had been concerned about her. She’d kept the situation a secret for a year so that no one would get in trouble. Allowing that kind of stress to fester was dangerous. However, when she was scanned by the Sybil System, they had found that her score had only gone up a single point. The counselor had been shocked.

Less than a year later, her bully was pulled out of the school, marked as a latent criminal at a mere eleven years of age. Uraraka wondered to this day if she could’ve helped him. Maybe, if she’d said something earlier about the bullying, he would’ve been able to get the therapy that he’d needed to keep his score down. By keeping quiet, she’d inadvertently hurt him as well. The school counselor had told her that it wasn’t her fault, but for the first time she had felt the sense that she could’ve done something.

Joining the CID had shocked her friends and scared her parents. Uraraka knew what she looked like. She was a short young woman with brown hair that framed her round face and rosy cheeks and a soft body that looked like it was meant more for cuddling than chasing down criminals. She smiled a lot, laughed at bad jokes, and had a cheery disposition that was not common in the CID. Her top grades allowed her to apply, but she had no doubt that it was her exceptional Psycho Pass score that had got her the job as an Inspector. That relatively flat line would impress anyone, even the Enforcers positioned beneath her on Division 2.

It didn’t impress everyone though.

Uraraka kicked the door to their office open, a large case file in one hand, a tray with four coffees in the other, and a bag filled with breakfast pastries caught between her teeth. Her brow was furrowed in a concentrated expression as she nudged her way inside and then carefully made her way over to her desk. First, she set down the precarious hot coffees, then took the bag out of her mouth, before finally setting the file down and sighing in relief. When she turned around, however, she was met with the barrel of a Dominator pointed at her and she nearly jumped out of her socks.

“Bakugou!” Inspector Iida reproached as he stepped into the room. “You do not point your Dominator at an Inspector!”

The Enforcer in question raised an eyebrow, but didn’t lower the gun, his eyes glowing a bright blue as the Sybil System assessed whether she was a criminal or not. With the initial shock over, Uraraka relaxed and leaned back against her desk. Iida opened his mouth to further reprimand him, but she held up a hand to stop him. The Dominator posed no threat to her. Not only was her score well below the latent criminal level, but Enforcers couldn’t use the guns against Inspectors. It was little more than a scanner in Bakugou’s hands when put against her. When the Dominator finally finished its judgment, he lowered the gun and his eyebrow.

“Satisfied?” Uraraka asked with perhaps a touch of sass.

Katsuki Bakugou certainly didn’t look it, judging from the light scowl on his face. “Just checking.”

“You say that every time you assess me,” Uraraka pointed out, folding her arms across her chest.

Iida stormed over and snatched the weapon out of Bakugou’s hands. “You shouldn’t even have this outside of storage. I should check your crime coefficient. You know that if it gets too high–”

“I know, Four Eyes, I know,” Bakugou interrupted. “You’ll be forced to shoot me and I’ll explode on everyone.”

Unlike most people when faced with that thought, he didn’t look bothered in the slightest. Uraraka honestly didn’t know much about him. Despite being the loudest (and admittedly most dangerous) one on the team, Bakugou wasn’t an open book. He didn’t talk about his past or how he had come to be an Enforcer. Most of the others on the team and in other divisions assumed that he’d been labeled a latent criminal when he was a kid, considering his crass and careless behavior. It was like he’d never bothered trying to conform to society or he’d simply turned his back on it.

Iida had once told her that Bakugou had one of the highest crime coefficients in the CID. Considering that his mere presence had a habit of raising the Area Stress Level,h he was a constant threat to be watched, not to mention his ability to raise the scores of the Inspectors that were entrusted with keeping him in line. Iida was one of the few who was capable of handling him without his hue becoming too clouded. Other Inspectors had not been so lucky, including one that was now an Enforcer alongside him on Division 2.

Izuku Midoriya had reassured her that it was not Bakugou’s fault that he had fallen from Inspector to Enforcer. His own Psycho Pass score was just above the 100 mark that labeled him as a latent criminal. She couldn’t see how with his baby face, freckles, and bright demeanor, but sure enough, when he’d suggested she check him, she had been shocked to find his score at 105. Once past that mark, even if it went back under the safe level, he could never go back to being an Inspector.

“Try and at least act like you care about how your actions affect those around you,” Iida said as he put the Dominator back in its storage case.

“I dunno,” Enforcer Kaminari quipped as he spun around in his seat in front of his computer. “I think it’d be kinda funny. Then he really would be King Explodo.”

Bakugou reared on him. “How about next time I aim it at your face?”

Midoriya frantically waved his hands in the air, a nervous smile on his face. “Hey, let’s all calm down! It’s early and it’s been a good week. Let’s keep up the solid work!”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Deku!” Bakugou snapped.

Uraraka rolled her eyes, but a fond smile slipped onto her face as she unfolded her arms and turned back around to her desk. Most people wouldn’t think that a job in the CID was something that could be enjoyed – and she would be the first to admit that it was incredibly hard – but after six months of working on this team with no losses, she could honestly say that it felt a lot like home. These people were her family. Besides Iida, they would never be allowed the same freedom that she experienced, but they risked their lives daily to ensure that other people could.

How could she not respect them for that? Although they had already been marked as defunct members of society, they still served and protected it. Even Bakugou with his crude remarks, volatile nature, and general dismissiveness threw himself in the line of fire. They didn’t just risk getting injured or killed on the job. There was always that looming threat of their crime coefficient getting too high or their hue too dark. If that were to happen, it was up to Iida and Uraraka to put them down.

This job was known for ruining people’s psycho passes. She attended regular therapy sessions to ensure that it didn’t happen to her, although her therapist was always surprised to find her score still low. The Enforcers did this job under the threat of death to protect a society that no longer wanted anything to do with them. They had all defended and protected her, be it against other criminals or other division members that didn’t believe she was capable of her job. She believed that there was goodness in them.

“No one in the CID should be capable of having a score that low or hue so clear,” Bakugou grumbled under his breath as he dropped into his seat. “It’s unnatural.”

Uraraka stepped past him to hand Kaminari a coffee and snack. “It’s always been like that. I couldn’t tell you why.”

“It’s because you’re the sweetest person ever,” Kaminari said before chugging half the coffee in one go and taking a massive bite out of the doughnut. He wasn’t necessarily the brightest bulb on their team, but he was a whiz with technology and had a go-getter attitude that made people laugh. His voice was muffled and barely understandable, but she thought he added something like, “You are a gift.”

Bakugou snapped, “Don’t act like an animal,” and reached out to smack him, but Kaminari rolled out of the way, cackling with a mouthful of food.

“Oh, you remembered my favorite flavor!” Mina gushed as she took her treat from Uraraka.

Of course she had. She also knew all of their birthdays. Most Inspectors didn’t get familiar with their Enforcers, choosing to treat them more like attack dogs that they owned. Honestly, it disgusted her. These were people. Just because they were labeled as criminals didn’t mean that they were animals. If any one of them were to die on the job, it would devastate her. She’d joked with them, worked with them, risked her life with them, had dinner with them… It was important to know that they deserved to live just as much as her. Otherwise, what were they doing?

Midoriya quietly thanked her, retreating back to the safety of his desk, and then she handed the last coffee and treat to Iida. They took turns getting breakfast twice a week for everyone. It was an easy way to get to know everyone. He had appreciated her initiative when she came up with the idea. Apparently his partner in between Midoriya and her had not been so friendly or warm. He’d escaped with his score still intact, but had requested a transfer after nearly coming to blows with Bakugou.

“Hey, where the hell is mine?” Bakugou demanded.

“You’ll get one when you start being nice,” Uraraka chirped teasingly before she sat down.

Kaminari and Mina laughed. Midoriya wisely stayed quiet behind his computer, although he was smiling. Meanwhile, Bakugou seethed and mumbled some choice words under his breath loud enough for her to hear. It only made her snort. He had such a colorful language. She wondered if he’d talked like this before his score had gone up or if he’d given himself the leeway to do so only after. Foul language did affect some people’s hue.

A ringing sound interrupted the light-hearted air in the room, the tension immediately thickening. Iida pulled up the message on his screen and quickly read it over. The frown on his suddenly pale face told her that it was bad. Even the others noticed. Kaminari sunk in his seat while Bakugou wiped his face clean.

“A bank robbery in process,” Iida notified them, not looking away from the screen. “Five confirmed dead, at least sixteen hostages, four known criminals. There’s threat of a bomb as well.”

Bakugou jumped to his feet. “Finally, some fucking action.”

“This isn’t a good thing,” Midoriya pointed out.

Everyone prepared to head out as Iida gave them further instructions and details. Uraraka watched the Enforcers carefully as they walked out of the office. It had been a quiet week, as Midoriya had said earlier, but it appeared as if their peace had finally been disrupted. She waited for her team to file into the back of the transport vehicle before slipping into the passenger side of Iida’s car. She hated the way they had to move Enforcers, but that was how it had always been done.

“Uraraka.”

She turned to Iida, who looked more tense than normal. It had concerned her at first, thinking of how uptight Iida always seemed to be, until she’d realized that was just his nature. This time felt different. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel and his jaw was clenched, the muscles in his face and neck looking tight. Although his eyes were focused on the road ahead, they were distant as well, like his mind was elsewhere.

“Keep a close eye on Bakugou,” Iida told her, startling her out of her thoughts.

“I always watch my Enforcers carefully,” Uraraka replied, not liking the direction of this conversation.

For his part, Iida didn’t seem to either. “His crime coefficient levels have taken a sharp turn in the past month. If you have to turn your Dominator on him at any point, I’m afraid the outcome of Sybil’s judgment might not be so kind.”

A shadow fell over Uraraka’s face. As an Inspector, she had been forced to turn her weapon a twice on her subordinates. She’d done it once on Bakugou so that he wouldn’t eliminate a victim that had been deemed beyond saving. The other time had been surprisingly on Midoriya, who had gotten into it viciously with a criminal. Both times she had been lucky in that they had only been paralyzed, but it could’ve been much worse. Midoriya had apologized, deeply embarrassed by his behavior. Bakugou had not, even though she had apologized to him.

“You did what you judged you had to do,” Bakugou had scoffed. “It’s your job, not mine, to decide what to do with me.”

Uraraka hadn’t known what to do with that. She still didn’t. Here they were now, months later, and Iida was telling her to watch him – or maybe watch her own back. Bakugou couldn’t hurt her with a Dominator, but he was taller than her, broader and more muscular. She knew how to fight, but she’d seen firsthand how brutal he could be. Enforcers were criminals. The worst of the bunch deemed good enough to be put to work so that Inspectors didn’t cloud their hue. They were, essentially, sacrificial pawns at the end of the day.

Not to her. Each and every one of them meant something to her, even Bakugou.

“He’ll be fine,” Uraraka reassured her partner, turning her eyes to the road.

Iida took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. “His score had started to level itself. I don’t know what changed. I went back through our cases, but didn’t find any outliers. Maybe it’s just the stress of the job.”

It wasn’t a funny situation, but Uraraka still chuckled, albeit somewhat mirthlessly. “I don’t think this job stresses him out. If anything, it’s a way for him to blow off steam. Without it, I don’t know what he’d do.”

“I’d rather not find out,” Iida mumbled. He shook his head, getting rid of any lingering nasty thoughts. “Either way, I want you to be vigilant. If anything goes wrong, I don’t want the others getting dragged into it.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eyes right as she glanced back at him. “Bakugou is focused on you. I’d watch that as well. You wouldn’t be the first Inspector he’s brought down and not the last.”

“If he’s such a threat to Inspectors, then why is he still an Enforcer?” Uraraka asked curiously. Good Inspectors were hard enough to come by. This was not a job that many people sought out. It was dangerous for multiple reasons, death and getting rejected by society only two of them.

Iida didn’t hesitate for a moment when he answered very seriously, “Because he’s too good at his job. He’s the best Enforcer the CID has.”

The conversation ended after that. The blockade surrounding the bank could be seen in the distance, returning the tension in the car. Behind them was the police vehicle that contained their Enforcers. She couldn’t help but think of Bakugou’s narrowed, distrusting eyes as he’d lowered the Dominator from her. Had he been like this with the other Inspectors that had either left or fallen to the wayside? Was it just her that he was so aggressive with? Iida had told her to keep an eye on him, but he hadn’t needed to say anything. She already did.

Once in front of the bank, she stepped out of the car and they got ready to work. While their team picked out their Dominators, Iida explained the situation in further detail with the hologram information that the Sybil System had been able to give him and they created a plan. As usual, the Enforcers took the brunt of the work and put themselves on the line the most. It was their job to hunt and take down the bad guys. The Inspectors made sure that they did that job and didn’t go overboard in the process. A person’s crime coefficient was more likely to raise the higher it was.

“Hey,” Uraraka said right before Bakugou followed Midoriya around the back of the bank. He paused and glanced back at her, his Dominator held loosely in his hands before him. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but she got the sense that he was the one trying to read and pick her apart. She gave him a determined look. “Be careful.”

“Worried about me, Inspector?” Bakugou drawled.

Uraraka smiled, trying to put more strength in it than she suddenly felt she had. “Should I be?”

Bakugou didn’t answer her. His expression changed, if only for a moment, to something tangible that made her want to reach out to him and touch his face. She didn’t. It would’ve been highly inappropriate. There was something about that look that made her feel like something was missing. If he had been any other person, she would have given him physical comfort, but she couldn’t. He was an Enforcer; she was an Inspector. There was a carefully drawn line between them for a reason and it was to protect her. He knew that, which was perhaps why he turned away from her without responding and disappeared into the dark alley.

All Uraraka could do was stare after he’d gone and hope that things would be okay. She had to believe that they would. It was part of why her hue remained so clear. She believed in so many good things. Even when they were dashed away, she kept on believing. Nothing could shatter her.

How could she have been so foolish?

Maybe she should’ve taken Iida’s words more to heart. Maybe trusting her Enforcers or treating them like humans was a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t meant for this job. She was too compassionate, too bright, too hopeful. People like that weren’t meant to be Inspectors. Why should she have risked clouding her hue for people that had ignored their own? Maybe she really was stupid for believing that she could do something – that she could save people from themselves – that she could save those that had already gone to the dark.

She really was an idiot for believing that she could save someone as far gone as Bakugou.

It took less than twenty minutes for reality to come crashing down on her, ripping her hopes to shreds and leaving her standing in the wake of a horror she had never imagined. The bloodshed in the bank had been worse than they had realized, the criminals further gone than they’d thought. It hadn’t just been a bank robbery and a hostage situation. It had been a full-on meltdown. It happened sometimes when people were flagged by bots and told to get therapy or face being detained in a facility. Some people got help and some… Well, some tipped over completely and went on a rampage, feeling like they had nothing left to lose.

Uraraka found herself standing in the middle of the bank, her Dominator trembling in her hands as she stared at the scene before her. Half of the hostages had been killed. Kaminari sat in the corner with his back to the wall and a hand on his shoulder to keep his gunshot wound from bleeding all over the place, the goofy smile on his face replaced by a clammy complexion and grit teeth. Two of the bank robbers were dead, Bakugou’s and Midoriya’s Dominators having decided that they were too far gone to be kept alive. It broke Uraraka’s heart whenever that happened, even if they had done terrible things.

Movement in the corner of her peripheral vision caught Uraraka’s eye and she turned just in time to see a gun pointed at her. She dived to the side as a gunshot exploded and Kaminari screamed her name. It hit the wall behind her and she scrambled to take cover behind a large marble pillar. More gunshots pierced the air and she winced. Glancing around, she spotted Kaminari’s dropped Dominator in the middle of the floor and then caught eyes with him where he had hid underneath a table. Both of them were pinned in their positions.

“Hey, shitface!”

Uraraka’s heart skipped a beat upon recognizing Bakugou’s voice. She would’ve known it was him just by his choice of words. The sound of a Dominator letting loose a paralyzing shot resounded in the air, but there was only a grunt of pain that followed instead of a body collapsing. She moved around the pillar, trying to find a vantage point to take out the shooter when a hand grabbed her hair from behind and she was dragged from her hiding place. Before she could move to aim her weapon at her attacker, he ripped it from her hand and used the butt of it to whack her in the head. Stars and black spots burst into her vision and she tripped over her own feet as her mind struggled to stay aware.

When she came to her senses again, she found herself behind held hostage, the muzzle of an old school handgun pressed against her temple and one of her arms twisted painfully behind her back. Her attacker was much larger than her and reeked of sweat, likely either due to adrenaline or narcotics. A lot of people boosted before commiting a crime so that the Dominator paralyzers had less of a chance working on them.

Bakugou stood in front of her, pointing the Dominator in her direction as he had done an hour ago. There was a cold expression on his face, one that said he would get the job done no matter what, and a fire in his red eyes that made him look like the devil himself. Blood stained his jacket, the red liquid shining in the light of the sun peeking through the broken windows. He stood straight and tall, no hint of any injuries, insecurities, or fears. This was the job he was meant to do. He’d been born to be an Enforcer.

At least that was the air he gave off. She could tell by her captor’s shuffling feet and the way he tightened his grip on her and began to breathe heavily that he could feel the dangerous aura that Bakugou exuded.

“You can’t shoot me!” her captor shouted in a panic. “Not while I’ve got your Inspector!”

Bakugou eyes narrowed into slits. “I can’t believe you let yourself get captured.”

Was he actually directing his anger towards her in a moment like this? She would’ve told him off if not for the fact that she was concerned that any odd or sudden movement from her would trip the guy into pulling the trigger. However, her jaw dropped when she noticed Bakugou aim the Dominator a little lower and the telltale blue glow in his eyes. He was assessing her. She was being held captive and could potentially die and he was making sure her score was at an appropriate level.

Is he mad? Uraraka couldn’t help but wonder, even as her heart pounded in her chest. She cringed as the man lifted her arm up higher, forcing her to step on her tiptoes to relieve some of the pressure.

To be honest, when Bakugou frowned, Uraraka couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad thing. Had her score gone too high? Her mind flashed to all the victims of crimes whose hues had become too clouded, whose crime coefficients had become too high, whose Psycho Pass scores turned them from innocent civilian to a latent criminal in need of being exterminated. The one time she shot Bakugou came to mind. She couldn’t let him kill that woman, no matter what the Sybil System had said. She’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t right.

Would he hesitate if it labeled her in such a way?

The Dominator didn’t activate. It had judged her innocent. Uraraka couldn’t sigh in relief when that meant that she was blocking his shot. He wouldn’t be able to get a decent read on the criminal holding her captive and slowly inching his way to the door that lead to the back. Where were Iida, Midoriya, and Mina? Had they found the bomb? Midoriya was probably the only one that had the knowledge to defuse it.

“I’m leaving!” the criminal declared, sounding more panicky than confident. “If anyone tries to follow me, I’ll kill her and blow this place sky high!”

Knowing that he couldn’t get a shot, Bakugou let the Dominator fall harmlessly to his side in one hand and it went into inactive mode. Then, he tilted his head in a curious manner. “You don’t have the detonator.” His tone was strange, off, but Uraraka had no time to process it before he pulled a handgun out of his pocket and fired off a shot.

Humiliating as it was, Uraraka screamed as the criminal’s blood splattered over her. She dropped to her knees when his grip on her loosened and he dropped to the floor. Her left ear was ringing and she pressed a palm against it in an attempt to stop the pain. When she pulled her hand away though, she found it covered in blood. It was sticky and warm and made her want to vomit. Slowly she turned her head in the direction of the criminal, soaking in the sight of his prone body as blood pooled around his head. There was a bullet hole right between his eyes.

Bakugou had shot and killed him with an actual gun, not a Dominator. He must have taken it from one of the downed bank robbers. Horror filled her to the brim until she felt like she was choking on it. He shouldn’t be anywhere near that. If anyone were to point a Dominator at him with that in his hand, it would determine to exterminate him on the spot. It would judge him too guilty to live. He would die. And for what? Because he’d decided to go outside the lines and pushed himself past the limit to save her?

He would be killed because he’d chosen to protect her over keeping his score low enough to protect himself.

“What’s going on?”

Uraraka whipped her head around as Iida came rushing back into the room with Midoriya and Mina at his heels. She saw Kaminari pushing himself back to his feet, using the wall as leverage. Bakugou glanced at her before he turned to face Iida and released the gun, letting it drop to the ground at his feet. Iida stared at him in disbelief, but it was the painful realization dawning on Midoriya’s face that tugged at her heart the most.

“Kacchan, what did you do?” Midoriya questioned in a hoarse whisper.

“I did what I had to do in order to protect my Inspector,” Bakugou answered without any guilt in his voice. He didn’t regret what he had done for a second. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

Despite the obvious conflict raging in his mind, Iida lifted his Dominator and pointed it at Bakugou. No one could hear what the Sybil System told him through the weapon except for him, but they didn’t need to in order to know what was going on. She watched as it changed from non-lethal to lethal mode, growing in size and glowing bright blue as it readied the chamber with a bullet that would destroy Bakugou from the inside out.

As an Inspector and a law-abiding citizen, Uraraka should have stood by and watched as judgment was passed down. It was not up to them to decide who lived and died. That was what made their society so good. They dealt with the worst of the worst, but for the most part, even petty crimes barely existed anymore. Most people lived in peace because people like Bakugou died.

But she couldn’t do it. Uraraka knew that her score couldn’t be as low as it was if she wasn’t the type of person that truly believed she could save people and that good would triumph.

Jumping to her feet, she ran without thinking and jumped in front of Bakugou, throwing her arms out and shielding him with her body as best as she could. “Stop! Don’t shoot!” She was smaller than him, not someone built to give another person cover, but she tried to make herself bigger as she protected him.

Bakugou grunted in shock behind her and grabbed her by the waist. “Uraraka, move!”

“Get out of the way!” Iida demanded, the gun not wavering.

“Iida, don’t shoot,” Uraraka repeated, panting heavily and digging her feet into the ground to push back on Bakugou’s grip. She couldn’t move. She wouldn’t.

“The Dominator–” And damnit if Bakugou didn’t choke on the words. For the first time, she heard something different in his voice. It wasn’t arrogance, contempt, dismissal, or rage. It was fear. He was staring down the barrel of a gun that would deem him worth less than trash and he was afraid, but not for himself. He was afraid for her.

He’d checked her before and found her score to be sufficient, but that was before he had shot and killed a man just inches away from her. They had both seen people go from innocent to latent criminal after witnessing something like that, even worse when they were in the thick of it. People’s hues could get clouded simply by being around crime. It was why they had to evacuate buildings when the Stress Area Level became too high. She was covered in that man’s blood. It dripped from her jaw onto the floor, her hair sticky with it. She must have looked awful.

If the Sybil System judged her score to be too high – if it decided that her arguing against Iida’s orders and doing something out of the ordinary by protecting Bakugou warranted a rise in her crime coefficient – then Iida would be forced to put her down like the rest of them. Maybe it would only be a paralyzer, but then she would be in the same position as Midoriya, a once-promising Inspector turned into a disgraced Enforcer. She had to risk it. She had to do something more with what she’d been given.

A shocked and relieved expression flooded Iida’s face as the Dominator backed down, returning to its inactive state. Only then did Uraraka drop her arms. She was safe. She was fine. She had been judged and she was innocent. It was the first time she had ever worried about herself. Closing her eyes, she gulped down a deep, shuddering breath and then let all the tension bleed out of her body. They weren’t out of the woods yet. Her score was clean, but behind her, Bakugou’s was not.

“The system passed its judgment,” Iida told her quietly.

“I don’t care,” Uraraka ground out. “Let me… Just give me a moment, please. I can fix this.”

“You can’t,” Iida said.

Bakugou still hadn’t let go of her. If anything, his grip on her waist tightened. “It’s done.”

“No!” Uraraka spun around to face him, his hand sliding over her stomach but not moving from its place. She took a step closer, invading his space, and she watched him suck in a gasp of air. There was fire in his eyes, but it was different from before. It was alive. It was wanting. He shouldn’t be touching her. He knew that. Keeping his hand on her now was overstepping every boundary written in the guidelines. She should’ve pushed him away, but instead she pulled him in closer.

“The judgment is final for us, Uraraka,” Bakugou said, his voice raspy and low. “You can’t change it. I’m not good like you.”

Taking a deep breath, she did what she had wanted to do earlier and lifted a hand to lay it on his cheek. At first, he tensed up and she thought he might pull away, but then he leaned into it and closed his eyes, practically reveling in her touch. If this didn’t work – if she couldn’t save him – then this would very likely be the last time he could enjoy any sort of human contact. It was unsupervised, unscripted, un-everything that made him an Enforcer. For a moment, he could be just a man and her a woman.

“What happened?” Uraraka asked. “What changed?”

“I don’t know.”

Uraraka narrowed her eyes. “Bullshit.”

A cold smile crossed Bakugou’s face and he opened his eyes. “Should’ve expected that. You’re perceptive as fuck.”

“Iida told me that your crime coefficient started rising a few months ago,” Uraraka continued, not giving him the time to skip over this or the ability to deflect. He could try all he wanted, but she would always pull him back to this. “That was around the time I shot you. Was it that? Was it something I did?”

“No, it wasn’t–” Bakugou cut himself off and stared down at her, a thousand unspoken words resting between them. He was all sharp edges and hard muscles, but there was something undeniably soft about the way he gazed at her now, despite his absurdly high score. She should step away from him. Let him be taken care of. Maybe it would be doing him a favor. How tired was he of being the CID’s favorite attack dog? “It was you, but not like you think.”

Uraraka pulled her hand away from his face and put both of them on her hips. “Explain it to me then.”

“Your Psycho Pass score rose,” Bakugou said, sounding terribly hurt. She tilted her head in confusion. “I’ve checked the score of every Inspector I’ve had during my time as an Enforcer, but not a single one has ever stayed level like yours. I didn’t understand it. Even when you were being held hostage and threatened, it stayed steady.”

She didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. Her score was bound to rise every once in a while, considering what she saw and went through with the job. “That’s not a bad thing, is it? I took this job because of that.”

“After you shot me,” Bakugou emphasized, “your score rose.” He shook his head. “I checked the records. It didn’t rise after you shot Deku. It didn’t rise during any of the investigations we did.” He waved a hand around the area. Her eyes skirted over the dark shapes that were unmistakably bodies. “Your score didn’t rise when you walked in and saw this! But it did when you shot me ?”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Uraraka replied quietly.

Bakugou put a hand to the side of his head and huffed an irritated breath. He apparently didn’t know either. “You can’t do that. Surely the others explained it to you.”

Uraraka blinked in confusion. “Do what?”

“Care about me!” Bakugou exploded, throwing his hand out. “About us!” He waved a hand to Midoriya and Mina, who were wearing a knowing expression and looking away respectively, and then to Kaminari, who dropped his gaze to the ground, one hand still on his shoulder. “We’re not like everyone else. We’re not good, Uraraka. We can smile, laugh, make jokes, cry, and get into arguments like every other asshole on this planet – but we live in a different world. You can’t just treat us like we’re equals.”

“Why not?” Uraraka put her hands on her hips. “You’re not animals. You’re still human. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been labeled as a latent criminals; that won’t stop you from having the same hopes, dreams, fears, and wants that every other human does. I’m not going to treat you like a dog. You’re more important to me than that.”

Bakugou practically seethed as he glared down at her and then licked his lips. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You should never have taken a job with the CID.”

It felt as if Bakugou had slapped her in the face. Her eyes widened in shock and she took a step back, the wall between them suddenly too palpable. “Why? Do you think I’m too weak?”

“You’re anything but weak,” Bakugou said, turning away from her slightly. A shadow fell over his face, one that he seemed to perpetually live in. “You’re just too good. You’ll only get corrupted down here. It’s not right. You deserve better than that. Some nice, cheery life with pleasant, good people. A nice house in the suburbs, a cute dog, the perfect boyfriend who cooks you breakfast and kisses you when you get home from your easy job. That’s what you deserve, not this nightmare of a shithole.”

That was it? All that fighting, scowling, and judgmental glares – and it was because he was being protective? She knew that he didn’t look at it that way, but that was what he was doing. He’d risked dying to save her, after all. He had known that her score would likely rise if she was taken by the criminal. Someone that desperate would’ve likely hurt her further or killed her altogether. He had known full well that the Sybil System would judge him as too much of a threat and he had done it anyways.

Uraraka poked him in the chest. “Did you ever stop to think that’s exactly why I chose this job? So that other people could have those lives that they deserve? So they don’t end up in your position or, even worse, his?”

She waved a hand in the direction of the man that Bakugou had killed. Behind her, she knew that Iida was avoiding it. Being in here too long could possibly cloud his hue. She heard Midoriya mumbling just that to him. It didn’t raise hers and Bakugou knew it, which seemed to irritate him further.

“If you stay in the CID…” Bakugou’s voice faded and he clenched his jaw.

“My score has been consistent my entire life. I don’t know why, but I came to the conclusion early on that I wanted to use that ability to help others, even those deemed too far gone, even you.” Uraraka allowed herself to soften. Most Inspectors would’ve called her a fool, maybe even Iida, but she stood before him completely vulnerable. She didn’t need her Dominator to know that he deserved to live. “You’re right. This job isn’t easy. It’s crushing and devastating. I spend some nights crying in bed. Silly, I know. I don’t want an easy job or some nice, pleasant, cheery life in the suburbs. I want other people to have that. That’s my dream.”

“Gods, you’re such a sap,” Bakugou grumbled.

A smile touched Uraraka. “You could’ve just said that you were worried about me instead of checking my score every day, you know.”

His eyes flickered to hers, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want her to know that he worried about her in any way. That would imply that he cared about her and he certainly couldn’t do that. He was an Enforcer. Yes it was his job to protect her, but care suggested that he might even be fond of her and that was too much. He wasn’t allowed that.

Iida cleared his throat. “Uraraka?”

“Midoriya, could you hand me my Dominator?” Uraraka asked calmly, holding out a hand but not looking away from Bakugou’s eyes. She could see a hint of fear in them now. For as flippant as he was about the whole thing every time Iida reprimanded him, he didn’t want to die, especially not after she had given him a taste of what he dreamed about. It could never happen. He could never give her what he thought she deserved, but right now – being on this team, doing her job, working with him at her side – she had what she wanted.

After a moment’s hesitation, Midoriya stepped through the carnage to retrieve her Dominator. The bots wouldn’t come in to clean up this disaster until the CID gave them the all-clear. One more thing had to be done before they could do that and get Kaminari to the hospital. She knew that Iida wouldn’t let Bakugou just walk out of here because she had shielded him. The judgment had still been made and it had to be passed. After carefully placing the gun in her hand, Midoriya stepped back out of the way. He wasn’t pleased with the decision either.

Uraraka stared into his eyes. “Do you trust me now?”

“You should let Iida do it,” Bakugou said instead, trying to erase all the emotions from his voice and failing entirely. He felt things too deeply. Perhaps that was why his score had risen to dangerous levels and he’d become an Enforcer. He let go of his Dominator and it clattered uselessly to the floor, the sound echoing in the quiet bank as everyone held their breaths. It wasn’t easy losing a colleague, even if they were a latent criminal, because it reminded the rest of them that they were ticking time bombs.

“Do you trust me?” Uraraka repeated, firmer this time.

Bakugou’s lips twitched into a frown. “You know I do. Assessing you daily was never about distrust or thinking that you were too fragile for the job.”

“Then trust me when I say that you aren’t going to die,” Uraraka told him.

“My score–”

“Is not who you are,” she cut in, even though she knew that he hated being interrupted. “You have a good heart, Bakugou. You’re not as far gone as you think. Let me help you.”

Even though he was hesitant to believe in himself, Uraraka had to hope that he would believe in her. She had to hope that he could be saved. It was why her score stayed down. When she had been forced to paralyze him with the Dominator, maybe that belief had wavered, hence why it had raised. Then again, why hadn’t it raised when she had shot Deku? Was it because of the circumstances?

Slowly, Uraraka raised the Dominator and pointed it at him. Her eyes glowed blue as the Sybil System began to analyze him. She wouldn’t kill him. She didn’t care what it decided. She’d throw the gun to the side and throw herself over him again if she had to in order to keep him alive. It wasn’t that he was the best at his job. He mattered to her. Latent criminal, subordinate, Enforcer – she wanted him to remain in her life. He’d become too important of a piece for her to simply let him go.

“The target’s threat judgment has been reappraised. Enforcement mode: not lethal – paralyzer.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as Bakugou laughed, tilting his head back and wearing what almost looked like a smile. “Ah, not this shit again. It hurts like a bitch.”

“Better than getting blown to bits,” Kaminari joked half-heartedly.

“Sorry,” Uraraka told him, but she only sort of meant him. He kind of deserved this after the stress that he’d put them all through and he knew it too. He dropped his chin and looked at her one last time, total acceptance openly shining in his eyes and on his face.

And then she pulled the trigger.

It didn’t matter if it was at point blank range. The paralyzer struck Bakugou in the chest, his body shaking as it worked on shutting his muscles down. When it finally ended, he fell to his knees, but she reached down and caught him at the last second before he fell on his face. He was heavy in her arms, his body more solid than it looked underneath his black and red suit. She gently laid him on the ground and then stood up to wipe the sweat off her brow. As calm as she had looked, her heart had been pounding the entire time.

Finally, Uraraka turned to face the others. Iida wore an expression that looked torn between relief and disapproval. Obviously he was happy that he hadn’t been forced to execute Bakugou, but he wasn’t pleased that Uraraka had gotten in the way and disobeyed a direct order. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he decided to assess her level again, but he didn’t. Ignoring an order wasn’t the same as committing a crime. In her heart, she knew that her score was fine, if not lowered now. She gazed down at Bakugou, who looked so peaceful that he might as well simply be taking a nap. He never let himself be this relaxed.

In a way, he almost looked happy, which was strange, seeing as how she’d just shot him. He’d definitely be feeling that later. She did not want to be around him when he woke up.

Midoriya had a hand on Mina’s shoulder, reassuring her that everything was alright. Despite the fact that he had embraced the role of Enforcer, Uraraka got the feeling that he would never be able to shake the Inspector out of him. He must have been like her, the type that cared for his subordinates, but unlike her, it had gotten to him. She felt a stab of shame, not knowing where it came from. Why didn’t it affect her so much? She knew that she wasn’t heartless since it was her concern for them that bothered Bakugo. Yet while Midoriya had fallen from grace, here she was, surrounded by corpses, almost kidnapped, and had someone’s blood all over her and she was fine. Why was she so much better off than Kaminari, who had been deemed a latent criminal as a child, or Mina, who had simply gotten mixed up in the wrong crowd and determined to be one by association?

Those were questions for another day. Uraraka was honestly too exhausted to sort through them now. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower to get this blood off and work on the report so she could sleep. Likely everyone would need to go to a therapy session to ensure that their scores didn’t get too high. Iida was constantly on them to make sure that they remained vigilant in taking care of themselves unlike a lot of Inspectors that treated their Enforcers as disposable. She supposed that part of it came from the fact that he and Midoriya had worked together. Maybe seeing him go from Inspector to Enforcer had made him realize that they needed to be taken care of as well.

A hand on her shoulder jerked Uraraka out of her thoughts. She’d expected it to be Iida, but when she looked back, she saw that it was Midoriya. “You did well. Thank you.”

That caught Uraraka off guard. She twisted her lips into a frown. “Thank you? What for?”

“For believing in him,” Midoriya said, “for saving him.” He pulled his hand away and dropped his gaze down to Bakugou. The two of them were often at odds with each other – to the point where the rumors about Bakugou forcing his score to go up didn’t seem like rumors – but it was obvious in moments like these that Midoriya admired him. “Not many people would, if any, especially Inspectors.”

“Would you?” Uraraka asked.

Midoriya’s lips twitched into a half smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

It wasn’t Bakugou’s fault that Midoriya was an Enforcer, but he’d had something to do with it. One day, she would ask him about it. For now, she let him keep the secret. It was theirs and she had no right to it. Enforcers had so little that was actually theirs to keep. They couldn’t own much of anything and had little more freedom than the latent criminals locked away under therapy. She’d let them decide to tell her on their own time.

When Midoriya walked away to help Kaminari, Uraraka crouched down next to Bakugou. She picked up his fallen Dominator and set it aside next to hers. In anyone else’s hands but theirs, the weapons were harmless. With her hands freed, she brushed his ash-blond hair out of his face. It was softer than she’d expected from how spikey it looked. She imagined that he rolled out of bed like this and tousled it to look just right. He had an image to keep up, after all. The thought made her smile.

You’re more than this, Uraraka thought. You can be more.

This wasn’t where his story ended. He still had a job to do and a life to live.

[skruffie]

It’s not the anniversary yet, but it IS National Siblings Day and I conveniently forget that this is even a thing until I go on Facebook or Twitter or something and remember. This year is a big milestone for my family because it is the 18th anniversary, which marks a passage of time from now to forever where she has been gone longer than she was alive.

I saw this thing on Facebook about grief, and it went something like grief is this hole, and you can try to fill the hole with whatever you can, but nothing fills it. It’s bottomless. It seems like your entire life gets sucked into it, but eventually as the years go on... the hole doesn’t get smaller. Your life gets bigger, and it grows around it. The hole is always there, but there’s more expanse around it as you move through each anniversary, each holiday, each milestone. It’s similar to describing grief as “it doesn’t get easier, you just get better at coping”.

(This is going to be very long and probably very sad because I talk at great length about her life and death)

I tried to write about a little bit about Nicole on Twitter today, but my initial post mentioned the word “cancer” which caught the attention of this fucking asshole that was advertising faith healing on his timeline. That dulled my grief a bit but it sure made me mad.

Trying to remember things.

We were seven years apart so we never really had a sibling rivalry or anything. I actually looked up to her so much--she was like a teenage rock star to my child self. She loved writing and wrote lots of poetry, got published in an independent zine by age nine, and through her adolescence was a bit of a grunge punk. She played piano and bass. She wore combat boots. Occasionally she dressed up with the full make-up and everything and called them her “pretty days”. She had a lock of hair in front of her face she kept in a small braid. She did blogging before the word “blog” even existed by maintaining an email list of friends and family, and she would email her updates directly to them. She coded her own websites and experimented with graphic design. She did photography. She’s why I love nail polish and tarot cards and Doc Martens--her own boots had navy blue laces with suns and moons on them. She had a huge, huge crush on Dave Navarro. She would buy hostess cupcakes for the kids at school who didn’t have food, and she kicked her own friends out of our house when they tried to bring alcohol to her party.

Nicole grew up with the brunt of our parents’ addictions before I came along. My mom (seen with baby Nicole in one of the photos above) and dad were only 19 when they had her and got married. When she was younger, they actually split up for a while and I think my great-grandma helped take care of her. My parents both went to rehab, got back together, and then had me, so... I was the baby that grew up in a sober house for a while at least. My parents still argued and it bothered me a lot when I got a bit older, so she’d come get me and take me to her room and bring chips and bean dip, and I’d have a safe place to cry.

...That’s a thought I just had right there. After she died, I didn’t really have that same kind of shield from my parents fighting (which was a lot worse after her death--a lot of couples who lose a child end up divorcing and my parents came close), which I think is probably what made the emotional neglect worse.

I don’t remember the exact progression of her cancer, but things started getting noticeable when she started developing night-blindness. I think at the time there were some doctors that didn’t believe she could be getting cancer so getting the insurance to cover tests and treatment was a fight every single time. A tumor started growing in her left arm, and the diagnosis was finally clear: rhabdomyosarcoma. She asked the doctors after her diagnosis if it was genetic, because even after that, she thought of me. (Thankfully, it isn’t. It was just a stupid, cruel twist of the universe.)

She got chemo, started to go into remission, and eventually it came back. Nicole then got a stem cell transplant when it was getting worse--more tumors, etc etc. I had met with a grief counselor at the hospital once or twice during this time period, even before we knew for sure it was terminal, because I was 10 going on 11 and needed someone to help me process and also like... kinda pay attention to me? Admitting that feels weird, but I was just a kid.

The day that I found out that the stem cell transplant didn’t work is probably almost worse than the day she died for me. They brought in a minister and we sang “Amazing Grace” and I watched her be baptized, and while she was being anointed, I kept asking everyone “Why is she being baptized? Why??? Why?! We’re Wiccan!!” Which was true. Nicole also underwent a Wiccaning around this time. Everyone was ignoring my questions, until finally it was time. She told me the stem cell transplant had not been successful and broke down crying, and I immediately understood what that meant, and I started screaming and crying. I started screaming to see the grief counselor, and I had to leave the hospital room to go with the counselor down to my favorite spot on the hospital campus.

Fuck. I hate Easter. I fucking hate Easter. It was around Easter time and this holiday plays a role in this awful memory of mine: at the hospital, some very kind person made little easter baskets for all the kids that were on the juvenile cancer ward, and I even got to get one even though I wasn’t a patient. I was starting to open mine but Nicole just looked at it. She said “Why do I get one? Why do I get one when I’m going to--” and probably started crying. I put my basket aside because the thrill of like... easter chocolate or whatever the fuck was gone. I don’t think I’ve been able to enjoy this holiday since.

Make A Wish was involved at some point, obviously. NIcole’s original wish was to meet Tori Amos, but her management team responded with “Uhhh, Tori doesn’t really do that” which was disappointing at first. (A few years later, a couple of Nicole’s friends saw T live in concert and met her at a meet and greet. They told her Nicole’s story and I guess she had no idea actually, so I believe it was a decision firmly on the management’s side.). The next wish had to be rushed, and Nicole realized that she wanted to go to prom. The actual senior prom for her high school was going to be too far out in advance with her surviving that long, so Make A Wish threw together a special prom just for her and about 150+ attendees.

The prom was held at Newport Harbor on a yacht. Rebecca Schoenkopf of Wonkette, known in 2001 as CommieGirl for the OC Weekly, met with Nicole once prior to this and attended as a prom guest to write about it. Naturally, Nicole was crowned prom queen and when she stood up to receive the crown, it was something magical. She had spent most of the evening in and out of sleep from being so ill and from the medications she was on.

When she was dying, she wanted to be at the hospital. I stayed at my grandparent’s house... probably for a couple days, I don’t actually remember how long it was, and my parents were there for her. I believe she died in the early hours of the morning on April 30th, two days short of her 18th birthday. I had a moment that morning that I consider a small blessing, which is that I found out she was gone before anyone had actually told me, and it gave me a brief reprise to just be by myself while I gathered up my will to go downstairs and face my parents. I had been in the process of going downstairs, and I saw my mom come out of the bathroom, and that was it. That was all I needed to see.

She had them write a letter as her own personal message to me. Two days later for her 18th birthday, my cousin sent us 18 lavender balloons. I don’t think we had her memorial until the 11th of May and I know this because it was the same day Douglas Adams--one of Nicole’s favorite authors--died. We joked that she took him with her. Nicole was cremated, and I do remember there was at least one funny moment that morning as we were getting out of the car. My mom handed me the wooden box that had Nicole’s cremains in it and said “Here, hold your sister for a sec.” We got a touch of that grave humor in my family.

One of the hardest things about this... hole of grief, is aging. My parents are in their mid 50s now, and I’m going to be 30 next year. I don’t have any other siblings to help take care of my parents. My mom rather flippantly says “Oh, put us in a nursing home”, but that just feels so bleak. I don’t have my sister with me to help with my wedding, to meet Zack or any of my friends, to talk to about our past and our future. She’s not here to kick ass and build amazing apps or tear down the patriarchy or be on the ground reporting the latest news break. There’s so many milestones I’ve already crossed without her but I am always going to miss her.

Bon swayr, ma souer.

[franeridart]

Hi! Idk if you read fanfic, but would you happen to have any kiribaku fic recs? Or any bnha fic rec?

I’m pretty sure there’s stuff tagged as fic recs on this blog, yes! Nothing particularly new tho, I haven’t had the time to put down a new rec-list in a while ;-;

Anon said:How long does it take you to finish a drawing with and without color?

That honestly depends on a lot of factors - which tools I’m using, how many characters there are in the drawing/if it’s full body or not, how used to drawing the character I am, how big is the canvas, if I already have a clear idea of what I mean to draw or not, how precise I want to be with lines and stuff. 

That Yuuto sketch I posted yesterday took me about 40 minutes I think, and over half of it was spent trying to figure out how I was supposed to draw him since it was the first time I drew him - the tools I used are the ones I use when I want to be fast and don’t care about being sloppy. A small random Kirishima bust properly lined and colored could take me five minutes to sketch and line and as many to color on a good day, cause I’ve drawn him so many times by now I don’t even have to think to draw him. Deku, on the other hand, can take me an hour even just to sketch, I can’t seem to grasp how I’m supposed to draw him at all.

Sorry, it really depends on a lot of things, I can’t give a proper answer to this :(

Anon said:Ive been tryin to find ur art of sero carrying baku for like 20 minutes n i cant find it :(

Are you talking about this one? Or this one? There’s also this one I guess...? And maybe this one lol 

Anon said:yoooo, hey man, that cat kiribaku thing ya got going on is some 👌👌👌👌👌

HECK THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!

Anon said:Has anyone ever considered Hadmie. Hadou x Camie before?? It just seems like it'd be a cute ship to sail with, tbh. That just might be me tho.

I dunno if anyone has before you, but I can’t say I have, sorry! If I gotta ship Nejire with someone after all it’s gonna be Yuyu haha

Anon said:Hey do you do commissions? I really love your art and I'd love to get a commission from you!! (and also I just wanna know if there's yet another thing that I have to save up for XD)

Not right now, sorry! Maybe after I’m done with the zine things!!

Anon said:*runs around like an excited puppy* DAVEDAVEDAVEDAVEDAVEDAVEDAVE!!!!!!! :D

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :D

Anon said:AHHH i love your ocs so much also Nico looks so cute and i love learning new things about them

AAAHHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH OH MY G O D!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anon said:KIRI + PINEAPPLE PONYTAIL = THE BEST THING EVER

I’M GLAD WE AGREE ON THAT

Anon said:your oc's literally kill me!! i already love nico, and i think i speak for everyone when i say that we definitely want more of him and luca!! i don't know if it's just me, but I love when the angry, swearing types fall for someone.

SOB thank you so so much for the kind words about my kids ;^;

Anon said:OH MY GOD LUCA IS BACK!!!! YESSSSSSSS FUCKING KILL ME THIS IS A BLESSED DAY I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. MORE OF YOUR OC'S!!! (only when you want to share of course, I'm just trying to convey my enthusiasm here. not demanding at all ^^)

I think that might happen soon enough, actually!!!! Thank you so much for the interest in them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anon said:Are josh and chris still not dating?

Sadly until I’ll sit down to write their story that specific part of it won’t go anywhere :( Chris gotta deal with a bunch of things before he’ll be ready to put a name to what’s between him and Josh 3 one day I’ll let him work through it !!!

Anon said:I'm so paranoid I'm going to repost one of your post by accident but the thing is is I never even repost anything at all but just because I know you don't want them to be I'm so scared that by accident I'm going to have something screenshotted and forget it's yours and like Ugh😂

Well, my name’s written on all my drawing so I doubt you’ll forget it’s my stuff lol to make sure you’re not reposting anything the author doesn’t want reposted you can always just ask before reposting it, tho~

Anon said:I was just scrolling through your OC stuff and I just. Love them so much. Thank you for the babies ❤

GOD THANK YOU ;O;

Anon said:Okay I've never seen your oc's before and Dave is the cutest green boy I love him

AAAAHHHHHH I’M GLAD!!!!!

Anon said:kamijirou getting together? :3 also if there were ever a scenario where jirou would confess first, what do you think she would be thinking?

I actually have half a thing planned for that :0 gimme a while to get around to drawing it!

Anon said:How do you feel imagine kiri’s parents???

Actually since I’m still hoping one day Hori will give us the official versions I try not to think too much about it! I don’t wanna grow attached just to have to give them up once I’ll have the canon versions haha

Anon said:hey quick innocent question ive been following for a long time and saw a lot of your art do you have a thing for feet

Are you asking because I draw a lot of people barefoot? Feet are just easier and faster to draw than shoes, anon

Anon said:I love how you answer asks all at once. It’s nice to see that you’re getting in bulk appreciation

THANKS I honestly just don’t want my blog to be more asks than art, so I let them pile up before answering - it does mean I make people wait a lot for answers tho orz sorry

Anon said:I LOVE YOUR ART

THANK YOU!!!!

Anon said:You've open a sea of possibilities with red pineapple kirishima. You're a legend :prayeremoji:

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I wouldn’t call myself that but I’m glad you appreciate him too hahaha

Anon said:i cant help but notice nothings been added to your sero tag in 4 months

That might be because I rarely use single characters tags! Try looking under #bakusquad and #seromina :D

Anon said:Hahaaa hi this is probably really really awkward but I just wanted you to let you know that you're super awesome!! And the fact that your art is something that I can look forward to is absolutely amazing (no pressure tho)!!! So yea, thank you for being cool and creating beautiful art~~ :D ✧✧✧

SOB it’s not awkward at all!!!! thank you SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!

Anon said:Would you mind adding some more Tokoyami art to your shop? More specifically the pieces where hes hanging out with Kiri, and the Tokoshoji piece :D Im desperate to bury my notebooks in stickers from your shop rn and the bird boy needs more love ❤

AHW I’m sorry anon, but those are definitely too small to be of any use on the shop ;-; if you’re okay with it I could add the last one I posted? I should seriously draw more of him..................

Anon said:That jacket that Kirishima has on...I NEED!

I drew it and that’s still a mood t b h

Anon said:I went so far back in your blog that it kicked me back to the beginning ;-; I was just getting to the D. Greyman stuff too

AW ;-; (..........it’s good tho, the further you go the least worth it my stuff is l m a o)

Anon said:Do you ever draw kiribaku or something else in paper or some kind of sketch book if you do i would love to see them❤(sorry if my english is bad)

I do have some doodles on paper posted on here somewhere? But tbh I rarely draw traditionally anymore unless it’s just random doodles :(

Anon said:Aahhh!!! I really love your kiribaku shit its so cute!!and you draw so goood too literally when i found this ship i instantly found you and you are so perfect in my eyes and your art!!!!! I looooooovvvvvvveeeeee yoooouuuuuu thank you for being here and showing us this stuff!!❤❤❤❤

HECK thank you!!!!!!!!!!!

Anon said:i adore your art so much and your bakushima comics make me smile a lot! :) you’re one of my favorite artists now dldksjshskdk

tHANK YOU OH MY G OD ;^;

Anon said:Consider this: fantasy Kirishima meeting normal bakugou, thinking that's his Katsuki 😂😂

.........................you literally got no clue how long I’ve been thinkin about drawing this............ he ck

Anon said:Your drawings give me life 😍❤️

sob thank you so so so much ;-;

[pumpkins-s]

Waiting For You (To Become Something To Come Back To)

Read On AO3 Here

Pidge doesn’t consider communication about her feelings her strong suit, and Lance isn’t good at talking about his own problems to the people that matter, especially when he can solve someone else’s instead—but together, they might just have to learn to try.

(Or, five times Lance and Pidge try to voice the hard things that need to be said, with varying levels of success, and one time they don’t need to.)

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationships: Lance/Pidge

Characters: Pidge, Lance

Written for the @plance-zine​

1.

Somewhere in the aftermath of Sendak’s attack on the castle—long after Lance has been seen out of his cryopod, and she has coughed up her secret from her chest—Pidge lies in bed, thinking. The unfamiliar hum of the castle grates on her ears, and she realizes, properly realizes, that she nearly died.

  Realizes that if she closes her eyes, she doesn’t fully trust that the castle won’t light up the purple of betrayal again in her absence. It sits heavy on her, and eventually, it drives her from her room altogether.

  She finds herself drawn to the flight deck, where the glow of the new crystal lights up the scorch marks and scars marking their earlier battle. She sits there, staring at it for what feels like an eternity, trying not to think of Shiro’s scream of pain over the monitor, Haxus’s cries as he fell into the abyss of the castle’s inner depths. Just trying , at least until there’s the shuffle of noise behind her, and a startled yelp from a familiar voice as he hurriedly scooches back around the doorway.

  Pidge rolls her eyes. “I don’t own the flight deck, Lance.”

  “…Right,” she hears him say, and slowly he inches into view, sitting down next to her gingerly, as if expecting her to explode at any moment. There’s a flash of momentary annoyance at his caution, but as she watches his fiddling thumbs in his lap, something inside her softens. She isn’t the only one who nearly died today.

  “Can’t sleep?” she tries. It’s not quite an are you okay? because she doesn’t know even remotely how to approach this, but God help her if she doesn’t at least try . Lance deserves that much, right now.

  He shrugs. “Tried, but—just couldn’t settle down, I guess.”

  She nods, keeping her eyes trained on the crystal rather than him. “…It was scary,” she admits quietly, reluctantly. “Finding you here. I thought you’d…”

  “Sorry,” Lance whispers, and she doesn’t quite know why—he saved Coran’s life, that’s not anything to be sorry for—but he plows on. “I wasn’t—I don’t remember much, afterwards. I was pretty out of it. But when I heard your voice over the monitor, cursing out Sendak like that, I knew we’d be okay.” He looks over at her, grin brilliant, and something in her throat hurts, wants to demand how he can be so damn trusting. Instead, the words coming unbidden, she chokes out—

  “I killed him. Haxus.” He probably already knows, but she still has to say it—has to confess .

  Lance’s smile drops. “…It wasn’t your fault.”

  She snorts. “Do you really believe that?”

  He shrugs, mouth a thin, grim line. “I have to. I doubt they were the only people on that ship. They—war has casualties, and it was us or them. You didn’t have a choice. None of us did.”

  Something about his words scare her, and she shakes her head, desperately changes the topic. “Did you really not know I was a girl?” Lance’s answering squawk of outrage comes as a relief, safe territory.

  She doesn’t want to have to dwell on the finality of the word war any more than she has to.

   2.

Really, Pidge can’t even find it in her to be surprised that Lance is the one who bursts into her room following their return to the castle, after the collapsed wormhole fiasco.

  Of course, he takes one look at the trash reconstructions of her friends she’d smuggled back, and announces, with no grace whatsoever: “What the fuck.”

 Flushing red, Pidge promptly drops trash Shiro, whom she’d been carefully trying to lean up against one of the piles of her collected tech repair parts, and snaps, “Get out.”

  “Oh my god,” Lance says, completely ignoring her and utterly delighted. “Are these supposed to be us? ”

  Dropping her face into her hands, Pidge sighs. “Lance. Please.”

  “These are adorable,” he coos, poking at trash Hunk speculatively, before casting an unsure look at his own replica. “…Does my hair actually look like that?” Pidge just glares at him, and he holds his hands up defensively. “I’m just saying, I’ve looked better.”

  “Your bangs look like you hacked them with a chainsaw,” she grumbles, and Lance shrugs.

  “I cut them myself, I’ll admit. There’re no good salons in space.”

  She wants to ask him what his excuse was at the Garrison, feeling acerbic and slightly mean in her embarrassment, but he’s already moved on. “That one’s Shiro, right? The broad, manly shoulders give him away.” He rests his elbow on her head, which she shoves off with distaste. “Aww…Pidge! You made these while we were gone? You missed us?” Lance flutters his eyelashes. “Were you lonely?”

  Pidge growls, and Lance blinks, seeming to rewind his words in his head. “Oh shi—you were lonely?”

  “Okay!” she announces loudly, trying to shove him towards the door. “ Thank you , Lance, I think it’s time for you to go—“

  He plants his feet into the ground, the picture of stubbornness.

  “…You were, weren’t you?”

  Ceding defeat, Pidge drops her arms, crossing them defensively. Lance fidgets awkwardly in front of her, before he says, “I don’t uh—I’ll be real I have no idea what to do here.”

  “You could leave.”

  “No, no, hold on. I’m going to come up with something really sensitive and tactful to say, just give me a minute.” He trails off, eyebrows furrowed and a hand pressed to his chin in what is obviously meant to be a thinking gesture. “…You knew we were coming back to get you, right? No matter how long it took, we were gonna find you?”

  Pidge huffs. “I know.”

  Lance frowns, casting a critical eye at his trash double. “…Do you?”

 “I—“ She hesitates, and then scowls. “Oh, fuck you Lance! No, I didn’t know. Nobody came for me; I had to get myself out of there. I had to build my own satellite to contact Allura and Coran, and I had to get Shiro and Keith while you were off playing Atlantis with Hunk.” Lance winces, and Pidge cuts herself off, instantly feeling regret. She knows that’s not how it went for Lance and Hunk at all. “…Sorry. I didn’t—sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Lance says. After a moment, he takes a deep breath, crouching down in a move that would normally get him kicked at, and knocks his forehead against hers gently. “Look, I’m not as smart as you, okay? I can’t build crazy stuff to fix everyone’s problems, but if there’s one thing I am, it’s stubborn, so believe me when I say that so long as I get any vote in the matter, we’re always going to come find you, alright? Always. We’re a team, we stick together.”

  When she says nothing, Lance straightens awkwardly. “Right. Well I’m just gonna…go.”

  He makes it to the door before she manages to force herself to speak.

  “Wait.” Lance freezes, and she scratches unsurely at her arm. “Do you…want to see trash Keith? You could take apart his mullet to fix your hair.”

  Lance turns around, eyes wide and smile somehow wider again. “I’d like that.”

   3.

The first time they play video games is only a few days after the Beta Traz breakout. Group exhaustion at Slav’s…Slav-ness, and Shiro’s perpetual frustration with him, gives them plenty of motivation to spend their limited free time out of the way and focused on puzzling out a power source for the game system they’d bought. Eventually, with Hunk’s help, the three of them cobble the necessary parts together.

  Lance, in a show of surprising charity, offers to let her be player one, though he all but begs for first selection from the character menu.

  “You should choose the archer,” Pidge tells him, scooching up from behind on her knees and putting aside her bowl of food-goo flavored chips to rest her chin on his shoulder. “Ranged support. You’re good at it in real life, figures you’d have it down in video games too.”

  Lance frowns. “I don’t know.”

  “What?” Pidge snorts. “You’re telling me you’ve never played a sniper in a game before? You? ”

  “Of course I have,” Lance grumbles. “I just meant—I thought I’d play one of the fighters.” He shifts his fingers on the controller, and hovers over one of the swordsmen.

  Pidge wrinkles her nose. “Why?”

  “…Aren’t they the ones everyone wants to play? They’re the heroes .”

  “And that guy—“ Pidge points at the archer’s icon, “isn’t? Please. I always had to play support for Matt. Without me his ass wouldn’t have made it past level two.”

  “Oh. I guess I just—never mind.”

  Lance looks away, and Pidge thinks, not for the first time, of Beta Traz, of things spoken into the comms she was never supposed to hear. The things Lance thinks of all of them, and the things he thinks about himself. Really thinks about himself.

  “Hey—“ She hesitates, tongue darting out to touch her bottom lip in a quick, nervous gesture she got from her Dad’s side of the family, and never could quite seem to lose. “Support characters—support fighters are important, okay? They protect their teammates, clear the way ahead when everyone’s too focused on what’s right in front of them. They’re not—“ Lance’s words echo in her head. “They’re not some…seventh wheel.”

  Pidge feels Lance freeze, eyes trained ahead on the screen as his body tenses, and she continues.“…I’m pretty sure they’re one of the most necessary cogs in the machine, if anything.”

  Lance says nothing, but after a long moment, fingers twitching over the controller in aborted movements, he selects the archer from the character menu, and Pidge breathes a sigh of relief.

  He leans in closer to her weight, the side of his head bumping up against hers, and Pidge chooses to take that as unspoken forgiveness for her accidental listening in. She selects her character in turn, and the silence, for once, doesn’t stifle her.

   4.

After their first battle with Lotor, Lance doesn’t talk.

  Well, no, he talks—and talks, and talks . About how out-of-control fast Red is, about how great Allura was, about how much of a jerk Lotor must be—but he doesn’t… talk . Not about Blue, not about the anxious twitch in his hand every time someone mentions him and Red in the same sentence, not about the flicker of despair that flits over his face when Coran pats Allura on the back and says something about blue paladins .

  He’s not jealous of Keith, or resentful of Allura, even. No, this is something else Pidge can’t quite puzzle out. An unspoken hurt.

  She considers talking to him about it for all of several minutes, but by the time she’s made up her mind to even try, she turns around and he’s gone. When he’s not in his room, Pidge selects the next most obvious option, and hacks the security cameras to the lion hangars.

  Allura was there, so it technically wasn’t a private moment, she tries to tell herself. She definitely feels guilty, but her—she can’t even call it curiosity, this is just plain old worry— overwhelms it.

  Both feelings vanish the minute she sees the footage, replaced with cold, steel fury . Pidge isn’t someone to let her emotions get the better of her if she can help it, but this time rage unsettles even her usually rational affect.

  Without thinking, she storms down to Blue’s hangar, near kicks open the door, and announces to the lion, without preamble. “You’re an asshole .”

  Avenging wrath beats in her chest, and Pidge trembles, trying to imagine what it would feel like if Green ever did that to her. Ever shut her out and wouldn’t even tell her why .

  Inconceivable. Her brain refuses to even compute the option, coming up all in error codes and pangs of foreboding and pain .

  “Why the fuck’d you have to do that to him?” she shouts, and she understands objectively she’s yelling at a giant metal lion, that this is possibly one of the most ridiculous things she’s ever done, but she finds it hard to care. “I get he needed to pilot Red, I get that was necessary, but you could have just told him. Shutting him out like that—you know what he’s like, you know what that’d do to him!”

  Blue doesn’t stir, not that Pidge expects her— it to, and she hisses. “That was cruel, and you know it. You’re cruel. A cruel, heartless—“ her first instinct is to say bitch, but she’s not sure Blue deserves even that acknowledgement of her sentience right now. God knows she hasn’t put it to good use. “… thing .”

  With one last spiteful glare at the lion, she turns to leave, and startles to a stop when she sees Lance behind her, wide-eyed and awkward. “Lance—“ she says, and she’s not sure if it’s to defend herself or apologize, but he suddenly surges forward, hugging her tightly even as his shoulders shake.

  “…Thank you,” he murmurs, and Pidge closes her eyes. She can feel Blue stir just slightly, through the bond between all of them, but Pidge ignores it. The lion has not earned her forgiveness, and it won’t for a long time.

  5.

Pidge understands, objectively, even before Allura puts out the call to the coalition, that Matt is going to have to leave the ship eventually. He’s a rebel officer. He has duties and obligations in this…war, just like her. He can’t spend forever joking around, playing video games, and working on mindless projects with her. It’s just not a part of their reality.

  Still, that doesn’t make it any easier when she has to watch him go. To know that if something, anything, goes wrong, she may never see him again. May lose him to a battle they were never supposed to belong to, when she only just got him back to begin with.

  She doesn’t hear Lance come up behind her, stuck in her own head amidst the noises of the departing ships, until he’s already there, tucked up by her side and peering up at Matt’s ship inscrutably. He looks to it, and back to her, and back to the ship again, before he speaks, with the kind of blunt, relentless optimism she’s slowly come to appreciate. “He’ll be alright.”

  “You don’t know that,” Pidge says with a sigh, and Lance shrugs.

  “Course I do.”

  “You can’t ,” she mumbles tiredly. “You said it yourself. War has casualties. Us or them, and it can’t always be us.”

  “Yeah, but—“ Lance makes a face, nose scrunched in thought. “I just know, okay?”

  “… How? ” Pidge says hoarsely, and for once, in the face of what she cannot understand about Lance, she is not frustrated so much as just…defeated. “How can you possibly know?”

  “Well,” Lance looks down at her, and his awkward, lopsided smile is like the sun. “He’s related to you, isn’t he? And you’re the toughest person I know.”

  Pidge blinks, surprise stealing her words, and Lance nods decisively, eyes on Matt’s ship. “…He’ll come back. And hey,” he looks back down to her, “if he doesn’t, we’ll just go get him, right? He’s part of the team now. I promised, didn’t I? No one gets left behind.” Lance points an awkward finger at himself. “Not even seventh wheels, apparently. Which means you’ve got to trust me on this one. If I can somehow keep my ass alive, anyone can.”

 “You’re not a seventh wheel,” Pidge says automatically, determined to repeat it until he gets it into his thick head, no matter how long it takes. Lance brightens visibly at her words, and Pidge swallows, a lump in her throat as she turns back to Matt’s departing ship. Wind blows fiercely as it takes off, throwing her hair in front of her eyes, and she is reminded almost inevitably of another landing platform a lifetime ago, promising her brother if he didn’t come back from Kerberos she’d damn well come and get him. She’d already done it once, and she wasn’t afraid to do it again, if it came down to it.

  “Let’s give him something to come back to, then,” she says, and Lance whoops, throwing an arm over her shoulders as the rebellion takes off.

 “Hell yeah.”

   +1

After Naxzela—after the panic of entrapment and waiting for the end and somehow, somehow still escaping to live another day—she finds him in the Balmera crystal’s glow.

  Lance looks to her as she enters the flight deck, his dark skin awash in the pale blue light, and she feels truly at ease for the first time since the fight.

  There is still so much to do, so much to say. Discussions of where to go next, how to compensate for and honor their casualties, their dead, the question of just what to do with Lotor—God, Lotor , Zarkon’s heir and their questionably former enemy, asleep in the prison hold of their castle.

  But Pidge looks at Lance, and suddenly all that feels like it can wait, for now. The castle can guard its slumbering load without her, this more important.

  “Should I go?” she asks, already knowing what he’ll say in response, and Lance shakes his head.

  “Stay?”

  She does.

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter six (”it’s a hospital, genius”)

“My stomach is so distended—Jesus,” Nancy groans.

We stumbled back outside to the drizzle, which at some point turned into a straight up rain because it's collecting all along the storm drain before us and all across the stones lining the curb. Poor Nancy is leaning against Dominique as if she's drunk even though she had only one thing to drink for tonight. Lars lets out a loud belch which echoes over the sidewalk.

Meanwhile, I feel like I've just swallowed a big bowling ball, but I don't look it. And if anything, even though my legs feel like they're heavy and made of lead, I think reading the zine and drinking sarsaparilla helped me because Lars looks like he's having a hard time keeping his balance.

He busts out laughing as he clings onto the trunk lid of a nearby hydrogen car, and then he almost falls ass over teakettle into the increasing waters in the storm drain.

Dominique gives her hair a toss as she's leading Nancy to the curb where we crossed earlier. I take a glimpse over my shoulder back to the front window of the bar. Maya's ducking under the neon; and I turn all the way to take a better look at her. The scar holding back her third eye has a faint sheen of pink from the neon and her eyes have lost that neon glint within them. She legitimately looks like a human girl right there, letting some of her hair fall into her face as she gazes on at me.

I have the copy of After the Watershed tucked right underneath my jacket to keep it from getting wet—not so much that Lars doesn't see it, but so it's not rendered to a pile of mush. She puckers her lips and then blows me a kiss.

I still don't know what make of that afterword, but my head's getting wet and the girls are crossing the street. I show her a friendly little smile before turning back towards the street. I did save her after all. But now I'm extra curious: what's her home life like over in Boston? And more importantly, what happened to her ten years ago when Molly wasn't looking?

Nancy and Dominique are ambling across the soaking wet black street holding each other. Right behind them, I'm turning my head every so often to make sure Lars doesn't lose his balance and fall right in the path of an incoming car. The two of them reach the other sidewalk first and post up for me and Lars. I run my fingers through my black curls as I'm stepping upon the curb. Lars staggers towards us with one hand clasped to the side of his head even though he's not wearing a hat.

He peers down at his wrist to check the time.

“Aw, man, we missed Skid Row!” he proclaims.

“Well, shit,” I remark, keeping a hand on my stomach. “So what now?”

“Well, the boys' hotel is up in Yonkers,” Dominique points out. “I say we drive up there and call it a night.”

“What about Lars and me?”

“Good question,” he chuckles. Getting kind of punch drunk right now. Or maybe he's actually drunk. I don't know: I didn't pay attention.

My stomach turns and I bring my fingers to my mouth. They're not as loud as the one Lars let out a little bit ago, but they're still coming up my throat.

“Must be that sarsaparilla you drank up, Joe,” Dominique chuckles at me; I swear she winked at me but I think it must've been my imagination because it's dark and I'm really sleepy.

“He's also the only one who didn't drink,” Nancy points out.

“So driving up to Yonkers is in my hands?” I ask her, lowering my hand. And without hesitating, Dominique reaches into her pocket for the car key and drops it into my free hand.

“It's just a few blocks,” Nancy points out.

“A few blocks in New York City can get pretty long, though, Nance,” Dominique points out. “I'm sure Mr. Joey here can do it for us, though.”

When she says “do it”, I think back to when she and I had our little encounter in her and Matt's house back in Seattle. Maybe there's a little something more to her that she's not telling me simply because she's in a relationship. Who knows and all I feel like doing right now is climbing into the front seat of the car and reclining back to nurse my stomach.

Lucky for me, we only have to walk a few feet to the car parked at the curb: I'm guessing Chris, Kim, Hiro, and Matt already left for the hotel because their car is gone. I'm sure we can explain once we're at the hotel.

I keep my free hand out so as to unlock the door and start up the hydrogen power inside there. I'm climbing into the front seat before a harsh gust of bitter cold wind can blow my hair into my face. I settle in right as the warmth inside of my stomach is spreading throughout my body, all over my belly and my chest and down my hips and my thighs. I don't feel like driving, but I have to. I feel the cover of After the Watershed pressed against my shirt and the interior of my coat so I know I've protected it from the rain.

Lars stumbles into the seat next to me while the girls take the back. The car's already hummed to life which means I can just pull on the lever and mosey away from there.

Surprisingly, there's not a lot of traffic for this part of Manhattan, which means I make most of the lights green. But the street seems to drag on forever into the darkness. I know the Bronx is here somewhere, followed by Yonkers and hopefully either Dominique or Nancy will tell me where I turn off at. But I don't even think of it. I don't think they're thinking of it either because once we approach the outskirts of the Bronx, the whole car falls silent. Silent except for the rain and the quiet hum of the hydrogen underneath us.

I do feel my eyelids growing heavy just before one stoplight. I blink several times to stay awake but they still want to close as we're driving further into the darkness.

All that lovely pasta and those decadent potstickers. That lush sweet sarsaparilla.

I feel so silky on the inside. I just want to kick back in the seat here.

What the fuck, I'm half Italian, for crying out loud. I should be acquainted with eating so much but it could be from the blackness of the night around us and all the warm amber streetlights over the wrought iron and the cold metal and bricks…

I'm bowing my head forward right before the next green light.

I don't even know what happens next, except darkness.

I don't think I'm dead, though. If I was dead, I would've seen Death back there, right as I bowed my head onto the edge of the steering wheel.

But I didn't.

Instead, I hear a steady beeping to my left. To my right is someone breathing hard. Under my head is something soft like a pillow.

I open my eyes to see a lit up rectangle on a clean gray ceiling.

“What—” I reach up with my right hand to touch my face to make sure I really am not dead and I have a bit of gauze wrapped and clamped down my index finger with a metal hold. I roll my head to the left to find I'm hooked up to a heart monitor. The person next to me groans and I roll my head over the pillow to see Lars laying on his side with a piece of gauze attached to the side of his head. He's waking up, too.

“What the hell happened?” I groan out: I have a dull ache in my lower back right above my hips. My head also hurts. I blink several times. “Where am I?”

“It's a hospital, genius,” he grumbles, scowling.

“What're you gettin' mad at me for?” I demand. My head really hurts.

“We could've died, Joey.”

“Oh, c'mon, man—I was the only one of us not drinking. At least I had the clear head.” Right as I say that, a sharp pain surges over my forehead and along my temple. I clasp a hand to that side of my head.

“The car's still totaled,” he points out, opening one eye to glare at me. “Clear head or not, we still wound up here.”

“I still fell asleep at the wheel, too.” I rub my eyes with the one hand without the gauze. “Still, what the fuck happened?”

“You just said it—you fell asleep at the wheel. Oh, wait, you mean what happened afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“We blew through a red light and plowed into a bails of white wires, like the ones we kept seeing in Seattle. I guess—” He rolls over onto his back with a groan in his throat. “—I guess we missed the back of the truck unloading the wires by about a few inches. You and I could'a literally lost our heads.”

I hoist myself up onto my elbows and that's when my head pounds so hard that I feel sick. The warm soft feeling in my stomach is gone now, replaced with full on nausea. I take a look down at the pads stuck to my chest and the top of my stomach; I lift up the blankets to look at my hips and my thighs. Aside from the bruise on my right thigh, it's good to know I didn't break any bones.

My head still hurts and I have a horrible pain in my back.

I lay back down with the hem of the blanket around my waist.

“How are the girls?” I ask him, my voice breaking. “Are they okay?”

“Yes, they are,” he replies, shifting his weight in his bed. “Nancy got a little concussion but Dominique called the medics once the dust settled. She thought you and I were goners at first because we had both passed out and you were all slumped over in your seat. The last thing I heard—before I passed out again—was you hit your head on the window—”

“That's probably why my head hurts.”

“—and the medics said the impact could've fucked up your back a little bit.”

“And my back does hurt. Ouch—”

“The car hit on my side, though.”

“So you got the worst of it,” I follow along.

“Yeah. I jerked my neck, dislocated my shoulder and my knee cap, and I sprained my wrist.”

I roll my head over again for a look at the gauze on his head as well as the bit of gauze on the side of his neck and down onto his shoulder. He's got his right arm out from underneath the blankets to show me the bandage on his wrist. “Dominique said the wires softened the blow but some of them still broke the windshield. She also swore no booze was involved, either.”

“But where are we, though?”

“Some hospital in Yonkers—forget what it's called. I woke up a little while ago and Nancy was here. She said—Soundgarden and Mother Love Bone are playing a second show tonight at the same venue but I don't think either of us are going to be up for it, though.”

“Hell, no. As much as I wanna see them again, I just—ow—” A sharp pain surges up my back and I rest my wrist upon my forehead because I don't know what else to do.

“Nancy said the doctor said your injuries should clear up in about a day or so, and they should be releasing you then. Whereas, me—I'm not so lucky.”

“Think you might be here a while?”

“At least until Friday. Which is Black Friday. So—so much for heading back to Denmark to spend a little time with my parents.”

“Damn—”

“Dominique also called Marcia and Sonia, and then your buddies and your parents, saying you're alright. Just—banged up.”

Something catches my eye and I lift my head to the sight of black curls entering the room. I hoist myself up on my elbows again for a better look.

“Maya,” I breathe out. She lunges for me and puts her arms around me.

“Oh—be careful. I've been tenderized.” She gazes into my face and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“This is my fault,” she whispers to me.

“How so?”

“I fed you all that food.”

“Maya, darling—” Lars groans out, his voice stiff with pain, “—don't blame yourself.”

“Yeah, I ate all that food,” I confess to her. “I should've been in more control.”

“But I still fed it to you, though,” she points out. She has her hands on either side of my hips and her legs are dangling off the side of my bed. “I want to make it up to you. When do you get out of here?”

“Lars told me the next day or so—wait, what is today?”

“The twentieth. It's morning, too.”

“The twentieth—so we were here overnight. But yeah, the next… day or so.”

“Thanksgiving is this week, too.”

“Yeah. I really don't give a rodent's behind about Thanksgiving, though. You know—me being Iroquois and everything…”

“I still want to make it up to you, though,” she insists, looming in closer to my face. “I want to make it up to the both of you.”

“Okay,” I tell her, and then I turn my head to Lars, who's still writhing in the hospital bed neighboring mine. “What do you say?”

“I still don't think you're to blame, Maya—but I am all for it, though.”

Maya still has that unsure look on her face at the sight of Lars, but I know she's meaning well here.

At least I hope she's meaning well.