#I wouldn’t have read/watched the original if not for stampede and I think that’s a win in of itself

[snakegentleman]

I think it’s kind of silly to insist that Trigun Stampede is bad when I and many people I know/ know of have gotten into Trigun because of it. It obviously stands on its own if plenty of people are watching it without knowing the source material and after reading the manga, Orange is clearly pulling from the source material heavily even if it is different. So many people are caught up in comparing it to the manga/98 anime that they can’t just enjoy it for what it is: a good show. Tristamp isn’t trying to be a recreation of the original, so stop judging it like it is.

[mimiplaysgames]

Terraqua Week Day 4 (Legends/Tales)

Summary: Someone calls for help from the deepest depths of darkness. Terra and Aqua trace the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. || Word Count: 8,983

Read on AO3

A/N: @terraquaweek hooooo if you thought yesterday’s was angsty dkfjdkfjdk So everyone and their mom compares Terraqua to Orpheus and Eurydice (Orphydice?) and I totally agree. It was time to officially jump that wagon. This one was difficult though - originally, I was going to have them sitting near a fireplace and talking about fairy tales over drinks, but I think I did the sit down apology fic way too many times and needed something different. This one was a huge challenge in such a tiny frame of time though. It took me the longest to write (a whole week, when I normally take months), so I couldn’t clean it as much as I would like to. I hope you like it anyway! <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Long Way Down ~ no further debts to be paid

Aqua has been dragging him all over town, following a call—this gut-wrenching feeling that something is wrong and someone is crying but she doesn’t know who or where. Except here, wandering around Thebes, though Terra doesn’t mind at all. Keyblade wielders are supposed to follow their hearts. Terra will follow hers anywhere.

What he does mind, though, are these screaming fangirls. 

He collides head first into a neglected booth of rugs, scampering away from a group of young women who were trying to rip his left arm out of his socket, seeking pieces of his armor. They squeal, they cry, they sigh with all the fever of delusion. Champion! Terra! You’ve come back! You’re more beautiful than the gods! 

Aqua strides by him, hiding an amused smirk behind her elegant fingers. “You picked a good hiding place.” She straightens a bent rug and rolls it tighter, letting it lean on its side by the wall. 

Terra knocks a rug off of his head. “I did nothing to deserve this.”

“I nearly forgot,” Aqua says in a way that means she didn’t. “You won a championship.”

“Years ago. Once.” He kicks the pile on his back and crawls out. Zack and Hercules would never let it down if they hear about him hiding from harmless girls like he’s a mouse. “I’m no celebrity.”

“I beg to differ.” She unfolds a tapestry. Weaved into the fabric is a figure of a man armored in golds and burgundies, tall with dark hair and wielding a giant key. “You’re a story they share. Be grateful for your adoring fans.”

The only thing he’d be grateful for is the attention of the person standing right next to him. He never thought about the Olympus Coliseum championship while he was possessed and trapped in Darkness, not once. He thought of her every day and night. 

“I think you’re jealous they’re chasing me and not you, Master Aqua.”

“Well, I would handle it with more grace.” She beats dust out of the corner of a rug with her hand.

The way she jokes with him is instinctual, natural, but the way her eyes wander is not, like she’s not paying attention. They’ve searched Thebes for hours, and while the city-state’s stairs for hills and elaborate gardens are impressive, they’ve found no lead as to who Aqua is looking for. She unrolls another tapestry like she’s reading a scroll. She doesn’t even have a name, just a dream that spoke to her one night: Find me, please. 

“There’s nothing here, either,” she mumbles. 

Terra doesn’t know how to lift her spirits. “Maybe the answer is not in Thebes.”

“We haven’t searched everywhere.” She pulls out another tapestry that he’s sure she’s already deciphered.

How many times are they going to circle the marketplace? Terra sighs and risks peeking at the main street from the alleyway. If he stays close enough to Aqua, the fangirls stay farther away, as though she’s a repellant. Who knew Aqua makes for a good shield. 

The marketplace swarms with chatter and dust pickup from sandals and wheels. They’ve been through every store on this block. They’ve been through museums, they’ve listened to storytellers on the streets, met with sages and fortune tellers. There’s not much to deduce out of a whisper from a dream. 

A high-pitched scream breaks through the loud talk of shopgoers, and Terra summons his Keyblade, watching for Heartless.

It comes from a girl, pointing a finger at him. Everyone else gawks. She shivers from head to toe. “Terra!” 

At the sound of his name, like mockingbirds for sheep, they call out. “Terra!” 

“Damn the stars,” he mutters and sprints back into the alleyway, a stampede behind him. “Aqua?” She’s not by the rugs. “Aqua!” He turns the corner of the empty alleyway, stuck between choosing a direction in a crossover. There’s no sign of her, no sign of his star in the darkness or his shield.

A hand waves at him through a window. 

“Terra!” the girls squeal. 

He dashes, throwing himself through the window. He lands on his back, on hard concrete. Aqua cradles his head on her lap and keeps low beneath the windowsill, a finger to her lips as the wave of giggles and cries ride past them and fade away. 

“You were gone,” he whispers. 

Aqua brushes her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” she says, but she offers no explanation.

They’re in what looks like the back room of a pottery shop, half of them unpainted with the clay still slick, and the rest completed but possibly not inventoried yet. 

“We’re breaking into people’s homes now?” Terra asks, grunting.

“You needed a hiding place,” Aqua says. She sounds unlike herself. Too tone-deaf, too distracted, her heart in the right place to help him like she always does, but she’s disregarding the consequences she’d normally consider before making such rash decisions. 

“Why are we here?”

Aqua looks at him with a blank expression. “I don’t know.”

“You just waltzed in here?” He sighs. The shopkeeper is lucky Terra hasn’t destroyed anything when he crashed. He sits up and holds her chin, checking for vital signs of injury. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aqua grimaces. “Maybe we’re in here for a reason.” 

Or maybe she’s lost her mind. 

“Is it too early for me to say that I’m worried about you?”

“I’d say so.”

Terra scoffs and stands up, his knee hitting a table next to him. The vase on the surface rattles and spins. Aqua catches it. 

When she glances at the artwork, she glares. “This one.”

“Huh?”

The vase is stamped with an image in black. Two figures, a man and a woman, reach out for each other, but there’s a wall between them. 

“You recognize this?” Terra asks.

Aqua waits before she answers. On the man’s side is a lyre. On the woman’s, wisps of smoke. “Not really. But something about it is so unpleasant.”

It’s not much, but her reaction is the closest they have ever gotten so far. 

She takes the vase with her and heads out the window, the door to the rest of the shop locked. “I’m borrowing it.”

“Aqua—” 

“I’ll bring it back.”

Out in the alleyway, Aqua cradles the vase gently in her arms, desperately looking around for someone to talk to. 

As much as he doesn’t want to, he says, “We can head back to the marketplace.” 

The shuffle of feet approach them from behind the building next door. A lost girl blinks at them, her makeup smudged and running as though she’s been crying, her lip color smeared on her teeth. She recognizes Terra—

—Terra casts Silence on her and pulls her aside, up against a wall. “Shhh. Please don’t yell, please don’t yell.”

Without her voice, her squeals are replaced with gasps. She throws her arms around him. 

“Hey!”

Aqua runs up to them without acknowledging how Terra is peeling this girl off himself. She points to the vase. “Do you know who this is?” The girl stares back. “Can you tell me? Please?”

As much as he really doesn’t want to, there are miles he’s willing to trek just for Aqua. “If I remove my spell,” Terra tells the girl, “and you answer Aqua, very gently, who this picture is supposed to be of, I’ll let you hug me again.”

The girl’s eyes go wide and she nods. 

He recants his spell, and the girl suppresses her squeaks. 

“Oh gods, it’s really Terra.” She hops, pinning her hands in between her legs. “You smell so good. I love you, Terra. I mean, um…” Instead of speaking to Aqua, the girl just locks her eyes at him. “That’s Orpheus. Everyone knows who that is.”

The look on Aqua’s face tells Terra that her heart is stirring. 

“What’s his story?” Terra asks.

The girl is happy to oblige. “He sings the saddest ballads, all about the death of his most beloved wife.” She twirls a lock of hair. “Lost her to a snakebite. They say he went to the Underworld to find her, but he lost her along the way. He wasn’t a strong person.” She stands on her toes. “Not like you, Terra. You wouldn’t leave the one you love in the darkness, would you? You’d save them?”

Terra steps back. The onslaught of such specific questions makes him sick to his stomach. 

The girl leans forward. “Can I touch your hair?”

“No.” He slaps her hand out of the way.

“Where can I find him?” Aqua asks, completely serious. 

The girl rolls her eyes this time, as though it’s such a rude interruption. “If you trek up Mount Olympus, you’ll eventually cross a forest. You can find his head there.”

“His head?” Terra says. 

The girl steps up to meet him face to face. “They say he still sings—that’s how Death came to meet him. Anyone who hears his songs will be instantly enamored. Man and beast alike. Even the leaves and the stones will move just to be near him. That reminds me of you, Terra.”

Aqua—already sprinting back toward his direction from the pottery shop after leaving her borrowed vase at its windowsill—cuts between Terra and the fangirl, pulling him away from her by the hand. The hug he promised this girl is cancelled, and Terra is grateful for it

“Thank you!” Aqua says, not breaking her speed. The girl is left behind, dejected.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thebes is now a miniature, a toy town of red roofs and sandstone streets, that disappears from view as soon as they cross over a cliff, where the face of a forest is tucked away. The quiet greets them, a chirp of a bird here and there. 

Terra follows Aqua, not knowing where she’s going.

“So we’re looking for a severed head?” he asks. 

“According to the girl, yes.”

“Isn’t that a bit gruesome?”

“I think what she was hoping to do to you may be worse.”

Aqua skids to a stop. She looks over to her left, and runs in that direction. The treeline gets thicker, casting a dim filter over the ground. Aqua stops at a short, stone monument—a statue of a head on a pillar. The man’s face is carved with an open mouth, like he’s singing an opera. The trees sway in the wind. 

“That’s Orpheus?” Terra asks quietly. 

Aqua frowns. “I don’t hear a song.”

“I don’t, either.”

“But I feel so sad.” She holds a fist over her heart, her eyes watery.

Terra places a hand on her bare shoulder. She feels cold, and he has a sickly feeling that she’s getting worse. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know, yet. There’s not much I can do here. There’s no text, no clues.” Aqua walks, scanning the ground for a hint.

For a mural, there are no words or poems honored to Orpheus, no maps or glyphs that lend to any guidance. Terra touches the head of the pillar. He feels nothing. Keyblade wielders can be invulnerable to certain spells, but this is supposed to represent grief, and grief is Darkness. How he isn’t affected is an enigma to him—how he is spared and Aqua is not, is worrisome. 

“You know what I think?” he asks. 

She’s no longer there. Terra steps away from the statue. 

“Aqua?” 

No answer.

He jolts into a sprint, passing tree after tree with no sign of blue, none of her sashes flowing in the air. How did she get so far away?

Terra shouldn’t be so worried. The Heartless population here after the Keyblade War is minimal, and Aqua is more than capable of taking care of herself—but how she’s coming in and out of reality is more than Terra can bear. He can’t lose her. Not ever again.

“Aqua!”

Terra cries out in relief. She’s standing in a field of red flowers. Lilies, by the shape of them, speckled in the color of raspberries. Their stems curve over, swaying like bells. They’re not stretched towards the sun but hang towards the ground, as if they’re watching for fingers to climb out through the grass.

“I thought I lost you,” he says when he approaches her.

Aqua crosses her arms. “There’s something here.” When she inhales, she turns around like she just realized he was there. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Terra fights the urge to hug her. He loses, taking her in his arms. “I think I’m going crazy... I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, though there’s so much more he needs to tell her. 

“What a little, perfect, crispy portrait of a love story,” a heedy voice says, pronouncing every syllable with sweet spite, exaggerated by hand movements. First is the creep of black smoke over the grass. A shadow emerges from behind a tree, bald head with blue fire for hair, a long black cloak wrapped around his body. “Really, it’s a photo op, an exhibition, a grand spectacle.” He frames them with his fingers. “Bluebird and the Waste of Space, classic. All the children will hear about it.”

“Of course you’re involved in this,” Terra spits, letting Aqua go. He keeps his Keyblade near, in case he needs to summon it.

“On the contrary, I’m the victim in this case.”

“Hades,” Aqua says, an icy chill to her voice. “These flowers...”

“You like them?” Hades flashes a grin, teeth sharp as needles. “A specialty from- you could say a good friend. They’re called eurydice, funnily enough.”

Aqua freezes.

“What’s so funny about that?” Terra asks, stepping in front of Aqua so he’s a barrier.

“I forgot you’re not the sharpest rock in the canyon,” Hades mumbles, before animating his hands, presenting his words like they’re a marketing technique. “Eurydice, the pride of the forest. A muse, a sprite, a dryad.” He motions quotation marks with his fingers. “‘She’s not like other girls,’ whatever you want to call her. A gold prize.”

It comes to Terra like the dawn. Orpheus’s wife.

“What is she to you?” Aqua asks, defensive. 

“Well…” Hades casually places a hand on his hip and relies on the other to tell his story. “The Underworld is a vibrant culture of flora. There’s still some Heartless mucking about in the crevices, little maggots, doing Zeus knows what, but…” He pinches the air with his fingers. “There was a teeny tiny leak, a blemish in the system.” He shrugs. “And she slipped. You want to save her, and I want her back in my perfectly packaged Paradise. We work together and we both win.”

Terra scoffs. “You lost a ghost in the Underworld?”

Hades bites a breathy laugh, flicking lint off his robe, a gross smile stretching across his face like he knows a dirty secret. “My Underworld is a tight machine. No. She went somewhere darker.”

Aqua is the first to speak after the silence. “I see.”

“You see what?” Terra says.

Aqua casts her eyes downward. She usually never breaks eye contact in the presence of an enemy. “She’s in the Realm of Darkness. That’s why I’m connected to her.” 

Aqua has often said that she thinks a piece of the Darkness will stay with her until her final day, a single thorn growing out of her heart. 

“It’s not a place for the sensitive.” Hades scoffs with false modesty.

This is something no one has the right to ask of her. “We’re not bringing Eurydice back to you,” Terra says.

Hades disappears in a blink, reappearing by Terra’s shoulder, his hand a warm pot on the stovetop. “You, my friend, are the last person to bargain.” He disappears again and bursts into flames by Aqua’s side. “Aren’t Keyblade wielders supposed to keep a world’s balance at the tip of their fingers? There’s only one place everyone ends up in this world. Who says you can take the dead away from me? Where else would they go?” 

Aqua won’t give him the merit of a look. She swats his smoke away like it’s a fly.

Hades continues, “You see, the living owe a debt. You borrow life to breathe here for a few short happy years, and when you’re done, you return back to where you came from. And if you borrow, then you owe.” He flashes the teeth. “Therefore, she’s mine.” Hades flicks a finger on Terra’s chest. “You—both of you—have cheated. You’re thieves, you reek of it. Talk about privilege.”

Terra stammers.

“We’ll do it,” Aqua says.

Hades taps all his fingers together. “I’m glad we came to an agreement.” 

“We didn’t agree to anything,” Terra says, his eyes begging Aqua for an alternative way to do this.

“Down boy. Your bite is just as intimidating as your bark.” Hades turns over his shoulder. “Oh, and one other thing.” He raises a finger, and addresses Terra directly. “Have you ever worked with ghosts before? Miserable company. They’re mopey, they babble too much about nonsense. Not the guest you want to invite over for dinner. They’re confused, it’s part of their nature. Being connected to one isn’t the most sane habit. If you’re not careful, they’ll infect you with their pain.” Hades winks, and nods toward Aqua. “You might want to keep an eye on her.”

Terra’s heart strikes his chest like a hammer to the blood vessel, and he swallows bile. Aqua doesn’t seem fazed. 

“Well,” Hades says, “it’s a long walk down. Stay healthy, drink water, don’t go crazy.” With that, he vanishes for good this time, leaving the wind gliding through the flowers, all looking for someone below.

“She’s nearby,” Aqua says, her voice breaking a silence that doesn’t want to be heard. Like poison to be drunk, denial to be told the truth, there’s no ignoring this. “I can open a door here.”

“You’re really going back?”

“I can’t let her continue to suffer,” she says. “But I won’t put you in danger, either.”

“Wait,” Terra says, getting in her way. “I’m coming with you.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t expect it to be anything else. Danger doesn’t scare me.” Terra takes her face in his hand. “After everything you’ve been through, you can’t ask me to let you do this alone.”

Aqua opens her mouth as if to refuse but she grimaces. “I admit I would like the company this time.”

Terra’s heart thumps, stroking her cheek. “I’ll never turn my back on you again.”

“A shame. You look taller from behind,” she says, and he snorts. 

When she moves away, he feels hollow, a sudden need to hold her again invading his body. He shrugs the feeling off. “I’m texting Ven.” He pulls out his Gummiphone. “He’ll need to open a Door to Light for our return.”

“Yes.”

“Any tips for how to survive?”

Aqua summons her Keyblade and points to the ground. “The Realm of Darkness wants you to feel hopeless and scared. It feeds from your mind.” She looks at him. “You can’t trust what you think or feel. You won’t be able to tell the difference between you or the Darkness.”

“Then how are we supposed to find her and come back if we can’t even think?”

Aqua lifts an elegant shoulder. “You keep your head up. That’s your best defense. The Realm will do many things to make you want to give up, to make you doubt yourself. You have to choose your battles. Even if you feel like you’re being followed, don’t look back. Don’t give in to its tricks.”

It sounds like hell. It feels like a knife to the liver—Aqua has suffered so much. His biggest regret is not having the strength to break out of his prison and do something about it.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Aqua asks.

“Not at all.”

The way she smiles this time makes her look like herself. “You know, I feel better now. Much clearer.”

Terra hopes that’s a sign of sweeter things to come. The smile he gives is weak when she summons a Door to Darkness. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Realm of Darkness is a dirt path in a forest that sprawls under patches of stars, as though someone has taken photos of different skies and pasted them together in a collage. Few lanterns light the way, smokey as if caked in fog. It would be similar to a romantic walk on the mountain in the spring if not for what it really is.

Terra trails close behind Aqua, the cape of her armor bouncing in the air. She jogs with such confidence despite that they have no map and have never been here before—well, Aqua has, but not here. According to her, the Realm of Darkness never stays the same. There’s no path back the way they came. 

So far, it’s lacked excitement, a still silence as though this world’s heart has stopped beating. 

“How do we find her?” Terra asks, his voice loud enough to make him worry if something hidden behind the trees has heard him.

“We keep going.” 

A sudden clank, metal on metal. Terra sprints to her. “What’s going on?”

Aqua has stepped onto a metal surface, a sudden cutoff from the forest like mismatched puzzle pieces forced together, spreading beyond what they can see. When Terra steps on it, the boot of his armor reverberates from his weight. 

“I don’t like this,” Aqua says. 

The river is black and made of torn iron, shards that jut out like shredded waves frozen in time. Lanterns from broken boats wedge into the collisions, a ship graveyard where they all crashed into each other in a hurricane.

“What now?” Terra asks, hushed.

She turns to face him, her helmet obscuring her expression. “We keep going.”

Their only direction is forward. There’s no compass, no horizon to see where they’re going. They curve around mountains of broken war and cruise ships and melted steel, like hills to climb and descend. Whether they’ve trailed a huge arch and are going backwards, Terra can’t tell.

Then again, Aqua has said there is no backwards in the Realm of Darkness. But what if this river doesn’t have a shore?

“Those aren’t lights,” Aqua warns. 

Some of the lanterns bob up and down, blinking.

“Stars,” Terra curses, summoning his Keyblade. Aqua has already conjured hers and is throwing a blast against a group of eyes hiding inside half of a ship, its inner scaffolding exposed like bent needles. The impact combusts.

Heartless swarm up and rain on him. They’re stronger here, these small Shadows more resistant, withstanding his powerful swings when they’d normally be thrown far back. 

A huge crash rumbles behind them, and Terra is knocked onto his knees. A ship sinks as its bow breaks off. It sounds like a building caving in. 

Aqua grabs his elbow. “Forget it,” she yells over the clamor. They run past hordes of Heartless materializing from the metal as if they’re being born, more and more and more until the sea behind them is a mass of yellow eyes. Terra relies on nothing but his two legs, pushing and pushing them despite the strain to catch up to her. Ships and boats disintegrate, about to swallow them if they can’t find solid ground.

They step onto dirt, a slab of earth suspended in space. They’re blocked by a huge stone gate without walls. 

Aqua turns and slices her Keyblade across, light thrusting forward to cut through the first wave of Shadows. 

Terra grunts when he jabs his Keyblade, a beam striking the gate in the middle. He summons a keyhole, a plea to enter. 

The gate opens.

“Come on!” He grabs her elbow and bolts inside. Terra immediately pushes his weight against the gate, Aqua mimicking the same—a desperate slog at first, his breath hitched and pulsating at his temple, until they build momentum and shut it. At the slam of the door, dust drops from the ceiling and lands on their shoulders.

Behind them is a dim hallway of two choices: left and right. The little light they have here comes from nowhere.

Terra sighs, breathing heavily. The air inside his helmet doesn’t smell fresh. “Well, your heart, your pick.”

Aqua chuckles, her voice muffled. He wishes he could see her smile. “Enjoying your stay?”

“You’re sick.”

“Remember not to get too affected by what you see, Terra.” She holds his shoulder, her glove clunking onto his pauldron. “The Realm will probe your mind until it finds what it can use.”

She leads the way right, her steps kicking up clouds of dust. The entire floor is sand, sinking the sound of their steps. The hall turns left. It turns left again. 

Terra can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. He eyes the ceiling where the crevices that meet the wall are at their darkest, where he anticipates small, yellow eyes blinking at him. 

He thinks he hears something, but shrugs it off.

No, he has heard something. Growling.

It thrums louder and Terra is walking slower, growing a distance between him and Aqua who hasn’t noticed yet. 

The growling is coming from behind.

He turns.

There’s nothing.

“Aqua.”

“What is it?”

“I’m hearing an aggressive dog.”

“There are no dogs in the Realm of Darkness.”

“But it’s following us.”

“Trust me, there isn’t anything behind you.” She waves with her hand. “Come on. The Realm wants you to worry. The moment you start to believe it is when your heart begins to falter.”

At another two-way junction, Aqua chooses left—they’ve just gone in a circle. Terra expects to come back to the stone gate—but as though the Realm has heard him and is laughing at his assumptions, the hallway opens up into a path of eight directions. One of them a stairway up, one a stairway down. The opening next door is blocked from a staircase turned upside down, and the one next to that leads to a staircase that twists and leans on its side. 

Aqua chooses the way straight ahead, a long uncomplicated hallway.

The hallway turns right. She’s no longer there.

“Aqua!” Terra dashes forward and the hallway turns dark, like the twist of the knob on a lantern, a flame fading.

He turns over and heads back. “Aqua!” 

They went left, left, left, straight. All he has to do is trek that backwards. 

When Terra arrives at the large expanse of eight directions, Aqua comes in from behind him. “Terra!”

She runs into him when he halts and spreads his arms, their breastplates colliding. “Where did you go?” he asks.

“Down the hall, that’s it.” Her voice trembles. He’ll have to do better to be braver, for her. Aqua pulls away to look up at him. He wishes he could see her eyes. “What did I say about giving in?”

He licks his lips. “Don’t go back.”

Aqua swallows as if to stop a sob. “There’s no going back in this place, Terra. You could have gotten lost. The Realm wants you to doubt yourself.” She nods as if to make a point, her voice thick as if to mask how terrified she is. “Do you understand now?”

No. “We keep going.”

“I’ll stay close to you this time.” 

“Please.”

“I-I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You won’t, I promise.”

She points to a hallway different from the one she chose earlier, and walks by his side this time, step by step. Down this way is brighter, the stone newer, the sand thinning until they step on cobble. The walls shrink into a tight foyer framed by fully lit torches, parchment and paper scattered all over as though a storm blew through a library. 

Terra bends to pick some up. They’re all blank.

“Love letters and songs,” Aqua says, reading through empty pages, “that Orpheus wrote to her.” She shakes her head. “The stories I grew up with were so stupid.”

“Which ones are we talking about?”

“Those books I used to read when I was a teenager.”

Terra grimaces. “About true love.”

“I believed them until the end.” She sighs. “They seem so silly now. That you could be in love at first sight, without ever bonding with them—without ever knowing the ties you create with them and how much it pains to have those cut. It’s improbable. How does anyone expect them to be willing to pluck their hearts out of their chests and sew them together like that? How is that supposed to be ‘true,’ or ‘pure?’ The trials they’ve gone through to prove themselves in the name of that love—so small in comparison to some.”

“You mean in comparison to what Orpheus tried to do.”

Aqua swipes her hand over a page to flatten the bends. “I can’t imagine how brave he had to prepare himself to be, and how little he cared for his personal safety. That he would descend so deep into darkness for her. After everything I’ve been through, I could say—that is love. The fairy tales I’ve read don’t come close.”

Terra watches her stack parchment together, tapping the edges so that they align, her movements stiff due to the armor. There are no written words to be read on the pages, but there’s not a single word that could describe the epiphany he’s having. That she is sitting next to him, that there are things neither of them uttered a sound for, that she is the same person who fell to the depths just to save him, that she is not the same child who used to sneer at his essays. That day, he only had a feeling that he was being hugged until he went to sleep, then he woke up twelve years later.

“You love me,” he says, part question, part certainty.

Aqua pauses. Her visor reflects his. “I do. I have for a long time.” She scoffs softly at herself. “You know, the Realm has brought you to me in lucid dreams. Five times. The first three, I told you how I felt. And you smiled. Then you were gone. I got fooled each time.” She hangs her head. “It was the fifth time that it was really you.”

“I remember,” Terra whispers. 

“I couldn’t say how I felt, but you took those precious few seconds we had to tell me not to give up. I realized later that I needed that more than saying anything.” She sighs, her breath parched from the helmet. “I never expected to say it again, here, of all places, but now… Now you’re here. And I love you.”

Terra leans forward, bracing her arm, the cusp between her shoulder and neck. He feels the inner padding of his gloves. They can’t take their helmets off, not here, but a swelling of solace fills him. For a moment, he forgets where he is, his imagination only seeing her face, his heart asking to break the metal and touch her.

“Do you have any idea how important you are to me?” he asks. 

She breathes like she’s laughing. “I have an inkling.”

He leans his helmet against hers. “With all my heart,” he says. 

“I thought so.” She squeezes his gauntlet. 

When they get out, the first thing he’ll do is take her in arms. 

“I think we’re close,” Aqua says, talking about Eurydice. 

They have to see the light of day first. When they get out, the first thing he’ll see is her smile.

“Let’s do it and get out here.”

Beyond the next archway is a new place: a cavern maze, the walls roughed up by raw mineral, crystals glowing pastel colors in the dark. It’s beautiful in its own expression, a small memory of whatever the Realm took and couldn’t digest. The single paths here are disorienting, the walls littered with natural dips and holes to take shortcuts.

The cave opens up to a jagged, rocky clearing, its natural structure much like a coliseum. He and Aqua stand at the top. The boulders cut off a clear sight of the path below, a single star in the sky and a single fig tree at the bottom, its exposed roots dug into a pond. Terra and Aqua descend, the rocks down here taller.

“Prepare yourself,” Aqua says, taking the lead.

Terra summons his Keyblade too, bracing himself for Heartless. A shadow moves near the tree, hiding behind one of the roots.

A surprised shriek comes from the tree, like it’s been woken up, and it shifts. The roots straighten out, the branches curl over and sharpen like claws. Cut through the trunk is the shape of a heart, empty and black inside. No yellow eyes. 

“What is that thing?” Terra yells before dodging. The tree slams its branches between him and Aqua. 

Terra trips. A tree root chokes his ankle, pulling him from under the dirt. 

Aqua doesn’t see it happening. She scrambles and ducks behind a boulder before the earth behind her collapses into a sinkhole. She climbs the boulder and jumps onto the canopy.

The tree rocks viciously to knock her off but she stabs the bark with her Keyblade to hold on. It digs its vines and branches into the ground. A flash of purple lighting cracks the boulders into halves. 

Terra cuts himself free. The root shrivels, and the ground it touched caves into nothingness. He dashes, taking fast cover behind boulders. It’s hard to tell if he’s effective since he doesn’t know whether the tree has blind spots. 

When roots shoot up to throttle him and fail, they punish the earth instead, ripping away respites and hiding spots. If enough of the dirt sinks, the boulders fall with it.

Terra can only keep running.

The only signs that Aqua is okay are the flashes of light from her Keyblade, spellcasting and waves of reflective blues crushing the tree. Stuck on the canopy, Aqua doesn’t have much room  to escape when the ground is collapsing at random. 

Terra yells and charges towards the tree, calling upon his Keyblade to transform into his glider. He slams into the roots, all of his offense and magic building up and combusting against the bark.

The tree tumbles and Aqua lets go. 

Terra catches her and flies up. He hovers a rock that is still holding on at the edge of a newly formed cliff.

A dark lightning bolt strikes from above and Aqua summons a barrier to protect them.

“It’s her,” Aqua says, straining to keep the barrier intact.

“That can’t be possible.”

“We don’t know what the Darkness can do to the dead. We don’t know anything.” Aqua chokes on her words. “But that’s Eurydice, I know it.”

The tree scratches at nothing and wails, its roots crumbling hard onto the ground with every step it makes. Eurydice sounds like anger, a need to make sure everyone else suffers with her. 

“The hole in her trunk, where her heart would be if she wasn’t dead.”

“Terra—”

“Say no more.”

He revs his glider and charges towards the clearing, now a gaping hole sunk down the middle with no bottom. Terra sticks to the cliff sides. Aqua jumps off from the back, high into the sky, waiting for his next move.

Terra lets go and holds on to his Keyblade’s grip. It stretches and transforms into a whip. He slaps one of the branches where it hooks, and slams his fist onto the ground. The tree careens. He keeps pulling, forcing the tree flat against the ground.

From the sky, Aqua points her Keyblade towards the trunk and calls. A beam of light strikes through the heart void, glowing. 

The tree shrieks and thrashes. Terra is thrown off and the tree slaps Aqua out of its way. Aqua lands on the side of a cliff, climbing up. The tree stampedes towards her with the motion to crush her. 

Aqua yells and yanks herself over, rolling onto her back, pointing her Keyblade up again. Her light blinds this time, a force that shocks the air and pushes everything with swept pressure. As though Aqua has summoned water, Terra is thrown, the currents taking him away. 

He lands and rolls. It’s quiet. 

His muscles ache and sting. He’ll have bruises but those don’t matter. Terra stumbles when he stands, leaning on a boulder near him. He peers over, praying for the image of Aqua climbing over the hole, but what he sees is a picture from before the nightmare: the clearing back in its original state, as though he has hallucinated everything. The rocky exterior makes it hard for him to notice anyone. If she’s crouching due to pain, if she’s stranded somewhere, knocked out…

His knees give out when he runs, and he tumbles down the hill. Summoning his glider, Terra asks it to carry his slacked weight. There is no puddle at the bottom anymore. He keeps himself up high where he has a vantage point, calling her name. There’s no sight of her. 

“I won’t be fooled. You’ll take me to her,” he tells the Realm. He scans. No sign of her. What if she’s buried beneath the earth...

A pale glow flickers between rocks.

He drops.

Aqua isn’t here. In her place is a green, ghostly apparition of a woman in a simple, flowy dress that allows for dancing, her long hair swaying to zephyr. Terra doesn’t need to ask for her name. His voice croaks. “Where is she?”

“Of whom do you speak?” Eurydice says. The ghost has no voice but a loud breath, as though she is whispering right into his ear. 

“Aqua!” he calls but he gets no answer. No sound of the pebbles crumpled by her bootsteps, nor the clank of armor. 

“Ah,” Eurydice sighs. “The one who looks like a naiad. A water nymph.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“In the labyrinth.”

Terra turns over his shoulder and starts up the hill. Where is the entrance they used to get here? 

“If you enter the labyrinth, you will lock her inside, Keybearer.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” His helmet feels tight. “How do you know about Keyblades?”

“The body is an entrapment, a vessel designed to define concepts that we can’t understand. What we call prayers, offerings, angels, the Light, the fountain of the gods, Keyblades, Kingdom Hearts, Paradise, Mount Olympus—all bear the same resemblance depending on the language we use. Without a body, I am not burdened by any of those barriers.” She holds her hands together with reverence. “Your armor glimmers like a star.”

“Can you feel her then? Is she hurt?”

“She is with you.”

That’s the same thing people say to him about Eraqus. Your Master will always be with you, no matter where you are. You just need the faith to know he’s there. 

I’m sure he’s proud of you.

I’m sure he knows how much you love him. He’s with you.

“Aqua!” Terra bolts into a run, picking whatever direction because this clearing is a circle and there is no exit. He’ll have to break one open. His helmet presses on the pulse in his neck. He’s losing oxygen. He’s gasping. He’s removing his helmet, collapsing to his knees, yelling at the most his lungs could give him, now that his voice is no longer muffled by metal. “Aqua!”

His throat throbs.

“No panic, no haven for panic, Keybearer.”

Terra stares at the dirt under him—cracked from drought, a single pebble and a patch of grass. “You should have taken me,” he wheezes. 

The ground rumbles and he snaps up, dying to see if it’s her. A giant hand pounds towards him, attached to a giant body with beedy yellow eyes and tentacles for a face. A Darkside, towering over him, watching him like it’s going to grant a wish. 

“Keybearer,” Eurydice warns.

The Darkside digs its fingers into the dirt like the roots of a tree. A black puddle opens up a pathway for the sprawl of eyes to crawl out. 

Terra would summon his Keyblade but he’s slow and tired. Numb. His skin is exposed to the Realm, and it seeps into him. It lulls him, it quiets him. There’s no sanity better than the world the mind makes up.

The Darkside grabs him. 

Terra is tired, watching for a hint of blue when he sees black. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Terra.

“Aqua.” 

Terra wakes submerged in an ocean. He reaches for her but grabs air. 

He’s gently sinking. 

So he’s lost her. He’s failed at his duty of protecting someone who needs his help. This is why Aqua is stronger than him. Terra could never survive in a place like this, he could never withstand twelve years of this torture. 

“Aqua, I’m so sorry.” He wants to cry but he can’t. The Realm won’t let him, anesthetizing the fall of tears. 

What is in the ocean with him? A monster he can’t see? Will it have teeth? Will it swallow him? Or will it watch him float here, waiting for him to turn so he could become one with it? Terra could let go here—

—but a faint glow hovers near, like breath to a limp body, like a light at the exit. There’s still time and a chance. If he can open his eyes, then Aqua could, wherever she is.

Eurydice watches the amoebas in the water, floating by herself. 

Terra swims to her. 

“‘Twasn’t a long wait,” she whispers when he approaches.

“I’m sorry for turning my back on you,” he tells her. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Eurydice smiles at him. She looks sickly, hollowed cheeks down to the lines of her skull. But if she was healthy, she would be the beauty that captivated people in the forest. 

Terra takes her wrist and gravity takes them. They gently land on solid ground, in the black, in the middle of nothing. Endless dark, endless shadow, endless lack of everything.

“We can’t go anywhere without Aqua. We have to find her first.” Though Terra doesn’t know where he is or which direction he should take.

“We are everywhere, she is nowhere.”

“What does that mean, though? She isn’t here? Then where is she?”

“Below. Nowhere and the end. At the beginning, where you can’t see.”

Terra jerks forward to beg, but a ghost is the last person to ask for answers. He trembles. 

“You have a kind face,” Eurydice says. “The bards would have sung in honor of you.”

That’s no consolation. Terra sobs but it’s dry. 

“Beware, Keybearer.”

He hears the sloshing of water. His ankles are sunk under. 

If he despairs, the Darkness will take him. If he stays calm, he’s betraying her. 

“Aqua, what do I do?”

“I called to Lady Aqua because I saw her Light,” Eurydice says, nodding slowly. “The only star in the dark. I would trust her choice, always. I believe in the Fates.” She brings her hand to her chest. “I believe she brought me you.”

The truth stings, a slap to the face, the swallow of a knife, the burn of the tongue with a lighted match. He can’t bear it, but he has to. Aqua would trust him with anything. 

“I…” He is such a horrible person, looking at the face of the needy and the hurt but thinking about someone else. He can’t do it. He has to. “I was supposed to hold her when we got out.”

“We were to be married.”

Terra feels as though a pail of water was dumped on him. He takes a hard look at Eurydice, at how she’s trying to warn him with bulging eyes, distorting. Ghosts are emotional. “What happened to you?”

“I died. Vipers are the most unpleasant.”

Terra doesn’t want to ask, afraid of where this conversation will go. “And Orpheus?”

She brightens up, washed over by nostalgia. “He came for me. With his gift of song, he moved Hades enough to agree to be charitable. Hades granted me freedom so long as Orpheus accepted the terms.” 

Of course, Hades and his contracts. 

Eurydice’s face ashens more than it possibly can. “I was to follow. Orpheus was to lead me to the sunlit earth, so long as he did not look back at me while I was in the dark.” She pauses, as though her lips are sewn together. Talking about this hurts her. “So Orpheus led with much enthusiasm. So much at peace. I was to finally be with my beloved again, to smell the pomegranates and taste the olives.

“Love is powerful but Death more so. Every step was a moment to rethink. He could not hear me behind him, for I was a mere shade. Orpheus could not trust Hades. I could feel his anticipation, his desperate need to hold me dearly, his doubt that he was being played.”

“I can’t blame him.”

“At the end, right as the light was about to touch us, Orpheus lost his faith. He looked back to see my face.” Eurydice hugs herself. “I gave him my farewell and kind regards, then I was whisked away, back into the Underworld.”

“I’m so sorry.” Terra swallows, not liking what this is supposed to mean for him. “Aqua would have chosen to help you.”

“Will you set me free?”

“Yes, of course but—” He inhales. “How could I leave her?”

The look on Eurydice’s face stops him. “I did what was asked of me. I followed him. I kept close. I was loyal. I spoke to him though he could not hear me. And yet he turned and tore us apart. I have yet to understand what I did wrong to let him doubt me.”

“He didn’t doubt you.”

“Then why hesitate to trust Lady Aqua?”

Like a knife to the throat, Terra falls to his knees and grips at his chest, the guilt inside so heavy and thick that he wants to rip his armor off and cut it open, dig it all out so he could finally breathe. 

If she were here, Aqua would have told him to save Eurydice. There’s no denying that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hoping Aqua could hear him. “I’d give you my whole heart if it meant you were here.” He swallows. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be back, just wait for me.” He doesn’t want to stand up, for that would mean that he’d have to walk. But he tells himself that there must be ways around this. There must be an exception, a line in the fine print. “Wait for me, I’ll come to you. I swear with every will I have to live.”

Terra stands. He summons his helmet. When he wears it, he finally cries, soft tears that feel warm then cool, muted because they’re delayed.

“Okay,” he tells Eurydice. “Let’s go.” 

He wades across the water, ripples that fan out and reflecting light that isn’t there. 

Eurydice floats by his side. “I’m grateful. The vipers are the most unpleasant.”

Terra stops a chuckle. “Yeah, you told me.” Repetition is a symptom for the eldritch, an obsession with what life was. Eurydice deserves so much better. “Do you have to go back to Hades?”

“Orpheus is with him. Once we reunite, we will walk the Underworld together.”

“But it’s a prison.”

Eurydice glances at him. “Man and god are the same. They associate death with misery and see the Underworld as nothing else. But we don’t see what you see.”

“The thought of Hades hating his job is satisfying.”

“He makes for an upsetting neighbor.” 

Terra scoffs. 

“But I shall be content. Death is powerful but Love more so.”

Terra doesn’t know how to respond, but it spells for him a kind of peace. The Realm numbs everything it touches. As long as they play by the rules, it’s not so bad. Aqua is the only balm he’d need.

“How shall we escape?”

“Ven—my best friend—is waiting on the other side. You see that light?” Ahead of them, far in the distance, is a star. “He has a door open for us.”

“But we’ve been walking for so long and yet it does not come closer. Are you not looking forward to seeing him?”

“Of course I am.” Terra slows to a stop. The water has reached to his waist.

Eurydice studies him with sadness. “You mean to stay here.”

Terra doesn’t answer Eurydice’s remark. “I mean to see you free and happy.” He holds out his hand and she takes it. 

Nothing is truly ever following Terra here, for the Darkness wants him to think so. So he will stay, walk forward and walk far without a map or a compass. Eventually, he’ll have to cross paths with her. There is no other place he’d want to go, and any world without her is a world behind him. With that vow to himself, the star finally comes close, the black fading into gray.

“Ven?” Terra calls.

“I have always wondered what it would be like to cross over,” Eurydice says.

Heavy, loud footsteps approach them. Ven appears in the light, in a box colored in white, his armor worn. “Terra? Finally, I’ve been—” He jerks his head towards Eurydice’s direction, the sharp rabbit ears of his helmet tilting. He leans forward as if to peer inside. He does not have a reflection in the water. “Where is Aqua?”

“We are everywhere, she is nowhere,” Eurydice says.

“You don’t see her?” Terra asks, his voice brittle. A tiny part of his heart was hoping he was wrong.

“Dude,” Ven says, “I can barely see you. You’re like an outline.” 

“That’s proof enough.”

“Such lies,” Eurydice says. 

“What is the ghost talking about?” Ven asks.

“It’s okay, Ven,” Terra says. “I’m going to find Aqua.” 

“I’ll come with you.”

“She’ll never forgive me if you follow.” Terra hangs his head. “Please don’t ask me to leave her.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not afraid of the Realm of Darkness.”

Eurydice turns to Terra. “Such bravery yet you are frightened to cross the threshold for her. Is it natural that faith betrays you? Don’t do this to her. Don’t punish her.” 

Ven looks at her, looks at Terra, looks at her. 

Terra says, “Once I find her, I’ll be okay.” He moves to turn. 

Eurydice holds his shoulder. “Many don’t know how to love. They only know the fall, and they fall, waiting for peace to replace the ecstasy and despair. But it will not come if you do not beckon it. May you listen to your heart?”

His heart aches. 

Ven grabs his forearm. “I’m going to listen to the freaky lady. She knows more than you.”

“Ven—”

“I can’t lose both of you. We’ll figure out an action plan, and”—Ven uses all his weight and both of his hands to try to pull Terra over—“you’re coming with me.”

“I can’t leave her here.”

“We’re not! Come on, man, she’s strong.”

“Step forward with me. The vipers are most unpleasant,” Eurydice says.

Terra holds onto the doorframe. The sun hits his gloved fingers, baking them. Aqua, what do I do?

Terra, please. 

That’s Aqua’s voice, far away. For the Darkness wants him to think nothing is following him.

“You promise me we’ll come back?” Terra asks Ven.

“Of course. Anything for her.”

Terra doesn’t sob when he wants to. He doesn’t make a decision—he leaps, stepping forward into the light. Eurydice follows.

But a heavy ton, the Darkness, drags him back. Hands from the water grab his cape into bunches and pull on his neck. They hold onto his legs and bend his knees, desperate, like beggars that need his help, need the stars that glimmer in his armor.

One hand grabs his forearm, metal on metal, like it’s telling him not to forget something. 

Terra gasps. 

He grabs that hand and throws himself forward with a yell, ripping away from the Darkness begging him to stay, knocking Ven out of his balance, and pulling her out. 

Terra lands on his back and hears her gasp and whimper out of shock, relieved. He throws his helmet off.

“Aqua.”

Aqua’s blue armor stares at the grass while she takes in the scene, her sobs controlled and hushed. 

Terra pulls her helmet off to look at her face, stained with tears and tired smiles. “Aqua.”

“You didn’t hear me?” she asks, crying quietly. “No one heard or saw me, I was there the entire time.”

“I’m an idiot.” Terra weeps with her. He dispels his armor and touches her pauldron to dismiss hers. He holds her tightly. She’s warm and sweaty, small in comparison to him, folded into his chest like she fits perfectly. “Call me an idiot, I deserve it.”

Aqua’s cries tremble into laughter as she buries her face in his neck, twisting his suspenders in her fists. Terra lets her weight pull him onto the grass. “That girl was right. You smell good.”

“What are we talking about now?” Ven removes his helmet and brushes through his hair. Terra is so happy to see that chubby face. “Everything’s so confusing.”

“These girls have been chasing Terra. They’re harpies.” She looks up at him and smirks. “I don’t think they’d be pleased if they saw us like this.”

Terra chuckles into her hair. “I don’t care.”

“Wait,” Ven says, scoffing. “Now we’re going to be murdered by rabid fangirls? Ugh, Terra, why are you always inviting trouble? We don’t need it.” He slams his helmet back on. “Stay here, I’ll scout to see if it’s safe. I’m kicking your ass when we get back home.”

That’s fine. Terra will hold onto Aqua here, stroke his thumb on her cheek, wipe her hair off of her face, massage his hand over her exposed back, under the straps. It’s overcast, the clouds a respite. 

Flowers named eurydice watch over them, their anthers hanging close. 

“She’s okay,” Aqua whispers, sighing. Her body relaxes. “Thank you.”

Terra kisses her forehead and brings her waist closer. His star in the darkness. She blinks from behind blotted clouds.

[likesomekindofcheese]

We are all fools in love (Queen One-shot for LOC event)

Pairing: Roger Taylor x fem! Reader

Word Count: 2115

Summary: Roger Taylor’s your best friend...but looks like the band may need to give you a little push and you both need to admit the truth. Some good ol’ Friends to Lovers.

A/N: Hello @39-ers​! Here I am- your Secret Santa revealed!!Here is my gift to you for @dtfrogertaylor​ Level of Concern Event! It was fun to write and it was wonderful to get to know you- I hope you enjoy it!!! Also shout out to my beta @spicyspideyme​! for your quick eye and generous input!!

cw: swearing, smoking, bits and hints about sex (but no actual smut), and mentions of fictional violence. Freddie being the matchmaker like he always is in my fics. Matchmake me plz Freddie

“We’re gonna hold hands, but we aren’t together together!” Roger insisted as you walked through the park.

“How come?” you asked.

The autumn breeze chilled you a bit. A couple leaves fell right before your feet. Stepping on them, there was a satisfying crunch that made you smile. A few park workers were taking away the pumpkins for Halloween festivities and replacing them with banners promoting bonfires for November.

“Because I just don’t want you to get lost! This is a bloody huge city! And the crowds are big!” Roger explained, he waved his arms around the place.

The band and you had hit the dry hours. Other than a few workers, you barely saw a soul.

“I think you forgot…I live in this city. Same as you!” you retorted.

Roger shrugged, scratching the back of his head.

“I just want you to be safe!” he cried.

“Well if it makes you feel like I will be safe, I’ll do it” you said.

Pouting slightly, you accepted his large, smooth hand and continued your walk. 

Though the other three just keep laughing in the back at you two making little fusses just like that, eyeing each other at the odd comment and mouths tight shut to keep themselves from laughing.

“It’s like they’re married already,” Brian observed, tightening his red scarf.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but…something has got to got to happen…” John commented.

Freddie waited until you and Roger were far enough away and then turned to the others.

“I’m sick of it! And they are sick of it too! You see it- of all of the sweet glances when the other one isn’t looking! And I’m so fucking sick of hearing Roger keep talking until the cows come home about “how bloody lovely y/n is,” or “y/n did this and it’s amazing! No one’s as smart as y/n!’” he added, lifting his voice up a few pitches to mimic Roger’s.

“Are you lost or what!?” you called behind, looking at the three.

Without another word, Fred led the way quietly for the rest of the walk. But his mind was restless.

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

Roger insisted on visiting the vintage shop with you by his side the next day. Not that much had changed in a day, you said. He refused to hear of it.

Opening the door, you were greeted by a retail worker who pointed you to the rack of sale items. There was the smell of old leather and furs already deep in your nose as you noticed a coat from at least the forties. 

This is Perfect.

You perused prices, ranging from the extreme to the frugal. 

But Fred, knowing you both visited regularly, came in. He stayed away, half hiding behind some blue dresses at least a decade old. 

“Doing anything Sunday, Rog?” you asked.

“I’ve got nothing on Sunday, Sundays are always boring!” he complained.

He stared in shocked awe at a garish orange blouse with ruffles on it before moving to the next item.

“Rog, I think Sundays are nice! They’re quiet, peaceful…”

“Ha! You think! It’s too bloody quiet and only the church is open,” he interjected.

Turning your head, you folded your arms crossly.

“Sunday’s are nice, Rog!” 

One certain outfit caught your eye when you noticed the mannequin, but checking the price tag you shook your head and let out a small sigh.

“Wanna bet!?” Roger said, offering a hand to you with a smile.

Fred stifled a laughter following the ridiculous little bout. He even bent his legs to hide deeper behind the fifties dresses with starched, crinoline skirts.

“No, no need to bet. There are horror movies that come on Sunday night, I’ll show you! You know how much I love horror movies!” you begged.

Roger’s eyes lit up and he blinked. Then his smile returned rather than his immature pout.

“Really, what channel?”

“Rog, you really have to know. Do you really just go to bars and clubs on Sundays? Just get drunk?”

‘Well, at least they aren’t boring, Y/N!” he argued.

Rolling your eyes, you walked over to where there were pants for women. But you couldn’t help but smile. Roger was an intelligent man. He was just an intelligent man with the instincts of a child sometimes. Secretly it always charmed you.

“Whatever just come over. And don’t get drunk. Not yet,” you said.

Freddie had a deep smile on his lips. He stayed hiding in the shop until you both left. He looked right at the outfit you were eyeing.

This is perfect he thought.

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

On Sunday afternoon, there is a red blouse and the nicest pair of pants you had ever seen on your bed, laid out, fresh from the vintage shop. 

Your jaw dropped and you held back a small scream at the sight. The shirt you found was a blouse: smooth as silk. The pants fitted you perfectly: lighter colored with a subtle pattern.Walking in front of the mirror, you looked nicer than you ever had before.

Next to where your clothes had been was on a small piece of paper with typewriting on it:

“Thought you’d like it! Please wear tonight! MY gift! XXXX- Rog” 

“Well…it’s not too girly and it’s not racy at all…but I better put on a jacket to make it safe.”

Biting your lip, you looked at it in the mirror, examining every inch.

But no. Roger could not have meant it. Not for you at least. You knew there had to be some girl. He would buying lingerie for her. There were always crowds of women after him at parties. He was always calling women up and talking to them. 

“There’s just some chick he’s crazy about and he isn’t telling me because he doesn’t want to make it weird…or maybe he’s really into Fred or John or something.”

The thought always made you sad.

“Still, wouldn’t hurt to doll up though, especially if he asked for it…” you thought, feeling that brief glimmer of hope in your belly.

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

As Roger sat in his home, reading while smoking his cigarette like a meditation, there was a sudden knock on the door.

“I’m back already!” Fred announced, slightly muffled from the door blocking the way.

When he walked over, Roger could barely breathe a hello when Fred leaned over closely, taking in a large whiff.

“Oh! You’re smoking! I’m dying for one myself- let’s go out!” he announced, his ringer hand grabbing Roger’s arm.

“It’s fine in here, why?” 

Freddie flashed his full smile and waved away the apartment entrance. Though at the force Roger was being pulled out it was as if he didn’t have a choice

“Well, darling, you don’t need the landlord on your neck for any reason: and it’s lovely tonight! Moon and stars and all that!” he declared.

They wandered out, talking about everything in between blowing out grey smoke. Though Freddie was changing subjects fast and talking a mile a minute, even for Roger’s standards. But he kept up. 

Until he heard her. Y/N’s footsteps and their certain rhythm.

You saw your friends on the side of the block, right outside the flat complex. Finally, you walked up in a light coat, a little odd from the feeling of the outfit. 

Oh God, I’ve known both of them for years…why am I suddenly feeling so odd? I look…I must look like a groupie to them, not myself.

“Oh, Y/N! How are you, dear?” Freddie greeted, waving his arms up.

Waving back, you gave him a small hug. Right as you greeted Roger, you heard Freddie ring out from behind you.

“Have to head out! I’ve got to meet someone for a drink- a sudden date, you would say! Farewell, loves! I’ll return later, Rog!”

He was practically waltzing away from the two of you. There was a pause. The breeze picked up and you held your coat tighter for warmth.

“S’bloody cold, Y/N, let’s go in,” Roger offered. 

He walked into the complex to where his door was. As he took out his key to the door, you began to talk, albeit shyer than usual.

“By the way, thank you for the gift.”

Roger turned to you, head tilted and squinting.

“Huh? What gift?” he asked.

As his key went in, he noticed it was already unlocked. Barely shrugging it off, he opened the door.

It was filled with candles and roses. 

You both gasped, a little shocked and smiling. Though your insides felt like butter. There was distant patter of footsteps a few feet away, like a small stampede of horses. But when you glanced out to the other doors there was no one.

“Roger, it…it looks beautiful!” you praised.

“Why it…it does, but Y/N…I didn’t do it,” he confessed.

He looked down and scratched his head. His cheeks were the color of the rose petals.

“What, really?” you asked.

As you took off your jacket casually to hang it up in the coat closet, Roger kept staring at your outfit. Now his whole face matched the roses.

“That’s…pretty weird. But…nice of them. The boys, I mean.”

“I just got this outfit with a card saying it was from you,” you recalled.

Roger huffed and scuttled over to the chairs and turned the knob on his tv set. He continually checked his watch to be safe for the time.

“Anyway, uh, films on, let’s…let’s watch it!” he blubbered.

 And the mysterious gifts and their origin were left ignored. 

Roger folded his arms and tried his best to stare at the movie best he could, biting back almost a laugh or even a smile.

But as the killer in the movie was revealed, stabbing his screaming victims, you felt Roger’s eyes continually wander to you. First in flutters. Then in glances. Then in staring. You knew because everything you looked up briefly at him, his yellow head turned away.

Both of you sat still. Neither one asked the other for a drink or a snack or anything as the movie went on.

“You do look, really…really nice Y/N,” he complimented.

Your head flipped over. The breath in you stopped and you felt it suddenly flush back in, going a little dizzy.

“I mean, you’ve always looked nice and I swear, I never really…you just look especially nice tonight!” he clarified.

Smiling, you mumbled a thank you, while looking down at your lap.

As the movie went on, you both relaxed a little more. Your shoulders dipped down. A natural grin let up your face. You saw one on Roger as well.

Roger’s hand moved closer. Inch by inch. Then you felt it over yours.

Sweating, you accepted it. Although now the sudden threat of a masked serial killer that lurked in the night was nothing compared to your reality.

You scooted closer to Roger. He scooted closer in kind.He looked into your eyes. You looked in his. 

“Roger…I…just…I just…” you blubbered, words running out before you could stop them.

“What is it?” he asked.

Now they dashed out as quick as the breaking of a dam.

“I’ve always liked you but…liked liked you- oh god, I must sound like a kid.”

“You don’t, you…you actually make perfect sense!” Roger answered, he began to chew his lower lip.

“What d’you mean?”

“I…I’ve loved you! It sounds ridiculous coming out of me- I am not a sap! I swear! I hate sappy things! But, but-but I’ve always wanted to just scream it from the top of some hill- I love you!” he confessed.

He put a hand against your face, gently caressing it. You leaned in closer to it, almost shivering from the sensation. Softly, Roger leaned forward too.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” he cursed right before tilting his head and kissed you.

It was wet and you could taste the chicken he ate and the strong tobacco from the smoking. He was so close, and so warm, with the smell of sweat and shampoo. You felt your hands go over his arm, pulling him closer. 

You pulled away, and then you went in for another kiss, to make sure it was all real. His hands went to your back and pressed you against him closer. You were one mind and flesh for only a few seconds. Both of you pulled away briefly. There were a few soft chuckles released with a puff of released breath. He then pressed a forehead to yours. Your eyes closed for a second, feeling it, taking it all in. The two of you were breathing in unison, feeling that space between you that was desperate to be filled back again, to finally disappear.

Meanwhile outside, Freddie only leaned against a stoplight, barely looking at the window of the place. Brian and John stood by him, with their hands in their pockets. Seeing the light go out in Roger’s place, they all knew their job was done and they left to celebrate.

Taglist: @queenlover05​ @stardust-killer-queen​

[shadowsong26fic]

Some Stuff

Not a proper Coming Attractions post, that’ll come out on the first Monday of the month as always, but...a more general update on some projects (and also possibly looking for input?)

Basically, I’ve accepted the inevitable, that I’ve fallen back into ATLA in a big way. I haven’t actually rewatched the series yet, because my roommate was doing so and I kept popping in and out and I didn’t want to confuse myself by trying to do a straight rewatch while she was doing hers, but I have reread a bunch of old fanfic/RP logs, and have some plots I kind of want to work with again? Either as fulltext or as an AU Outline. Behind the cut are some more details, as well as seeking Opinions on which, if any, I should actually work on.

I am also Determined to not fall out of SW as this is going on, lol. More details about that behind the cut, as well.

(Also, I’ve talked about some of the stuff listed here on my writing discord, which feel free to come stop by and hang out! It’s basically an extension of this tumblr, only a little more interactive. Find us here!)

Star Wars Stuff:

I plan to take next weekend to bang out at minimum the next Precipice chapter, and possibly the next two (though I’ll stagger posting if I do manage to get both done). And then try and give myself a more active schedule to get the next parts of the series out.

I’m also working on a dragonshifters AU, which I’m enjoying a lot. I think OFLAM may be relegated to the back burner for a while, though I’ll probably kick it up again if I end up doing it for SWBB next year (unless I tease out enough of a Plot for dragonshifters to do that instead, lol). I’ve talked about some of the worldbuilding on my writing discord, too.

I also still owe some meme responses from way back, which I do intend to get to at some point I promise <.<

And I haven’t forgotten some other extant projects--Devoted!verse, the Ventress outline, Bail Unfucks the Timeline, Distaff, etc.--but they’re pretty back-burnered for the time being. If something Sparks in any of those, I’ll probably dive into it, but for now I’m not actively working on them in the way I am on dragonshifters and Precipice.

AtLA Stuff:

So, there’s sort of...four or five projects spinning around in my head right now, lol. One of which, if I do it, would not work as an outline so it would be fulltext. It’s canon-compliant, for the most part.

...well, I should interrupt myself here to say the following: I haven’t read a lot of the comics or tie-in novels, and my familiarity with more recent Word of God is limited. I’m basically operating out of canon defined as “it’s in the original show or WoG I’m specifically aware of, drawing in stuff from other sources as it appeals to me but otherwise ignoring it.” Where WoG contradicts itself (i.e., the timeline for Lu Ten’s death),I go with whatever answer I prefer.

In terms of worldbuilding details added in Korra--ehhhhh, it’s sort of held a little higher than the comics, etc. (in that, if I remember it, unless it Josses something I really, really liked/was foundational to something I’m doing, I’ll probably include it); but most likely whatever I’m doing will go AU enough during the first series for a lot of the other detail work/character-specific stuff to not matter.

Anyway! Back to the fun stuff.

There’s one story I’m playing with that’s not going to work as an AU outline. Depending on exactly what I focus on, there’s a couple different fulltext fics buried in it, and I’m not sure which I’d work on (or if I’d braid the two of them together). Basically, it deals with the siege of Ba Sing Se and Lu Ten’s death, and some of the fallout from that, focusing on an OC of mine and her daughter. I found a short fic I wrote for a challenge back in the day that ties into this concept, which is at the very end of this post. If I work on this, I’d probably change the names of the two relevant OCs and possibly how she gets her memory back (it was written specifically for a “what happened in the rest of the world when Zhao captured Tui” challenge; guess how many of them were Hama-related), but. Anyway, building on either the Siege portion of the story (which has a lot of West Side Story on its soundtrack in my head lol), or focusing on what she does after she remembers him. Or both! Both is also good.

The rest of the options are mostly Zuko-centric canon-divergence fics.

First option, Airbender!Zuko. This occurs because The Spirits Said So; he’s gotten very good at fake firebending using airbending. Probably to the point where he’s so deep in denial that he can’t even see the pyramids anymore, to stretch that analogy to the breaking point, lol. Basically, not much changes until the north pole, but there’s some ways for it to go from there...

Second option, Avatar Zuko. This one has been floating around in my head more lately. Reading old RP logs, my partner and I played through a bunch of different variants on how this all worked, but the one in my head right now is basically--a few months before he’s banished, they’re at Ember Island or something and he’s out on the ocean/fishing or something. Sudden storm, he stops the boat from capsizing through panicked waterbending. No other witnesses, for whatever reason. He initially decides he imagined it, something else must have happened. Except then, when he’s in the palace infirmary after getting his face melted, he does it again. At that point, he basically decides that his options here are “get turned into a weapon and kill A Lot of people, or get disappeared into some dark hole somewhere where I can’t cause any problems.” Neither of those is particularly attractive, so he decides to run away. He doesn’t know what his long-term plan is at this moment--if he’ll use the comet to regain favor/save his nation based on the context he’s operating under right now, or do something else. But he has about three and a half years before then. He figures he’ll spend a year at the Western Air Temple, looking for texts/mosaics/something to get him at least vaguely airbending; then go to the North Pole to learn waterbending for a year, then spend a year in the Earth Kingdom to learn earthbending. Planning, for the last two, to present himself as mixed and while he has a lot of his Fire Nation father’s features, he inherited bending from his other parent (or grandparent, when he goes to the North Pole). For those of you familiar with my original fic, this will also include the first iteration of a prominent secondary character from Feredar/The Farglass Cycle. Mostly so Zuko has someone to talk to at the WAT XD. 

Third and fourth options are a bit more nebulous, and both break off during the Ba Sing Se arc. First option, Zuko gets injured during the stampede when Aang moves the zoo (this will probably draw in at least one of my BSS OCs because I am pathologically incapable of not creating OCs, lol). Second option, Zuko leaves his mask behind in Lake Laogai, which means Aang will know he’s in the city. Not sure where either of those would go from that point but there’s some Significant Differences there, lol.

...anyway, that’s where things stand now. Which, if any, are y’all interested in seeing?

As promised, the clip from the Lu Ten story, originally written for a challenge back in...yeesh 2010 XD. Again, this is canon-compliant at least up until Iroh and Zuko arrive in BSS, and I’d possibly change the names and/or how she gets her memories back.

An Wei sat by the window, holding her little girl and watching the sky. Today had been one of Huai's bad days, so An Wei had her hand resting lightly on her daughter's neck, counting her heartbeats. The doctors had told her, back when Huai was a baby and they'd figured out what was wrong with her, to hope for seven years--but only to hope, not to count on them. So An Wei took special care to always, always watch. She never regretted her child, no. Occasionally, she wished she had never met Huai's father, but...well, she couldn't remember much about him, other than the kind golden eyes (false kindness?) that had taken her in so completely during the Siege. She didn't think about him very much. It was too painful--and dangerous. Above and beyond the dangers in thinking about the War That Was No War, her own father had... Well, he hadn't been pleased. She didn't remember the argument, but her uncle wouldn't have brought her to the Lower Ring midwife who had cared for her during her pregnancy if she hadn't needed to hide. Despite all of her vigilance, it was her own heart that skipped a beat when the moonlight filtering in through her window turned an eerie, dull red. She gasped and clutched her daughter a little tighter, praying that Huai would sleep until this went away, so it wouldn't frighten her. That is, assuming it would go away. She shivered and shifted Huai so the little girl was facing away from the window and watched in horror as the bloody moon failed to return to normal. "Please..." she whispered. "Please be normal when she wakes..." As if in response to her desperate pleading, the moon flared silver again after a half hour. But she barely had a moment to relax before it winked out completely. An Wei jumped and stifled a scream. "Don't be afraid of the dark, this'll light your way home." She jumped again. There was no one here in the room with her and Huai, but she could have sworn... The moon blinked back into existence and a pretty girl with long white hair rode in on one of its beams. An Wei stared up at her, still frightened, pulling her daughter away from the girl as best she could. The moon-girl bent down and kissed An Wei's forehead. "Remember now," she murmured, then faded out of sight. ** "Don't be afraid of the dark." He smiles and makes a little light in his palm, carefully transferring it to a bundle of sticks. "This will light your way home." ** She studies the hairpiece he wears in his topknot, turning it over and over in her hands. "There's something you should know about me, too. About my family." ** "We can make this work, Itsu." He's determined, hopeful, his golden eyes shining. "We'll talk to my father. He'll understand. We'll make it work. Meet me here, at the usual time." "I trust you." ** She waits and waits and waits, until long past dark, but he doesn't come. ** She hates speaking with her guardian, but she's scared and has nowhere else to go. "Please, help me," she finishes quietly. He nods. "I'll keep you safe, Highness. You and your child. I promise." ** The light spins around and around and around, and she forgets her name, forgets her lover, and in her place is An Wei, a young woman trained as a scribe, seduced by a nameless Fire soldier, rather than... ** Itsu let out a little sobbing breath. Huai shifted in her arms. "Mommy?" she whispered, still half-asleep. "It's okay, baby, everything's okay. Go back to sleep." "'Kay." Huai closed her golden eyes again and her breathing evened out as much as it ever did. Itsu held her daughter close. Twice over a princess, at the worst possible time, born with a broken heart. No wonder Long Feng hid us so deep.

[to clarify--Itsu is Kuei’s sister. I forget how I set the relative ages, but assuming, as seems to be the case in flashbacks, that Lu Ten is about 10 years older than Zuko, he’d be somewhere between twenty and twenty-two when he died, depending on which date you believe; Kuei is around the same age (possibly a year or two younger?) and Itsu within two years of them.]

[secretsantasides]

Gift #8: My Universe

Gift for @enby-fander

Prompt: Analogical High School AU

My Universe

Characters: Logan, Deceit (called Daniel), Virgil, mentions of Remus, mentions of Patton

Pairings: Romantic Analogical, Platonic Loceit, Brotherly Anxciet, implied Brotherly Logicality

Warnings: Alludes to homelessness and poverty, sad boi Virgil

Summary: Thank you to the two anons who showed up on @enby-fander's account and gave me major inspiration right when I needed it. Here you go, Trans Virgil and Nonbinary Logan that starts as angst and ends as fluff.

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

As the rest of Kingston High School's sophomores rushed into the cafeteria, Daniel Hyde instead ducked through an out-of-the-way, yet familiar, pair of dark, wooden, though probably fake wood, double doors. His head was down as he stalked over to the Fiction section, deliberately searching. For what, bystanders had no clue.

They parted, anxious to induce the wrath of Dan, a boy rumoured to be in a gang. None of them would put such a thing past the punk boy. He wasn't someone to mess with.

He walked with such a determination that they knew he was on the hunt. His prey? Another, hidden from all but him.

Logan Jekyll was seated in the middle of the mystery section, shrouded in darkness. The junior knew these shelves well, so much so that they could traverse them without requiring sight. That way, they had no reason to flick the switches at the start of each row to the "on" position, which would illuminate the row of dim fluorescent bulbs dangling above. Logan liked it better in the dark, anyway. It hid the introvert from those pesky freshmen. The ones who liked to taunt Logan for some unknown reason.

"Oh look, it's genius Jekyll. Aren't you the one with the ridiculously high GPA? Highest in your year?"

They gave a quick, curt nod to both questions, not speaking. Instead, they continued to read their book, turning the page after a few seconds of silence.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was most definitely living up to the praise they had heard it received, primarily by the Hyde brothers. Daniel had always pressed them to read it, so they had finally began the novel.

As they read, laughs were heard. The rowdy students had become bored with the junior and had stampeded away towards the computers. Logan never understood what they seemed to find so funny.

"Hey, first chair Jekyll, heard you got the solo for the next concert."

When they nodded, quick and curt, the group started laughing yet again. All the way over to the doors. Probably after they walked out the doors, too.

Logan recognized someone in that mob as the sophomore who liked to raise hell during rehearsal, along with a few trumpet players, a bassoon, and half of percussion. He brought the baritone horn section down considerably, even with Logan there to counterbalance his pure idiocy. And to think, this kid is laughing at him. Sheer stupidity, all of it.

"Jekyll, my man, the reason our debate team isn't shit. You're captain, right? Who's second, in your book?"

At the first question, they nodded. At the second, they scowled and looked back at his book. They did have an opinion on who would fall second, but that opinion was not owed to a group of freshmen who loiter around and taunt others. Seeing the spectacle-wearing one's scowl, the boys laughed. Turning and walking away, they kept on snickering and joking about "perfect Jekyll."

'Our debate team? You mean, my debate team.' Logan recognized none of those dumbasses as members of debate, especially not the one who initiated the conversation. He would be debating things when pigs flew.

"I found Jekyll, man of the hour. Nice speech you gave, didn't realize you could do that. Thought only seniors could."

They shook their head "no" at the statement, causing them to… big surprise… laugh at them.

At least they're eloquent enough to make a speech. These people could barely string together simple sentences, let alone write with enough skill to compose a speech at the level Logan did so at.

"Hey guys, here's Dr. Jekyll. Heard you finally found your Mr. Hyde, and you're terribly in love."

They scowled, otherwise ignoring all of them. That narrative wasn't even fitting to Robert Louis Stevenson's original story. In the end, it was revealed that Dr. Henry Jekyll and Mr. Edward Hyde were one and the same, a relationship they and their boyfriend do not possess.

"What, don't want to admit that you're gay as f*ck for Hyde?"

The scowl already adorning their features intensified some, but that was the only indicator of how pissed Logan truly was. Lacking a reaction, the group turned and walked away, laughing as they went.

Did they owe them an explanation of their love life? No, they should f*ck off. It's their damn significant other, not theirs. They were thinking of multiple profanities that could describe those idiots, but decidedly did not execute them aloud. Their choices would make probably Remus Kingston proud, a boy who has an alphabet of swear words, an alphabet that only skims the surface of his cursing dictionary.

As Logan sat there, reminiscing about how much of an asshole all of those freshmen were, Dan was slowly honing down his search radius.

He had visited most of Logan's normal rows, besides mystery and parts of nonfiction. As he walked to non-fiction, he stopped abruptly and turned to walk down the row of mystery novels. Logan truly adored the who-dunits covering these shelves, or so he's heard. He may have good luck looking here, as long as his brother knew Jekyll well. Dan was certain he did.

Don't fail me now, nerd, I need you, he thought, breathing deeply.

He strolled casually into the aisle, flicking the switch at the start of the row. The dim fluorescent lining the ceiling flickered on, revealing exactly what he was looking for. Exactly who he was looking for. Logan Jekyll.

Logan hissed at the sudden lights, sparking a chuckle from the sophomore stalking towards him. They looked up, blue-green eyes meeting grey.

There was an amused smirk adorning the boy's features. Logan did not mirror the expression, but they were nonetheless glad to see the sophomore.

"Didn't realize us Hyde's had made an impression on you. Not surprised, though, with how much you see my brother."

The one clad in blue blushed a deep red at the mention of their boyfriend. Daniel laughed at the sight, before offering out his hand. Logan looked down at the palm obscured by black, fingerless gloves, bewildered as to why the other was putting his hand out. Their confusion showed, causing Dan to roll his eyes and huff.

"Take my hand, Calculator Watch, I'm helping you up. That sorry excuse for carpeting is stale as f*ck, so we might as well go sit somewhere more comfortable."

Reliasition flashed before Logan's eyes as they muttered an, "Ah." Their hand took the other's gloved one, allowing the younger boy to hoist the older off of the matted, black carpet. They now were roughly at eye-level with each other, Logan with a solid height of 5'5" and Daniel being just a half or full inch shorter.

Daniel ran one hand through his slicked back black hair, shoving the other in one pocket of his faded leather jacket. The hand brushing the hair joined the other in the pocket opposite.

"Now, Jekyll, we have a pressing matter to discuss."

The two walked in silence for a while, Daniel leading them through the hallways. Suddenly, he took a left into a classroom, Logan following behind.

The classroom was abandoned, obviously having been used as a science room at one point. There were posters adorning two of the walls, saying things like "Eat, sleep, science, repeat."

"We need to talk about my brother."

Panic flashed in the eyes of Logan, who hid the emotion quickly. Dan wouldn't have noticed if Logan had not coughed directly afterwards, drawing attention to their still shell-shocked expression

The older of the two anxiously scuffed one of their NASA-themed Vans across the linoleum tiles, before looking back at the aforementioned boy.

"Go on."

"Well, he has refused to leave his room for the past 5 days, so I wanted to ask you for…"

He hesitated, but Logan pushed him on.

"For what? Spit it out, Hyde."

Daniel coughed, before regaining his composure.

"I need your help, Jeyll. I need your f*cking help. You're the only person I know that can do anything to get my brother out of his hiding space, and that's all I care about. I'm willing to put aside our indifferences if it helps my brother. Now, tell me, will you?"

"So, what am I supposed to do again?"

The two were walking to the apartment the Hyde brothers shared.

Daniel cleared his throat. "You're supposed to get that bastard to emerge from the cave he has made out of his room. This may be a habit of his, but it has gone on longer than normal, which concerns me."

Logan chuckled. "Sounds like him, alright. At least I now know for certain you and I are talking about the same person."

Dan burst out, "Finally! Someone understands how antisocial that motherf*cker can be!"

He gestured dramatically to emphasize the point.

The older's face morphed into a grin and they began to laugh.

"Hey!" they said, through their laughter, "That's my boyfriend you're talking about!"

Daniel snorted.

"He's my brother! I'm allowed to call him an antisocial bastard."

The pair's laughter tapered off as they continued their trek.

"May I ask how far away your apartment is?"

Daniel coughed, shifting a bit awkwardly.

"Um… it's still a few minutes away, but we're heading up on it."

Logan cocked an eyebrow.

"Y'all live in the downtown area?" they asked.

Dan stayed silent, but nodded.

"My apologies for pushing the subject."

The pair had arrived at the place Daniel pointed them towards, a run-down, dirty-looking, crowded apartment building. Dan stopped multiple times before they arrived, obviously completing a routine.

First, he stopped by an older woman, who was walking across the sparsely filled parking lot with a cart. In the cart, canned food resided, all of which had a small message written on them in Sharpie.

As he reached her, Daniel pressed a can of food he procured from the pocket of his black backpack into her hands.

Logan heard her murmur, "God bless you, honey. You and your brother stay safe, alright Danny?"

They saw Dan give a warm smile towards her. "We will. Stay safe, Mrs. Cunningham."

Secondly, he waved to a group of little boys running in the lot, kicking a ball around. The one who had the ball kicked it towards Daniel, grinning brightly.

"Mr. Hyde!" the other boys shouted, having just spotted the teenager.

"Now what have I always told y'all? Call me Dan."

"Okay, Mr. Dan!" the boys chorused.

Daniel rolled his eyes, ruffling the hair of one. "I give up, y'all obviously are gonna be respectful at all times."

He paused, before clearing his throat.

"That's a good thing, boys. Respect everyone, even if it doesn't seem like they deserve it. Just gotta respect everyone."

The last part was murmured.

The boys all nodded vigorously, before one shouted, "First one to the tree over there gets to pick teams!"

They all sprinted, leaving Dan and Logan to chuckle.

"Kids, right?"

Daniel gave a half-moon smile. "Yeah."

The last stop before the Hyde apartment was at the front desk of the lobby. It could barely be considered a lobby, more like a room with a desk shoved in the corner, some assorted furniture in the other, and stairs to the upper floors. Daniel stepped up to the desk, pulling a sheet of folded notebook paper out of his jacket pocket. He set it on the desk before turning around and smoothing the worn-leather of his jacket. He popped the collar, looking Logan in the eyes.

"Let's go, Jekyll."

"Apartment 7C, correct?"

The pair had just arrived at floor 7, both out of breath. Daniel hid it better, though.

"...Yes," he composed himself, looking at the junior with a look of annoyance.

They strolled down the hall, stopping just short of the end.

APARTMENT 7C read a small, dirty plaque mounted just above the doorknob.

Dan proccured an equally rusty key from his back jean pocket. He turned to Logan and said, "Let's go get my bastard of a brother out of his damn slump."

The pair walked into the mess of an apartment, Daniel shouting out a quick, "I'm home!" to ease the other Hyde's anxieties. Though, the shouting may be contradictory, as the older Hyde brother was not a fan of loud noises.

Daniel quickly dropped the key on a rickety table close by to the door. His combat boots were shed, as Logan kicked off his Vans.

Dan turned to Logan, directing him towards his brother.

"Down the hall, first door to the left. It'll be locked, so… here."

He grabbed a penny from the counter and threw it to Logan. They caught it with ease, studying the coin. They looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Our locks are garbage, so this should get it easy. I would've done it myself earlier this week, but I believe in the sanctitiy of one's room. That is, until you're in there for almost a week."

Logan nodded, turning to follow the instructions given.

Dan stopped them.

"I don't think he wants to see me, so I'll stay back. Jekyll, get my brother. Please."

He sounded almost desperate, so Logan obliged.

They found the door indicated easily, as there was a galaxy-patterned poster in blues and purples attached to the door with Scotch tape. It just seemed… right.

They jangled the knob a bit, discovering it was unsurprisingly locked. Logan took the penny, shoved it into the flat indentation on the rusty knob, turning slowly and carefully. It worked. The door was now unlocked.

Logan turned the handle, quickly entering the dark room. They heard a hoarse voice, dull due to lack of use, emitate from the corner.

"L-eave m-e the hell alon-e."

A throat was cleared, a few coughs ringing through the silence of the room.

"I'm fine."

Logan huffed, rumbling for the light switch mounted on the wall next to them.

Their hand knocked the switch up, prompting a hiss from the figure huddled in a corner.

"I thought you would be happier to see me. I assume I was wrong."

The figure looked up, revealing messy purple hair, tired and unfocused eyes, and a miserable expression adorning the features Logan would always find beautiful.

"Stella?"

"It's me, nebulosa."

Logan looked around the room.

It was very… Virgil.

He had a few band posters on the walls, hoodies with patches and stitching and a worn leather-jacket (much like Daniel's) hanging in the closet alongside his school-issued letterman's jacket, a black guitar propped up nicely in a corner, a chair that looked similar to those in the small dining room set with his low-quality music stand, band folder, and the large, bulky case of a euphonium put aside carefully, and a few trophies and certificates earned for track, for musical achievements, or for academic accomplishments were set on the dresser or hung on the wall above it. Everything was in black and deep purple, with subtle hints of navy.

They liked the color scheme a lot, as it was quite pleasing to the eye.

Much better than their brother's mixture of bright and pastel blues, all light in tone. Patton really didn't know how to mix colors.

Logan's attention was diverted, however, from the room surrounding them when they heard sniffles from Virgil's corner.

"Hey, hey. What's wrong?"

Virgil wiped his eyes, acting as though he wasn't just crying.

"I'm just over-emotional, I guess. Damn it, peri-"

He stopped himself, a look of shock adorning his features. Logan looked upon him with a look of pity, sad-smile creeping onto their features.

"Is that why you've been isolating yourself, babe? Hey, hey, come here."

Virgil shook his head. "I'm fine," he said stubbornly.

Logan walked over to him, wrapping their arms around him.

"It's okay, stella. ...I love you."

Virgil gave a weak smile.

"I love you too, Logan."

[yellowind-writes]

The Dark Wave: Chapter 1

Boku no Hero Academia Male!Reader-Insert x Various

Rated M for violence (blood, gore, general villainy) and language. Link to intro post + index.

*Please note there’s a prologue before this chapter that you’ll need to read first.

Oh, you get it now.

That crying woman who’d brought you daisies was your mother. She was sad because her only son doesn’t even remember who she is (or who he used to be). After years and years of him missing without a trace he shows up in a hospital after getting decked by All Might, the #1 hero he used to idolize alongside some childhood friend he no longer knows.

He’d stopped a rather nasty fight between you and another villain after you’d learned your origin story was a fraud and went berserk. Someone with a mind altering quirk had planted false memories and completely erased others. It’s rattling to dwell on even now. Which memories are fake and which ones are real? You don’t know and you’ll beat it out of the bastard when you find him. In fact, the idea you’ll be able to get revenge on all the slimy losers who’ve ever lied and used you is a big motivator for becoming a “hero” yourself.

It’d been debated whether to try and reform you considering villains usually aren’t so young or to just lock you up and throw away the key. You’re still not sure why they didn’t discard you even now, weeks and weeks after the decision was finalized. Even stranger yet that they’d enroll you in the countries top hero school. And you can’t help but feel you’ve gone from being one sort of guinea pig to another. There’s this nagging tug at the back of your mind...like no one is telling you the whole truth.

Your mom must’ve been scared of losing what little she got back during the whole process.

Enjoy your first day! I hope you still like [food], it used to be your favorite ❤

Yet she still stuck a note to a homemade lunch and sent it to the school office for you to pick up. Knowing that her son is capable of and has done some terrible things she still hopes his favorite food is the same as when he was five. And though you have to live in a separate facility to be monitored (very closely) she’d informed you that your old bedroom was kept exactly the way you left it, waiting for you. She’d spent ten years dusting around Legos and hero figurines waiting for the day there would be a knock on the door or a phone call. Ten years!

Mom’s really are something else, huh?

“I see, so you couldn’t get to school the first few days because you were recovering from an accident.” Midoriya Izuku, the shaky mess that he is, must be confused as all hell. An entire album of childhood photos had been shown to you and it was stressed that this broccoli head was your buddy since diapers. He’s been doing most of the talking from his place across from you.

He doesn’t know why you’re here and you’re not supposed to tell anyone (obviously) so all he knows is that one day you weren’t around and the next you’re going to class with him and acting as if you hadn’t been MIA for a decade. “Ah, it’s been so long. You’re probably really different now from when we were little...not that that’s a bad thing! You’re supposed to grow up. Just...”

He may be a nervous, rambling puddle but he isn’t completely stupid. He knows something is up. It’s in the way he averts his forest green eyes and bites his lip with a frown. But he’s not the only one at the table so now wouldn’t be the time to bring anything sensitive up. A bubbly brunette sits beside him, watching on and trying her best not to look too curious and a few other kids from class 1-A babble their lunch break away within earshot.

And it’s no wonder he’s acting the way that he is. He knows your mother, she’s friends with his own. He’s likely seen first hand how desperate she was to find you. It’s not like you can pretend you’re back from a holiday. She’d put up posters and visited the spot you’d last been seen at over and over and over. She’d told you that herself after your release from the hospital.

“Congrats on, uh, you know...the whole getting in thing. It’s what you always wanted.” It’s awkward to speak up. It feels like you’re under examination and while you really shouldn’t give a shit what any of these preppy assholes think it wouldn’t do to slip up. You’re under a strict gag order, after all. “And also the class representative stuff.”

You’re not even sure what being a class representative entails or why a class needs one. Why anyone would want to be one in the first place is even more mysterious. You never actually went to school so these things are foreign. Everything you learned you learned on your own or through any of the sleazeballs in the League with enough patience to teach you. It was homeschooling of a sort. Even villains need to be educated...to a point.

As you pick at your food you vaguely wonder how shocked anyone at this table would be to learn a lot of the things villains do in their off time is frighteningly mundane. These aspiring heroes have probably walked past countless bad guys and criminal scum without ever knowing, shook hands with them, smiled at them. Perhaps were even neighbors.

Or sitting at the same table with one.

“Being here is a dream come true.” Midoriya perks up as he says this. He can speak for himself. You aren’t sure what to think of being here. While it’s still better than solitary confinement, you’re not exactly ecstatic about it. You? A hero in training? You can hear Him laughing already.

U.A. is just your way out.

“This food is a dream come true!” The girl beside him speaks up. It’s true that the cafeteria is well-equipped to the point of overkill and everyone’s trays are piled with expensive restaurant style food. U.A. doesn’t skimp when it comes to anything. Maybe you’ll try it out tomorrow if there isn’t another packed lunch waiting for you. “It’s nice to see people from other departments too.” She’d already introduced herself in class earlier but you can’t quite recall her name. Urara...rara...ra something.

Apparently her quirk makes things float? She’d happily demonstrated by making your pencil wobble in the air. Not sure how useful that is but she got into the hero course so she must be surprisingly capable. She’s admittedly rather cute but, still, she doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d even swat at a fly.

“Actually...I’m not so sure I’ll be a good class president.” Midoriya mutters into his bowl of rice. If he’s hoping to hide the embarrassed blush spreading from beneath his collar he isn’t doing a good job of it. Jeez, if it’s anything you’ve learned about him it’s that practically everything flusters this guy.

“Nonsense. You’ve got what it takes when it counts. It’s why I voted for you.” Iida takes a long sip of apple juice. Talk about taking things way too seriously. He’s so stiff and formal it’s almost annoying. And his black hair is so...so neat. His uniform has zero wrinkles. From his head to his toes he exudes cleanliness and order. It’s obnoxious.

You’d voted for Midoriya simply because you didn’t know who else to give your vote to. You can’t imagine it really matters who gets the role though.

“But I thought you wanted to be class president?” Rara girl asked Iida.

“Wanting something has nothing to do with being suitable for it. I made a judgement call that Midoriya would be the better candidate.” Iida responds with a firm nod. Just the answer one would expect from a kid who grew up in an upper crust hero family. Still, wouldn’t hurt him to loosen up a little.

“How noble,” You snort, ignoring the frown you’re given as a result. He’s dense in a lot of ways but at least he can recognize mockery when he sees it.

It sneaks in unbidden, like a snake slipping through tall grass, but you have the thought that Iida is probably the type who is easy to control by using civilian lives against him. Take a hostage, wreak enough havoc to the point he prioritizes rescue over capturing the person who caused damage in the first place...it’s always easy to use some heroes’ idealism against them.

But you shouldn’t think like that anymore.

EEEE! EEEE! EEEE! EEEE!

The alarm system.

You stand up like a bolt of lightning struck you and slap your hands over your ears. It’s so incredibly loud! You’ve never heard such an overwhelming noise before. The cafeteria erupts into chaos as students begin to scramble like panicked insects when the rock they’re hiding beneath is disturbed.

“Security level 3 has been breached. Please evacuate.” A disembodied, robotic voice announces. Barely audible with the alarm still wailing. This just causes everyone to freak out even more.

Great first day of school so far. This is leaving a wonderful impression.

You’re pushed and shoved along with the other students in a sea of bodies. An overwhelming and faceless swarm and all the while the ringing of the alarm about to make your ears bleed. It’s impossible to get away from, almost like it’s inside your head.

Someone latches on to your sleeve with a death grip. You’re about ready to spin around and tell them off when you look back and see it’s Midoriya with a concerned expression, worried about getting lost in the frenzied crowd. Either because you’re supposed to play at being his long lost friend (which you truly were you just can’t remember) or because there’s something about the look on his face, something bothersome you can’t find a name for...you can’t really find it in you to shove him off so you let him cling to you as you’re swept away out of the cafeteria and into the hallways.

You must’ve missed the memo about level 3 threats because everyone else is about to jump out of their skin. It almost reminds you of the wildebeest stampede in The Lion King. Hopefully no one actually gets trampled. That would be a mess.

“Uraraka, make me float!” You hear Iida scream. It’s hard not to recognize his voice, he has a very distinct way of speaking and can be very loud. Like a barking dog.

Before you know it he’s floating? overhead using a combination of Uraraka’s ability and his own to propel himself over the writhing students. Those weird engine legs rumbling and smoking. He shoves off the side of the hallway opposite the windows and lands awkwardly over the entry by gripping a pipe and placing the tips of his shoes on the protruding edge of the EXIT sign. He’s lost his glasses in the commotion but doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“IT’S OKAY! EVERYONE CALM DOWN! IT’S JUST THE PRESS!” He yells at the top of his lungs. “THEY’RE OUTSIDE!”

At this everyone quiets down almost immediately. You try to see out the windows lining the hall to check if what he says is true. Shouldering pass other students and pulling Midoriya along with you. He still hasn’t let go of your uniform.

Indeed, the press is outside badgering some of the staff. One of them you recognize as your new homeroom teacher, Aizawa. He’s too far away to tell what sort of face he’s making but one can imagine it’s an exhausted mask with unamused eyes. It’s like his entire body is constantly saying, “please get me out of here.” Even Present Mic looks unhappy having to deal with the parasites.

But what really catches your eyes is a familiar splash of silver-grey hair and a face obscured by a large hood. The cloth, the shadows, and the distance obscuring the man’s visage. He’s clad in casual clothing, all of it dark in color. His posture is slouched. You don’t think he’s changed his fashion (or lack thereof) or stood up straight since you were six years old.

His presence should make the pro hero teachers suspicious, standing off to the side like a creep. But the press is so hyped up no one seems to be paying him any attention at all.

“[Name]...?” Midoriya notices you tensing up, stiff as a statue. Like a hunting dog on point.

Tomura.

The gate that leads inside U.A. is crumbled behind him. Destroyed as easily as if it were made of sand. He must be the one who let the reporters in. Using the confusion that would ensue to...do what? He’s not here for you; you’re not exactly a prisoner. In fact, he probably considers you a traitor and he’d be right. A diversion...but for what? A test to see how well security at U.A. really is? Both? Perhaps he’s sending a message that you shouldn’t have defected?

“Big bro Tomura?” You’re a child. Dumb and reckless and tugging at the back of his shirt doesn’t seem a dangerous thing to do. Though everyone else is wary of him. He had told you that Tomura was going to be your big brother from now on and big brothers don’t hurt their little brothers. “Hey!”

“Stop calling me that.” He doesn’t pull his attention away from the T.V. screen, where he’s been playing a video game. Most of the levels he’s gone through look the same to you so it’s hard to say what he finds so enthralling about it. Seems awfully repetitive.

“Okay, big bro. Why do you hold things weird?” Your innocent question makes his eye twitch. There’s candy wrappers littering the scratched wood floor and they crinkle beneath your socks as you shift to stand beside him instead of behind. The place is spartan, cold, and dusty. But it’s your home.

“Ugh, Tomura, my name is Tomura. Use it.” He goes on smashing the buttons on the controller, all while holding it in that strange, four-finger grip.

“To-mu-ra!” You’re bored and there’s no one else around to entertain you. “Why do you hold things weird?” You repeat the question.

His jaw tenses. It’s so easy to bring his temper to a boil. Especially in his younger years. “This is why!”  He places all five fingers on the controller, holding it up for inspection as it begins to flake away into a pile of ash. Some of the residue gets on your toes.

“[Name]?” Midoriya pokes your bicep. “Let’s get back to class.” He’s finally let go of your jacket, acting like he wasn’t terrified of being flattened into a pancake beneath everyone’s indoor shoes just a few seconds ago.

Should you consider whatever plans Tomura is cooking up as a chance to get out from underneath the heroes’ thumbs and rejoin him? That would effectively mean if you’re caught a second time it would be game up. No more second chances. But to say the thought isn’t tempting would be a lie...

You follow behind Midoriya like an obedient pup, weighing your options as you head back to class. Being a “bad guy” is all you know but a way of life where you don’t have to lurk in the shadows doesn’t sound all that terrible. No more hiding and watching your back. But you aren’t the same as the kids here. You can act like a chameleon but you’re never going to truly be like them. A good person.

You’ll forever be stained.

“Oh, wow! That’s so cool To-mu-ra! Does it work on people too?”

.

.

.

“[Name], wait!” Midoriya catches you after school as you’re about to leave campus. His already messy hair is even more ruffled. At first look it appears black but when the sun hits it you can see it’s actually a very dark green, almost matching his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

You wince, because you know where this conversation is probably going to go.

Behind him some other students are also leaving for the day. The sun hasn’t begun to set, of course, but the sky is warmer in color than it was earlier. There’s a slight breeze as well. It’s good weather. You wish you could enjoy it while making your way back to the tiny, single-bedroom apartment that’d been given to you (under constant surveillance...of course). Instead of this immensely uncomfortable situation.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Everything about him is in earnest. He’s genuinely bothered.

“I’m fine.” You grit out and shove your hands in your pockets. It’s ironic how this whole reforming into a better person thing is requiring you to be a massive liar.

“C’mon, I don’t want to seem intrusive but I...well, I know there’s something wrong. You’re acting weird. I-I know you just got back and I don’t know half of what you’ve gone through but...” He gives you the best stern frown he can. Like a mother disappointed that her child is hiding something from her. “I want to help if I can.”

How are you supposed to feel? You know this is usually the part where the other person opens up or at least reassures their friend that things are fine or will be. The part where worries and fears are put to rest. But...all you feel is frustration.

It’s ridiculous that he’s acting like hardly any time has passed at all. He shouldn’t be going on as if nothing has changed because everything has changed.

“I said I’m fine. Leave it.” You turn on your heel to walk away.

“But, [Name] I know--”

You cut him off with a glare thrown over your shoulder. “You don’t know. You don’t know me anymore, Midoriya.”

[write-havoc]

Of Sons and Daughters Ch. 3

Summary: Arthur is tasked by Dutch to watch over a young woman who had just lost the last member of her family she had left. That young woman just so happens to be the daughter that Dutch told no one else about.

This is a non canon AU with no major spoilers

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character

Status: Ongoing

Contains: swearing, PG 13 smut

Intended for readers 18+ of age only

Masterlist in my bio

With Emmeline and Arthur getting closer over the days they’ve spent together, Arthur decides to treat her a little bit.

“You wanna go for a ride with me?” Arthur asks as they eat breakfast early in the morning.

“A ride? Where to?”

“Don’t know. Anywhere, I guess. You said you ain’t left this land since you was a kid. Ain’t ya bored of it?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Isn’t it dangerous out there?”

“Can be,” he answers. “But it ain’t so dangerous that you gotta stay cooped up here your whole life. ‘Sides, I ain’t gonna let anything happen to ya.”

She thinks it over. Her lips pull up to a smile as she comes to her decision. “I think I would enjoy going for a ride with you.”

“You got any pants to wear? I’d rather you ride with me and I don’t want all that fabric from a dress gettin’ in the way.”

“Oh, uh... Me and Mama used to wear pants sometimes when we worked. I still got some in my chest.” She goes into her room and finds a pair of brown pants and a gray blouse to put on. Since it’s warm out, she doesn’t bother to grab a coat to wear.

Arthur, on the other hand, gets dressed in his usual outfit, a blue everyday shirt, brown pants, and his leather jacket. Complete with hat, of course.

Not long after, they mount Sparrow with Arthur in the saddle and Emmeline behind him. She holds onto his waist as they head down the trail and onto the main road.

The trees give way to more open space, allowing Emmeline to look over all the land that she’s never really seen before. Off to her left, deer graze in an expanse of grass. To her right, rocks jut out from the earth as the land rises into cliffs. She’s examining the bluffs when Arthur gets her attention.

“Look over there,” he throws his arm out to the left, pointing off to the soft rolling hills. A small herd of bison is grazing lazily in the warm sunshine.

“Oh, wow,” Emmeline breathes out in wonder. “They’re so big!”

“Yeah. We don’t wanna get much closer. Don’t want them to get spooked and stampede on us.”

“No. That doesn’t sound very good.”

They continue on until they come to a river. Arthur follows it up stream a ways until good sized waterfall comes into view. He directs Sparrow to the shore then dismounts, helping Emmeline down after.

She looks up at the feature. “This is beautiful.”

“Follow me up here, Miss Emmeline.”

She turns to Arthur, seeing that he’s moving along the rocks up toward the side of the falls. She goes to him, watching her steps as she climbs up the rocks to him. When she gets to a bigger one, Arthur holds his hand out to help her along. She gladly takes it and steps up closer to him.

“Are we going in the water?” she asks in confusion as they get close to the water rushing over the cliff.

“No.” He holds his arm out, prompting her to go ahead of him. “Just trust me.”

She nods and squeezes past him to step closer to the falls. She sees an opening behind the rushing water and moves forward into the small cave behind the waterfall.

“Oh my.” She turns back to Arthur, who is now in the small space with her. “How did you know this was here?”

He chuckles a little. “A treasure map lead me here.”

“A treasure!” she calls out excitedly.

“It was just the first part, I guess.” He shrugs. “Only found another map and a few bucks.”

“You have another treasure map?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s find the next treasure!”

“I don’t know, Miss Emmeline.” He scratches the back of his neck. “That map could lead anywhere. Might even be a few day’s ride from here.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She shrugs a shoulder in concession. “It sounds very adventurous, though. Looking for buried treasure,” she says with a smile.

“It’s mostly trekking out to the middle of nowhere and almost falling off a mountain.”

She giggles a little. “That doesn’t exactly sound too fun, I suppose.”

He sits down on the ground and starts to rummage in his satchel, producing some salted meat. “I like this place.” He holds the food out to her and she takes it, sitting along side him. “I like the sound of the water,” he mentions as he looks out through the falls.

She studies his face as he speaks then looks out as well. “I like it, too. I’ve read about mighty rivers carving the land, but I’ve never seen a waterfall before.”

He chuckles a little. “This ain’t exactly a mighty river, but it’s still nice. Up north there’s the tallest waterfall I ever seen.”

“Really?” She looks over to him. “Will you take me there?”

He turns to her. “Someday, maybe. It’s quite a ride.”

She nods and takes a bite of the food in her hand. “Have you travelled all around here, Mr. Morgan?”

“Mostly, I guess. I’ve been sent around doing all sorts of things for all sorts of people.”

She smiles at him. “You’re a jack of all trades.”

He gets a little bashful. “I don’t know about that. Mostly I’m just good for-“ he stops himself from saying ‘shooting folk’, “-heavy lifting,” he settles on.

“I don’t doubt you’re good at that, Mr. Morgan.” She chuckles. “Not with all those muscles,” she adds innocently.

“Aw...” He looks away and scratches at the back of his neck as he feels his cheeks heat up.

“But I don’t think that’s all you’re good for, Mr. Morgan. Surely.”

He looks at her for a moment, meeting her friendly gaze before looking away. He had never been good at taking a compliment. “We should get going.” He starts to stand, helping Emmeline up after.

They get back on Sparrow and follow the main road until they see a road sign pointing in the direction they’re headed.

Emmeline reads the faded word painted on the wood. “We’re headed to Valentine?”

“Yep. I’m gon’ show you there’s nothing to be afraid of there.”

“Oh. Okay,” she replies nervously.

“You ever been to the theater?”

“No. I’ve read some plays before, though.”

“I meant like a... like a moving picture show.”

“Oh no, Mr. Morgan. Nothing like that.”

“They got a theater tent in Valentine. We can see what’s playing when we get there.”

That brings a smile to her face. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Morgan.”

As they come upon the town, Arthur slows Sparrow to a trot. Emmeline takes in the sights of people going about their days. They pass a couple of women leaving the doctor’s office. The gunsmith is on the other side of the road with men having a conversation on the porch. There are voices from the saloon drifting out into the streets, signifying the boisterous atmosphere contained inside. Further down on the corner, several men are working to build what looks like a new store.

The town is bustling with life, the people seemingly content to go about their lives. It’s in contrast with how Emmeline’s mother had described it. She had made it seem that it would be likely that you’d get attacked just by walking on the street. But Emmeline doesn’t have much time to think of that because Arthur hitches Sparrow after dismounting and holds his arms out to help Emmeline down.

“Theater’s down the road,” he says as he sets her on her feet and turns in that direction.

She follows along closely, not wanting to get too far away from him. A kindly older man walks past them and nods a greeting.

“Mister,” Arthur greets back with a tip of his hat.

“This place isn’t so bad, I guess,” Emmeline comments, though she still wouldn’t want to wander around alone.

Arthur walks up to the ticket man in front of the theater tent. “Can I get two tickets?” he asks.

“Sure,” the man replies. “But the next show ain’t for twenty minutes yet.”

“That’s fine.” Arthur pays the money and turns back to Emmeline. “Looks like we got some time to kill. Come on.” He leads her back into town and to the general store.

The clerk nods his head at the pair. “Afternoon, mister. Nice to see you again,” he greets. “This your lady?”

Arthur looks back to Emmeline and then to the clerk, unsure of what to say. “I work for her father.” He catches his mistake the second he says it. “I mean her uncle .”

The clerk doesn’t seem to care either way. “Alright. Well, the catalog’s here if you wanna look through it.”

Thankfully for Arthur, Emmeline doesn’t notice the exchange; she’s too busy looking at the chocolates. “Can I get one of these?”

Arthur goes over to her and grabs two, along with some oat cakes for the horses. After paying, they walk back outside and sit on the porch to wait for the show to start.

“You know,” Emmeline starts, “we ain’t never had much money for things like these.” She points to the chocolate. “Even when my pa was alive. He worked hard to grow our food. And he’d go out every day to hunt animals for meat, too. We only had a little bit of money for anything else and we mostly saved that for medicine we’d need when we was sick. When pa died, things got even worse. Mama didn’t know how to hunt, so we just ate what we grew for a while. We got pretty skinny then.” She hangs her head as she remembers. “But then mama said she found us some money. That’s when she started buying meat for supper. Things was better after that.”

Arthur nods at her story, putting it together that the money that her mother had “found” must’ve been what Dutch had left them. It makes him realize that Emmeline and her mother were actually pretty dependent on that money and that they may have starved without it.

He comes to the realization that he might have to do more for Emmeline to get her ready to live on her own when he leaves. Unless Dutch is willing to come up with some story to keep leaving her money without telling her he’s her father.

After wasting a little bit more time, they go back over to the theater tent and take their seats. As they watch “Manflight,” they eat their chocolates.

Emmeline has never seen anything like this before, so she’s transfixed by It. Arthur has unfortunately seen this particular movie before, but he doesn’t let on to her. He rather enjoys seeing her smile and laugh at what is being projected on screen. More than once, she catches him looking at her instead of the screen, but she doesn’t think much of it. She just smiles and puts her attention back on the movie.

As they exit and walk back into town side by side, Arthur asks, “Did you like it?”

“It was rather silly,” she replies. “But very entertaining. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would shoot themselves out of a canon as a means of travel, though.”

“Probably not.” He chuckles. “Why don’t we get something to eat before we head home.”

“Okay.”

They head off to the saloon, which is already pretty rowdy, even though the sun has yet to set.

“Why don’t you sit at that table,” Arthur suggests as he points to the only empty table. “I’ll get us both some stew.”

She nods and sits down where he indicated. As Arthur leans against the bar, his back toward Emmeline, waiting for the food, she can’t help but notice the form of his body. No other man in the bar is shaped quite like him. Some are just as big in the shoulders, but they’re also big in the gut, too. The man directly to Arthur’s left is so skinny he’s absolutely dwarfed by Arthur. The man to his right is not much better, making it seem like Arthur is a giant. Emmeline can’t help but compare the men and comes to the opinion that she much rather prefers Arthur’s form to any other.

As Arthur turns back to her with the bowls in his hands, she suddenly feels guilty for looking at him like that. It’s not polite to leer, especially for a young woman like herself.

“You okay, Miss Emmeline?” he asks as he sets the bowl in front of her and takes his own seat.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan.” She takes a spoonful of the stew into her mouth as she avoids his gaze.

They get back on the road headed home just as the sun starts to set. With the sky darkening, the temperature drops and Emmeline finds herself cuddling more into Arthur for warmth.

“You okay back there,” he throws over his shoulder when he feels her start to tense.

“I’m fine. Just cold.”

He slows Sparrow then stops her. “Here.” He leans forward and takes off his jacket, handing it back to her. “Put this on. I should’ve had you bring one yourself. Or not kept you out so late.”

“Thank you.” She puts on his coat and lets out a contented sigh at its warmth. “But won’t you get cold.”

“Aw, I’ll be fine.”

Before he can set off again, Emmeline opens the coat up and tries to put it around him as much as she can while she hugs onto his back and wraps her arms around his torso.

“There. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll keep you a little warm this way, too,” she says.

He clears his throat at the contact. He can feel the warmth of her skin seeping in to his own through the two thin layers of their shirts. That warmth somehow travels to his chest and to his belly, awakening butterflies to flutter around in his stomach. It’s not exactly a wanted feeling at this point in his life, so he shakes his head, trying to get rid of it and spurs Sparrow into a gallop.

When they get home it’s starting to get late, so both of them say goodnight and turn in. Not too long after they both fall asleep, a storm erupts outside, waking them. Arthur listens for a minute or two, gaging whether or not he should be worried. The storm seems fairly bad, but not the worst he’s been through. He had checked on the horses before he went to bed, so they should be good. And the house is in fairly good condition; it should weather the storm just fine. With nothing really to worry about, Arthur closes his eyes to go back to sleep.

Meanwhile, Emmeline sits bolt upright at the first thunderclap. She had always been afraid of storms, running into her parents’ room as a kid to escape. Even after her father died, she’d still seek comfort in her mother whenever there was thunder and lightning. As she grew older, she realized that was childish. Even though she stopped running to her mother for comfort, the storms still made her anxious. Now that her mother is gone, though, that anxiety comes back tenfold.

After sitting there for several minutes, she gets out of bed, wraps herself in her blanket, and leaves her room. She walks up to Arthur’s door and softly knocks.

“Arthur?” she calls out. When she doesn’t get an answer, she starts to open his door.

The creaking of someone stepping into his room wakes him up. He opens his eyes and sees Emmeline walking towards him with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Miss Emmeline?” he croaks out and pulls his blanket up more to cover himself from her.

“It’s storming,” she says quietly.

“I know,” he replies. That fact is obvious, so he’s not sure what she’s really doing.

“Can I sleep in here?”

He’s confused. “You wanna sleep in here?”

A sudden loud thunderclap makes Emmeline jump and Arthur finally realizes what’s going on.

“You afraid of the storm?”

She nods.

“Uh.” He fiddles with his blanket in nervousness. “I ain’t exactly dressed, Miss Emmeline.”

There’s another clap of thunder and Emmeline practically jumps into bed with Arthur on top of his blanket. She cuddles into his side and buries her face into his chest.

“Whoa there,” he calls out, unsure of how to proceed with this. After a few moments, he wraps his arms around her. “It’s gon’ be fine,” he coos as he rubs his hand over her arm.

His deep voice rumbles in his chest underneath her ear. She finds it soothing, as well as distracting against the storm raging outside.

“Will you keep talking?” she asks, hoping it will keep her calm.

“‘Bout what?”

“Anything.”

“Well...” He clears his throat trying to think of what to talk about. “I once found some sorta stone Viking burial in the ground up north. Got myself a fine helmet outta it.”

“Keep talking,” she whispers when he pauses.

“Up in the mountains, I found a woman’s face carved into the rock,” he starts. “And the man the did it,” he mutters, not wanting to elaborate that the man had hung himself. “There’s a lot of weird stuff out there if you start to look for it.”

As he continues to talk about his non-criminal adventures, he feels her slowly relax. When her breaths turn deep and even, puffing across his chest, he knows she’s asleep. He stays awake for a while, just enjoying the feel of sharing his bed with someone again. Not that he hasn’t had women in his bed in a while, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t soft and tender or caring. It was just him relieving some stress with a willing participant every once in a while.

The next morning, Arthur awakes before Emmeline. During the night, she had gotten more comfortable, her arm is splayed across his torso and her leg is bent, resting atop his thighs. He manages to urge her away from him gently enough so she doesn’t wake up and rises from the bed. Since he’s stark naked, he gathers his clothes quickly and rushes out of the room to actually put them on in case she would wake up and see him.

He decides to go out hunting for the day. After leaving a note saying what he’s doing, he heads out looking for some deer. Before he can get too involved in that, he takes a rest by a tree and pulls his journal out.

  Took Miss Emmeline out yesterday. I figured she could use a change of scenery. I also wanted to show her that Valentine ain’t such a scary place. When I go back to camp, she’s gonna have to fend for herself and that means heading to the store and the butcher’s on her own. I think I might try to teach her how to hunt so she won’t have to buy the meat. Maybe I’ll teach her to fish, too, though I ain’t much good at it. That little creek just outside the house leads to a nice pond full of fish. I should buy Miss Emmeline a pole.

Before we went into town, I showed her that spot I like behind Cumberland Falls. She seemed to enjoy it, too. I mentioned the treasure map I found there and she wanted to go out searching for riches. I said maybe, though I’m not sure If I want to take her all across this country treasure hunting. This place can be dangerous and I’d never forgive myself for getting her hurt.

We saw a picture show in Valentine. I had seen it before, but I confess, I wasn’t much watching it this time. I rather liked seeing Miss Emmeline enjoying herself as she watched the show. Silly as it was, she had a good time.

Got woken up last night by thunder, then by Miss Emmeline coming into my room. Seems she’s afraid of storms. I comforted her as best I could, since she got right in bed with me and I had no choice, really. I told her I was naked, but it seems that wasn’t much of a deterrent. She made me tell her stories until she fell asleep.

I must admit, maybe I enjoyed having her next to me in bed more than I should have. For a moment, I thought of what it might be like to make that permanent. To start up something with her. But I ain’t a good man. Especially not good enough for her. She deserves a man like her father. Well, not her real father, not Dutch. But like Mr. Turner, the good, honest man who raised her even though he knew she wasn’t blood. She don’t need an outlaw like me.

Regardless, Emmeline needs someone right now, so it might as well be me. I don’t trust nobody else not to take advantage of her, innocent as she is. She ain’t got much that someone could swindle her out of, but any other man might do even worse than taking her money. Men like Micah. I would never let him anywhere near her.

 He sketches the waterfall he took her to and then her smiling face. Once he’s done, he closes his journal and puts it back in his satchel with a sigh. He goes back over to Sparrow and gives her a nice pat on the neck.

“I’m just an old fool, girl.” he says to Sparrow before getting back in the saddle to find the deer to hunt.

[swyllh]

[wonwoo] my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun

title: my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun [from sonnet 130]

pairing: wonwoo x reader 

word count: 3081

genre: fluff. just. fluff.

"leav me alone," you curse, catching a high-five from vernon. it's a good pun. you've been waiting to use it since thinking it up last sunday night when you were bitching with seungkwan. 

you: 192, wonwoo: 192. boom.

wonwoo rolls his eyes. "one measly poet doesn't diminish the value of page poetry."

you scoff, "yeah it just olib-obil- fucking- oblierated your argument on publishers being gatekeepers of page poetry."

"obliterated," wonwoo corrects scathingly. that despicable raccoon. "at least it's better than not having a gateway at all."

"no, because slam is fundamentally different," you say between gritted teeth. 

wonwoo starts packing his bag. "so it's not poetry, you admit?"

god. you raise your heads to the high heavens, and are met with the questionable, green remnants of that-incident-with-jeonghan-and-seokmin on the ceiling. the clatter of the ceiling fan offers no enlightenment. why do idiots roam freely among us, you ask. brr, brr, cries the fan. 

wonwoo: 193, you: 192.

"no!" you exclaim. 

wonwoo raises an eyebrow, shifting his bag strap on his bony shoulder. one day he'll fall onto his own shoulder and puncture his huge, inflated ego. one day. "no, it's not poetry?"

"i am not conceding," you snap back.

"so there is something to concede." 

wonwoo: 194, you: 192. 

you chase after him angrily. damn long legs. he'd have been executed in some ancient civilisation for being so freakishly tall. freaking slender man. 

"poems weren't written down at first - that's an eurocentric notion that dismisses other groups of people who didn't have written language," you pause to catch for breath. 

as you amble past jeonghan, he reaches out and ruffles your head without so much as a look in your direction; your rowdy garnish arguments are a common occurrence in the east wing now. at precisely 10:14am the sounds of heavy sarcasm and undiluted exasperation ring throughout the hallway like clockwork.

"poetry came from songs, odes," you wave your hand around to gesture other unnamed synonyms. "slam poetry represents a revolution - not just because it introduces newer concerns and techniques of rhyme and rhythm, but because it is a tribute to older times."

wonwoo holds up a hand. you shove it away. "don't interrupt me."

he quirks an eyebrow. you find you have nothing else to add. "okay, interrupt me."

"as poetic as your argument sounds," he says, slowing down as you near the corner before you part, "you do realise that nobody's consciously paying tribute to the ancient origins of poetry and hymns, right?"

you roll your eyes. "even if they don't have the intent, so what?"

"so what, indeed," wonwoo echoes softly. there's got to be menace lurking somewhere in his words. 

you puff your chest out, ready to defend slam poetry's honour to the very last. wonwoo stares at you. and then his watch. and then back at you again. 

"w-what?" you say, not stuttering. "well, if they don't have the intent then doesn't it also show like, a return to some common ground? of humanity or something."

"you mean to say that slam poetry is innate?" wonwoo deadpans. "like how newborn babies come out -"

you roll your eyes. "no! i mean the rhythm. the need to vocalise."

wonwoo crosses his arms. "interruption deduction."

wonwoo: 194, you: 191.

"hey! you interrupted me earlier!" you bite back.

"technically you had nothing left to say." and then, "what about babies born deaf or dumb?"

you hate how slimey his reasoning is. there's got to be some loophole. this guy's got the soul of a lawyer but the major of an english lit. what the heck.

you huff, squaring your shoulders. "that's because you interrupted my train of thought! and about disabled babies -"

"you need to think faster," he says quickly. "what was it about disabled babies?"

... wonwoo: 195, you: 191.

you settle for crossing your arms, leaning against the wall of the intersection. "well, i concede the point about disabled babies, but only because the nuance is controversial and cannot be covered in a fast-paced environment as such."

as you finish your sentence, the bell rings. wonwoo eyes you cautiously. the rush of students stampeding off to their next class breezes past the both of you, cocooning you in a whirl of noises and varying degrees of body odour or thickly-layered deodorant. 

wonwoo leans in, and repeats a set of numbers to you. 

"...380," you echo back. 

he nods, and turns to join the stream of migrating salmon towards their final destination. advanced calculus. what a nerd. you can't believe you actually know someone who takes that willingly in the arts stream.

"...380," you repeat, walking off to your own class.

-

"so you're telling me," kimmy says, placing a hand in front of you. 

"interruption deduction," you blurt out.

kimmy retracts her hand warily like you're a particularly grotesque descendant of some arachnid monstrosity. "you have jargons. ugh."

"kinky," chan says, tapping at his game.

kimmy shoves him out of the seat. chan winces, though his fingers never leave the screen.

"freaking hell, i almost died!"

kimmy snaps her fingers at you again. "you mean to say he gave you his number after that weird mating ritual you guys went through."

you hold up a finger. "first, yes, but only to continue the argument, and secondly, it's not a mating ritual. he's wrong about-"

"but it is weird," kimmy says. "you talk to the guy you claim to hate-"

"-he's misguided and-"

"-you claim to hate," kimmy emphasises, slamming your finger down, "every. single. lit class, and it's not even for class participation."

"that's a good idea," chan says, thumbs pummelling down on his phone. "two birds with one stone."

kimmy grabs your hands, beseeching. "please just use your head and think."

-

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_seventeen+right+here_11294

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_like+ocean+waves_11653

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_twenty+four+seven_12472

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_boom+boom_18273

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_gibun+gibun+gibun_17349

wonwoo [2024]: jesus christ.

wonwoo [2045]: alright, some of them are good.

you [2046]: see??????

wonwoo [2046]: always exceptions to the rule.

you [2046]: u g h

you [2046]: are you serious 

wonwoo [2047]: i did say some of them were good.

you [2047]:  h a 

wonwoo [2047]: i never said there weren't good ones. 

wonwoo [2047]: i just said that page poetry is generally of higher quality.

you [2048]: by what standards?

wonwoo [2048]: you haven't been able to prove the longevity of any particular slam poem.

wonwoo [2048]: wouldn't you say that's the problem?

wonwoo [2048]: its circulation isn't tied to any specific culture or reinforced thereafter. 

wonwoo [2049]: therefore: oral tradition doesn't apply here.

you [2050]: ..........

you [2050]: why longevity? why does it need to be tied to any culture? why rate slam according to the criteria of page poetry?

wonwoo [2050]: that's because you haven't set a criteria.

wonwoo [2051]: boom.

you [2051]: christ.

you [2051]: brb im going to work on history essay

you [2053]: this is n o t a cowardly retreat!!!!!!!!!!

wonwoo [2053]: you said it

you [2054]: i will be back!!!!!!!!!!

-

when you join her at lunch, kimmy gives you an odd look. you respond by pretending to change tables. she holds you down.

"where's wonwoo?" she says.

you roll your eyes. "join the club."

"no, seriously," she says, angling her head to glance behind you. "where is he?"

"how would i know?" you throw your hands up in the air, narrowly endangering your cutlery. "first vernon, then jeonghan, then professor lee, then this weird guy from whatever abstract math, then-"

kimmy pulls away. "from math?"

you fling your hands out at her, smiling widely at her scrunched up nose. "don't worry. i made sure to sanitise myself after contact."

kimmy groans. "not the point."

"then?" you wag an eyebrow. "you were spooked when he started joining our table."

"yeah," kimmy deadpans, picking up her chopsticks and pointing them at you. a dribble of soy sauce falls from it. "but since then he's been coming over every day without fail to bicker with you and so i got used to it."

you spread your arms out, appreciating the space and the rare stab of freedom and uncontested territory. "and now we are delivered from all our burdens."

kimmy pokes around at her noodles. "so you don't know where he is."

"lady!" you exclaim, jabbing your fork at her fishball. "no! i'm not a wonwoo-detector!"

she pauses, ignoring your heist. "you have his number."

"yeah?" 

kimmy gives you a meaningful look. "are you going to check if he's sick?"

"why?"

you've done it. kimmy's finally reached maximum-incredulity. for a moment you feel the urge to reach over your head to see if you've sprouted extra limbs or a third eye. with the way she's gawking at you, you think you might have regressed into a blobfish.

she presses a hand to her temples. sighs, and then steadies herself. "okay. at the very, very least, aren't you going to make sure he doesn't miss anything in class."

you think about it. "he's got other friends."

kimmy presses her fingers together like a steeple over her nose. BOI. "you are his friend."

"i wouldn't say friend," you say, shuddering at the word, even as you tug your phone out. "it's more, like-?"

you choke out a questionable, questioning sound. kimmy has a glimmer of hope in her eyes before sighing it away again. 

you [1236]: hey you sick?

wonwoo [1236]: yeah, a bit.

"yeah, he's sick," you report.

kimmy chews on her noodles. "tell him about class?"

you [1238]: so for lit today we went through freudian vs feminism, as well as why slam is better than page, and the homework is reading chapters 11-13

wonwoo [1238]: nice try.

you [1239]: you're not that sick then

wonwoo [1239]: i haven't moved an inch since freefalling onto my bed at 7 last night.

you [1240]: müde

wonwoo [1241]: is that german?

you [1241]: pun.

wonwoo [1242]: if you have to explain it it's not that good.

you [1242]: precautionary measures for a foolproof pun.

wonwoo [1243]: hey i'm sick remember

you [1243]: whats new

"it's cute and all," kimmy interrupts, drawing your attention back up to her, "to see you smile like a fool, but we got five more minutes and your food isn't gonna eat itself."

you frown, hard. "not smiling like a fool."

kimmy waves you away. "just eat."

when she rises to put away her tray, you turn back to your phone.

wonwoo [1244]: mean :(

wonwoo [1245]: ?

you [1247]: gtg class 

wonwoo [1247]: oh okay bye

you [1247]: ttyl

wonwoo [1250]: thanks, btw.

you[1251]: np

-

mingyu, from his other class, saddles you with a stack of math notes. holding them in your arms feels like an allergic reaction. you follow his haphazard instructions to get to wonwoo's room.  the security guard doesn't even blink when you walk into the building. so you do. 

the dorms are unexpectedly clean. doors are plain and apparently functional, the hallway is well lit, and noise isn't much of a concern. then again, it is a school day. 

you reach wonwoo's room. knock twice. the door opens to show a young lady with a dark red lip.

"is this wonwoo's room?"

she nods. "yeah, he's sleeping now."

you notice the way she's got on a too-large shirt. wonwoo's worn that in one of your lit classes. you hand her the stack of notes.

"these are from his math class."

she takes them. "ah, thank you! is there anything you want me to tell him when he wakes up?"

"no," you say. 

the door closes on you. you look down and see a pair of black strappy heels next to plain sneakers. 

-

wonwoo [2143]: did you come over?

you [2146]: yeah

wonwoo [2146]: thanks, for the notes.

you [2148]: np 

-

the reality of things don't sink in until you're stuck in a library cubicle, knees barely brushing against wonwoo's (that giant) and huddling over the table to doodle little devils on his side of the paper. you glance up, head almost bumping into wonwoo's, and then zip back down to jot another idea. 

come to college, they said. it would be intellectually stimulating, they said.

you can't believe you're prepping for a presentation by going through all of your arguments for and against slam poetry with him. it's all chan's fault, you think bitterly, watch as he separates argument from argument with careful underlines. suggesting to actually make this class participation.

talk about exploitation. something doesn't sit right with you.

"so when we debate," wonwoo whispers, focused and oblivious. "you'll bring up this point in rebuttal to this. see how that works?"

you hum. "yeah."

"right. then for closing-"

you crash your head into the table with an obnoxiously loud slam. wonwoo flinches in his seat. the librarian narrows her beady eyes on the both of you.

"i think we'll get an a for this," you mutter. 

wonwoo looks at you, caps his pen, and leans back in his seat. 

the debate goes well. everything happens as anticipated. you're able to uphold the integrity of academic investigation. whatever that means. wonwoo doesn't interrupt you. the nuances of your arguments are spared sufficient time before their expiration. 

(he looks bored.)

but that all goes to hell when you realise the class gets to vote. you turn on wonwoo: did you know this?

he averts his eyes. a sure sign of guilt.

something gnaws inside of you, worse than that time when you found kimmy's concoction of green onions, dr pepper and baking soda. it was an infusion alright. but the smell left you retching for days on end. 

the worst thing is, you don't know why you feel this way now.

you don't know who won. everything happened in a blur and now you're stomping out of the hallway, tugging the zip of your bag close. wonwoo catches up. you walk faster.

"well, congrats," he says.

"take your congratulations and shove it up your ass," you bite back.

wonwoo holds his hands up. "what's wrong?"

you swivel to a stop, fixing him with a shrivelling glare. "leave me alone."

wonwoo backs off. you turn the corner and run for class.

-

wonwoo [1225]: hey are you alright? wonwoo [1227]: what's wrong? wonwoo [1232]: is it something i did? wonwoo [1240]: ?? wonwoo [1255]: i'm sorry? - "you look like shit," is the first thing kimmy says to you. "is it wonwoo?"

you stab at her fishball. "no."

she rolls her eyes. "i didn't hear anything when i was walking over from the north wing, so something's up."

"nothing's up."

kimmy shakes her head, placing his chopsticks down. "when you come running to my class crying, i think something's up."

you scowl at her. she winks back. and then rearranges her face to something more sombre. 

"did you guys..." she leans in. "break up?"

you swat at her. "what?"

chan slides into the seat next to her. "i've been summoned by the allusions to love."

kimmy shoves him. "just because you play love live doesn't mean shit."

to you, she says, "look. you have his number-"

"i have your number too."

she pinches your lips together. "shut up. you walk each other to the next class faithfully without fail-"

you swat her hand away. "that's because he's being a prick-"

"you have inside jokes that nobody else gets."

"that's the point of inside jokes."

kimmy squeezes your cheeks together this time. god, those hand grips are working. "when he's gone, people ask you where he is. after that debate, you came to me crying. and the best part is you let him steal your fries."

she releases her hold on you, allowing you the chance to breathe. and then immediately choke.

kimmy, satisfied, returns to eating.

"oh my god," you say, eyes wide. "oh."

"yeah," kimmy echoes, "oh."

the realisation does you no favours. "...he's off-limits. he's got a girlfriend."

chan finally detaches from his game. the whimsical sounds of squeaky little gems fade away as

he lets his character die. "what?"

"there was a girl in his room," you say.

kimmy rounds up on chan. "you never said anything."

"i didn't know!" chan protests, "i thought-"

he falls silent. you stuff your face with fries.

-

the rest of the week is horrible. you can't help but notice how wonwoo pulls out his phone, sighs, and replaces it in his pocket before shooting you looks. it sucks, really, to be so aware and want to not be. 

before you can pack up and leave, though, wonwoo strides over with his freakishly long legs. "saturday night."

you look at the pamphlet he's offering you. slam night. 

"please come," he says, exhaling slowly. "at least - consider it."

he leaves it in your hands, and bolts out of class. 

-

you hate that you're considering it. you hate that you're already here. you hate that you're still hoping. there's no reading between the lines because everything is so blurred and reckless and there is no way out of this. so here you are, sitting at the side, going to this slam because you've gone to all the other slams anyway.

"hey, you're wonwoo's friend," a girl says.

you look up. it's the girl with the red lip. "yeah."

she smiles, sitting down gracefully next to you. "that idiot said he'd be slamming."

maybe you should have gone home. out of all you'd expected from this evening, you didn't think sitting with your crush's girlfriend is one of them.

"maybe he's trying to impress someone," she continues, winking at you. "my brother can be so thick."

before you can ask her what she means, the emcee starts to welcome everyone to the event. you sit patiently, trying not to bounce your knee when the epitome of grace is right beside you.  the first few acts pass by without much enthusiasm. you shuffle in your seat. 

and then wonwoo comes up. there's polite applause as he scans the darkened crowd. he pauses in your direction, and smiles. you turn to his sister(?). she spares you an undecipherable look. 

"hello," he says into the microphone. "i'm wonwoo, and up till recently i was sceptical towards the fine art of slam poetry."

you snort. 

he continues, "but i've been converted, maybe, to see the beauty of paying tribute to the ancient origins of poetry. i'm not a poet, but shakespeare is, and he's pretty ancient as far as i know.

"so here's sonnet 130." 

[munchyn]

Sylvie Pauline

Word count: 7052

Warning: I think there are some things that are worth giving you a warning, but I’m too lazy right now to re-read this. I do know that she is ill and that part is kinda depressing.

A.N: This is something I wrote at school and it doesn’t really have a plot but I plan on fixing that. Hopefully.

(I kinda picture Sylvie as a genderbent Percy Jackson)

The fourth of March was a fairly normal day. Apart from the fact that it was the day of the auction. People never knew which kids were chosen to leave. The guards just appeared at your house and took them. There was a rumour that they were already chosen in the big cities, but there was no proof. That’s exactly what had happened to Sylvie Pauline. She was enjoying time with her older fifteen-year-old sister, Danielle when there was a knock on the makeshift door of their little house. Her mother opened the door and the men entered the house like a stampede. They took Sylvie by the arm as she clawed to escape from their grip. She was too shocked to say anything as the men had appeared out of nowhere.

They hauled her into the back of the pickup truck along with four other kids. Sylvie looked back at her home as the truck engine roared to life. She watched as her mother and sister watched her leave.

“Hey,” said a teenage girl next to her. At that age, she wouldn’t be able to know what age the girl was but knew she was definitely older than her. “I’m Annabelle. Who are you?” Sylvie looked at her in awe. Finally, she answered by telling the girl, Annabelle her name, “Sylvie.”

Along the ride away from the massive Trash Park she lived in, Sylvie watched as they neared the gates that separated the countries largest dumpster from the outside world. She stood up in the crammed cargo of the truck and headed to the front, trying to keep her balance whenever the truck passed over some stray piece of garbage. She got up on some wooden boxes to get a better view of where they were going. She looked back at the iron gates that were covered in the dry thorny branches of blackberry bushes. The guards there would check if the people had any diseases like rabies, which you could get from a rat bite or any other sickness. They checked every month to keep them healthy in the Trash Parks and take the sick to a hospital to get treatment. Bringing them back once they recovered fully. Sylvie sat back down. She looked at the kids in front of her, she didn’t speak the whole trip to Paris. She sometimes would take a peek at the driver. He was short and bald, he also was on the chubby side. In the rearview mirror, Sylvie could see he was wearing a pair of sunglasses.

In a few hours, Sylvie could see the glow of city lights up ahead in just a twenty minutes drive. She stood up again and was fascinated as they got closer. Annabelle warned her to be careful of not falling down.

“Be careful,” she said. “You won’t want to fall down.” Sylvie looked back and flashed her a smile. ‘She seems nice.’ she thought as she turned back to the glorious Paris. She saw planes coming and going, cars driving in and out of the city. Sylvie had never seen so much action in one place. The only thing she had seen so far in her life were makeshift homes, skinny kids who played with her every day and fights between stray dogs and cats. This was a drastic change for her and the other kids. The ones of her age joined her as they oohed and wowed. Sylvie stayed silent though. When they reached the first bump the kids fell back on their butts. They quickly scrambled to get back to their seats. They sat there for the rest trip until they reached a haunted-looking building. Sylvie hoped it didn’t look like this during the day. ‘Cause then she wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

The man stepped out of the driver's seat and wobbled to the back of the truck. He unhooked the door and helped the kids get out while the teens jumped off. Once the chosen children were all out of the pickup truck of the driver who had presented himself as Mr Burman earlier. He took them to the gates of the building. He called somebody inside with a walkie he had in the pocket of his Bermuda pants. Sylvie wondered how he wasn’t freezing to death, she shivered as the breeze pierced the skin under her shirt. After a few minutes of waiting, a young lady with brown hair came to open the gates. She thanked Mr Burman and lead them through the glass doors of the building. From there she instructed the teens into different rooms than the younger children. The woman gave them each a change of clothes for them to sleep in. They got all cleaned up and got into their beds.

The next morning, Sylvie was woken by beams of sunlight directed straight to her face. She stood up and slowly followed the rest of the kids that were streaming out of the doors of the room. She got glimpses of them as they bumped into her. Most of them were so excited they dashed through the hallways to get to wherever they were going. Others went at a calm pace like what whatever was ahead of them didn’t change a thing about their life.

She ended up sitting at a plastic white picnic table between two boys about her age. There were plastic plates filled with food in front of her. They had a mix of mashed potatoes, broccoli, steak and a loaf of bread. She started to eat her potatoes, they were the best food she had ever eaten. That is comparing it to her previous meals in the Trash Park. Soon she felt someone poke her in the arm. She looked up at one of the boys next to her.    

“What’s your name?” he said in a heavy French accent. Sylvie blinked a few times before she answered.

“My name is Sylvie,” she said. “Sylvie Pauline.” The boy nodded.

“I’m Rael,” he said. “When did you come here?” Sylvie told Rael that she had arrived yesterday. Then about her former life with her family in the dumpster. How she played various games with her sister Danielle. Then about her trip to her current home. The Orphanage of Paris. In exchange, Rael told her how he had been born in the city of Paris but his parents had died when he was just a baby. His aunt hadn’t wanted him in her care so she sent him to the orphanage. In Sylvie's opinion that was even worse than her case. At least then in the dumpster, her family had loved her and taken care of her.

Already in her fourth year, Sylvie entered the dining area. She searched for her dear friend Rael. She found him next to her other friends Alexa, Marine and Sophia. All of them (like Rael) Had been born in Paris. Making Sylvie the only one to know the original French. Sylvie told them what their names meant, Sophia meaning wisdom or skill and Marine meaning from the sea. Sylvie was about to start eating her breakfast when a familiar woman entered the room. Sylvie stood up from the bench and walked to the door. She looked back at Rael, who just smiled and waved at her before she disappeared from his sight.

What Sylvie expected to be on the other side of the door certainly wasn’t the richest family in France but that was just her luck. There stood the Renée family. Smiling at her, it was weird and awkward. There were a tall man and a woman, with them were two little kids one was a boy and looked about as old as Sylvie. The other was just a mere baby. She had big blue eyes and an adorable little face. Sylvie felt like going to her and squishing her chubby little cheeks, the urge was strong but she fought it. She didn’t know these people, therefore she couldn’t touch any of them. That was what her mother used to say, “Respect others Sylvie, and they’ll respect you,” Sylvie listened to her like she would a goddess. To her, her mother spoke words filled only with wisdom. “And with mutual respect fille, no harm will come to you. That was the one she turned out to be wrong. Sylvie had respected every living thing on the face of the earth and still, she had been taken away from everything she loved. She always used many of her mother's sayings. The day she had joined in the orphanage and stayed there for four years, she did as her mother said. Never show sadness for a loss.

Sylvie always looked joyful, laughing around with her friends and being nice to everyone. Even the so-called “mean kids”. The familiar looking woman spoke. Then Sylvie remembered who she was. It was Annabelle from the truck ride, Sylvie thought she had left the orphanage when she had become old enough to fend for herself. Sure she had heard rumours that she had gotten a job at the orphanage but she never really believed them, “Sylvie, this is your new family, Mr and Mrs Renée and their children.” Annabelle kneeled down to her level and gave her a tight hug. “Goodbye Sylvie, I’ll miss you.”    

Sylvie slowly hugged back and let a tear slip down her face. Annabelle pulled away and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. The now grown woman pulled away once more and stood straight again. She allowed Sylvie and the Renée’s to have some time alone. Sylvie could see Annabelle wipe away the tears forming in her eyes. The first few months at the orphanage Sylvie would sneak out of the room she shared with fifty other children and go to the bathroom where she would always find the teen she had met on the ride.

She watched as Annabelle walked back into the dining room to give the news that she Sylvie had been adopted. She couldn’t help but imagine Rael’s face when he heard the news, and Alexa, Sophia and Marine. She knew they would be happy for her. But still upset at losing a friend. She looked back at the Renée’s. The woman stepped forward and let out a hand for Sylvie to shake.

“I’m Claudia Renée,” she said. “This is my husband Nicola Renée.” Mrs Renée gestured to the tall thin man. His face reminded Sylvie of somebody who was breathing some kind of really stinky smell. ‘Don’t let looks defy you fille,’ her mother would say. Sylvie assumed he wasn’t like this all the time. She guessed Mrs Renée had dragged the whole family here to adopt her. The idea made Sylvie giggle. The woman smiled.

“Had to beg him to come here you know,” she whispered. Sylvie smiled widely. Then she noticed the boy staring at her. She stared right back. He had stormy grey eyes like his mother and black hair like his father. The baby in her mother’s arms reached out to Sylvie. Mr Renée smiled at the baby and then back at Sylvie. “This little girl here is Marie.”

The girl smiled a toothless grin. Sylvie smiled back for what felt like the thousandth time. The woman then led them all back to the parking lot outside, that Sylvie never knew existed. The family had a big black van. With seats for three and for five at the back. Sylvie sat next to the boy. Marie sat in her booster in front of her. It was a long ride of uncomfortable silence until Sylvie finally asked, “So-” she looked at him carefully. “-What’s your name?”

“Jen,” he said. Sylvie nodded. “How long have you been in the orphanage?”

Sylvie thought for a moment before answering. “Some four years. By the way, how old are you?” Sylvie asked Jen.       

“Eleven,” he answered. Jen didn’t sound excited, but that didn’t affect Sylvie.

“Me too!” the girl said it like she had just drunk a dozen cups of coffee. “My birthday’s on the fifth of May. Yours?”

“The sixth of February,” said Jen. The two continued talking until the car stopped. Sylvie looked out the window and saw a white marvel mansion with huge oak doors. Her jaw dropped in awe. She sat gaping there until Jen tapped her shoulder, signalling her to get off. She closed her mouth and hopped out of the van. She walked next to Jen, when they got to the huge doors Sylvie wondered how they could open them. The doors looked extremely heavy. Mr Renée typed in a code into a small screen on the wall. Immediately,  the doors swung open.

Sylvie guessed she looked confused because Jen explained to her that they were the only family in France that could manage to afford a mansion with tech as advanced as they had. Sylvie simply nodded at everything he said, she was too stunned to even talk.

On the inside of the manor, there were two staircases, each crossing the other halfway up. The floor was made out of a red carpet floor, the same could be said for the staircases. Sylvie had to resist the urge to run up and down the steps.  She looked back at Jen as if asking if she could go, Jen just shrugged. He just looked at his mother. The woman saw the look on Sylvie's face and just smiled.

“Common Sylvie,” she said. “I’ll show you your room.” they both went up the stairs and then turned a right before reaching a black door. Mr Renée unlocked the door with a silver key. She hears a few clicks and The blonde woman pushed the door and it opened with a creak. She frowned then said, “We really need to fix this door.”

Sylvie looked inside the room. It seemed fairly normal, there was a bed with black sheets, a desk, and a closet. Sylvie didn’t suspect anything about it, apart from the fact that it seemed pretty dark with all the black. Once she could, she’d ask her new family for a more colourful touch. “I’m sorry for the gloomy look,” said the woman. “No one’s used this room in a long time. My brother,-” she paused at the word. “-He was a pretty dark person. When he moved out he was never seen again.”

She shook her head and the smile from earlier returned to her face. “We’ll change it to your liking as soon as we can.” she began to walk out of the dark room. “I’ll give you a moment to settle in.” and with those words, she was out in the hall.

Sylvie jumped onto the bed. The pillow was soft and squishy, and she was certain she didn’t want to replace it. She decided to go to sleep since she had nothing to do and she was tired. I know, weird. She just had breakfast and she’s already tired. The night/day went fast, Sylvie had no dreams, and without her knowing Jen and his mother had come to check on her around the afternoon. They had started to get worried since she hadn’t come out in the whole day. Mrs Renée smiled at the sight of it. Sylvie's black hair spread all over the pillow and drool coming out from the corner of her mouth, she thought it was just adorable. They left her to rest until the next morning.

Sylvie woke to the cry of a little baby. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, yawning. She headed to the door and pulled it open. What she saw made her have to suppress a laugh. Mrs Renée was holding little crying Marie while speaking on the phone, holding it between her cheek and shoulder. She also held a backpack in her hand. A sleepy Mr Renée walked out of the room, his raven black hair was sticking out everywhere and he had dark bags under his eyes. He had a mug in his hand that read ‘Meilleur papa au monde’ (Best dad in the world). That was what made her burst out laughing. The couple didn’t notice her. Mrs Renée handed the baby to the father, who put the mug down and rubbed his face with his hand as he took the baby.

Mrs Renée finally got Jen to get the backpack and gave him some toast. She rushed him out of the manor and then told Sylvie to get in too. They all buckled up and left the other two alone in the mansion. As they went on their way to the school Mrs Renée spoke up, “So Sylvie, I asked the head of school if you could join in with Jen at school and he said that if you have a high enough level you could.-” she pushed the breaks as they reached a red light. “-So today I’m taking you to take a quiz of sorts.” Sylvie nodded and the woman smiled at her through the rearview mirror.

After a while of driving Mrs Renée parked the van. Jen opened the sliding door of the vehicle and hopped off, Sylvie followed. Jen immediately ran to catch up with his friends.

Mrs Renée signalled for Sylvie to follow her, Sylvie did just that. She followed the blonde woman through halls of classes, at some point she saw Jen working with a curly red headed girl on a science project. Jen saw her and waved, Sylvie waved back.

She followed Mrs Renée into a room with a man sitting at a desk. The man had wispy white hair and glasses that slid down his small nose every few minutes. Mrs Renée knocked on the open door and the man looked up. He smiled once he saw who it was at the door.

“Ah, Mrs Renée,” he said and then looked at Sylvie. “And this must be Sylvie.” Mrs Renée nodded. She had a serious face instead of her usual smile so Sylvie just assumed the two didn’t have a good history. “Here to take the quiz?”

Sylvie nodded looking into the man's glassy blue eyes, Sylvie thought they made him look like a ghost. The man smiled, but unlike Mrs Renée’s his was cold and didn’t seem to have a lot of joy put into it. Sylvie didn’t want to see it again. He pulled out a few papers from a drawer and handed them to Sylvie, “If you could just answer all these questions and then give the papers back to me. Then I’ll have a little word with...your mother.”

Sylvie was surprised at the thought of Mrs Renée being her mother. She looked at the woman and saw that her face was a bright red. What Sylvie didn’t know was if that red was out of anger or embarrassment. Was it really that embarrassing to have her as a child? Sylvie shook it off. Mrs Renée leads her to a small table and gave her a pencil to write with. Sylvie wrote her name at the top of the page. She had memorised the moment of it since she had a problem with reading as if the letters would float in the air around her. She had been taken to the doctor at the orphanage. But even they didn’t know what it was. It was probably another one of those things that had affected the new generation of people in France to the bombs dropped, but those symptoms were extremely rare.

She looked at all the math problems but made nothing of them. She looked back at Mrs Renée. “I can’t read it,” she said bowing her head in shame. She looked up at the woman and saw the shock on her face.

“What do you mean you can’t read it Sylvie?” the woman said in a kind voice. “Didn’t they teach you at the orphanage?” Sylvie nodded.

“Yes, but the letters float around when I try to read,” Sylvie started to cry as she explained. Mrs Renée hugged her tightly as she shook in her arms. “They took me to the doctor at the orphanage but he didn’t know what it was. They thought it might be one of those things that happen to the people of the new generation, but…”

Mrs Renée shushed her and stroked her black hair as tears poured out of the girls sea green eyes. She put her hands on Sylvie's shoulders and told her, “Don’t worry Sylvie, we’ll tell Mr Bruno about it and see what he says.” They stood up and walked back to the man at the desk, which Sylvie assumed was Mr Bruno.

Mrs Renée stopped in front of him almost leaning onto the table. She cleared her voice to get the man's attention, “Excuse me Mr Bruno,” she started. “Um-” she looked down at Sylvie, who had tear stains on her cheeks and was looking down at her feet in embarrassment. Mrs Renée looked back at the principal. “Sylvie, she um...she can’t read the problems on the paper.”

Mr Bruno’s head snapped up, “She doesn’t know how to read?” The woman looked down at Sylvie, who still had her head bowed.

“Not exactly,” she said. “She says that the letters float around in the air when she tries to read.” Mr Bruno knitted his bushy eyebrows in thought. He hummed and nodded.

“I see,” he finally said. “What Sylvie has is a simple case of dyslexia.” Sylvie looked up for the first time in the whole conversation.

“Is it one of those things that happened to the people affected by the bombs?” she asked.

“No, no,” said the ghost man, as Sylvie had decided to call him a minute ago. “This was here centuries ago. In fact, there is a book from the two thousand were most of the characters were dyslexic, but never mind.” Mr Bruno pushed up his glasses as they were sliding down. “I’m afraid we can’t have Sylvie join us due to this...dyslexia. But I know other schools that will gladly accept her.” The man smiled.

Mrs Renée smiled, but Sylvie noticed it was fake. “Thank you Mr Bruno.” She held Sylvie's hand as they walked out of the room. They walked back through the same corridors and past the same rooms and saw Jen working on a math problem with one of his friends. They passed the same glass doors as before, and took the same path through the parking lot and got into the same black van as before.

They drove back to the mansion. Mrs Renée typed in the code and they headed into the families home. Mrs Renée looked like an angry bull you didn’t want to get on the bad end of. She kept rambling on about how they wouldn’t let Sylvie into the school. Then a now fully awake Mr Renée came into the entrance room (although it was the size of a ballroom).

“Hello mon amour,” he said with a smile on his face. But when he saw his wife his face quickly changed into a frown. “What happened?” Mrs Renée just kept on rambling and he understood what had happened. His expression lost all its happiness, “Oh.”

“Yeah, and we don’t have the time to pick them up at different schools! I mean, I don’t blame you Sylvie for your dyslexia but couldn’t the school at least give her a separate mentor? I’m sure the only problem here is that she’s not able to read and that she could understand the problems perfectly if the just read them out loud for her!”

“Breathe mon amour, breath,” Mrs Renée did as her husband said and breathed in deep breaths. This seemed to calm her. “Tomorrow we’ll figure it out. I’m sure there’s an easy solution to this.”

The rest of the day Sylvie stayed with little Marie. Occasionally she would call the infant petit soeur. Once she did when either of the couples was in the room. Really bad idea, they would get very excited and Sylvie hated the attention. Her face would also be as red as a tomato. She tried to ignore them as they cooed at her and the baby.

By around four p.m Jen was back at the home. Jen was glad to have him back. It was kinda boring in the house being the only eleven years old. Then Sylvie had an idea, she looked all around the house searching for her new mother. When she finally did she proposed her idea, “Um, mom?” she hesitated. It felt awkward to use that word with the blonde woman. “Mom?” she said again. This time the woman turned around to face Sylvie. She was covered in grease from fixing the bike of her husband. Her eyes widened when her brain connected the dots to the fact that Sylvie had called her mom. She shook her head and stared at Sylvie.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Well,” started the girl. “I’d like to propose an idea. When Jen comes back from his school he could teach me what he learned that day by showing me his homework, and while he’s at school I could stay at home doing chores with one of you,” she said. “If you don’t have work to do of course,” she added quickly, lifting her hands in front of her.

“I love the idea, Sylvie,” said Mrs Renée. “I’ll go tell dad about it once I finish fixing his bike okay.” Sylvie nodded and walked out of the garage. Once she had closed the door she heard the voice of Mrs Renée screaming out to her husband, “She called my mom, oh I’m so happy.” Sylvie rolled her eyes. She was going to enjoy her time with this family.

So the years passed and Sylvie would basically live in the house. Taking care of the dog Marie had insisted they get. It was a breed of Labrador and dalmatian. It was adorable. It had bicolour eyes and black and white fur. She was also there to comfort Marie at Dobby’s (the dog’s) funeral when he died of a car crash. She was there at the parties at Jens schools. All his friends complimenting her on how good she looked. She went along great with all of them. She was also there at two of his graduations. She was another member of the family. She helped Mr Renée with chores around the house. But her favourite days were when Mrs Renée had to stay late at work and she’d sit in the couch, curled up in a blanket burrito with Mr. Renée and Jen would come back home from school with Marie to join them there and watch from horror all the way to kids movies until they all fell asleep together. Then Mrs Renée finding them there at three in the morning and turning off the TV as the credits rolled and also joining the rest of her family.

Soon the time came when Sylvie had to leave and start her own new life. They gave her an apartment to start with and a phone to contact them. But of course there were taxes and so she was kicked out of her home. She didn’t have a job or anything that would help her win money. The first week on the streets was terrible. She didn’t have any idea of how to get food. She remembered something about putting aluminium foil on the inside of a backpack, and that if you put anything inside no one would notice you stole it. Of course, unless they count the stuff every day. Sylvie put aluminium foil into the pockets of her hoodie, pants and into her backpack. She got herself food this way and fresh clozes, she also got shampoo and body soap, books, notebooks, pencils, colouring supplies, a laptop, a charger and many other things. At some point, she decided she’d start stealing from other people's wallets. With that money she decided to spend time at cafes with her laptop, drinking hot cocoa and charging her devices. She wrote stories of her own in the notebooks (which was extremely hard due to her dyslexia), she did it all for fun. At the cafes, she met plenty of people. She met Elizabeth, who let her use the shower at her house.

“Hello, may I sit here with you?” asked a woman who couldn’t be older than Sylvie. “Every other place is full.”

“No not at all,” said Sylvie. She put away most of the notebooks that littered the table to make space for the nice looking woman. They sat there in silence for a while. Until the woman asked Sylvie, “So, where do you live?”

Sylvie looked up at her, “Huh?” The woman repeated her question. “Oh, I live on the outsides of Paris. The plumbing there is terrible.” It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the complete truth either. Sylvie lived in an abandoned mall in the outskirts of Paris. There weren’t any showers or anything so that’s why she was filthy. Her blue hoodie had spots of dirt and mud and rain all mashed all up into one piece of clothing. It was the hoodie the Renée’s had given her when she left. She loved it and just didn’t find herself able to get rid of it.

The woman's big brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight coming in through the windows. The same expression in them as Mrs Renée when she would do anything for Sylvie to feel welcome. Sylvie liked the woman in front of her, she looked like she would be a great friend and she hadn’t had one of those in a while.  “I’m Elizabeth,” she said as she put out a hand.

“Sylvie,” she shook Elizabeth's hand.

“If you want you could come to take a shower at my house every once in a while,” she said, “Rub off all the dirt you have on you.” Sylvie smiled and thanked her.

“By the way, have you seen my pencil?” she asked Elizabeth. “I swore I had on this table.” together they looked for Sylvie’s pencil as they got to know each other. By the time Elizabeth spotted the black and yellow writing utensil in Sylvie’s messy bun, she already knew about Sylvie’s dyslexia and extreme allergy to peanuts.

Sylvie was on her way to Elizabeth’s house on a stormy night. When she was about halfway there a chameleon had dropped onto her head, she swatted it away. And though silently to herself ‘Where did that come from’, but that’s not the point She wore a Coca Cola hoodie and a pair of jeans. Her Adidas shoes were soaking wet and so was the backpack she so desperately had tried to shield from the rain (it had her laptop in it). She felt someone collide with her shoulder, sending her tumbling down into a puddle on the ground. Her butt was soaking wet now and so was all she was wearing. She looked up at the man who had sent her down into the world of soaking wet and cold clothes.

The man had shaggy black hair and pale olive skin. Sylvie was about to yell at him some censored stuff until she recognized the man. She had seen him in pictures around the mansion. “You’re- you’re Markus Adeleile,” Sylvie stuttered in shock. The man’s eyes widened in shock.

“How did you-” he started to wonder but was cut off by Sylvie.

“I lived with your sister, she and her husband adopted me a few years back.” Sylvie stopped for a moment. “That would make you my uncle. Would you like to come with me? I know you’ve been living on the streets. I’ve seen you before in shops, stealing stuff, like me. I’m going to a friends house to take a shower. If you want you could take one too, I’m sure she would be more than happy to help more than one homeless person.” Markus nodded and followed a shivering Sylvie to her friend's house.

Sylvie knocked on the door and Elizabeth immediately opened. She let them both in, gave Markus a towel and showed him where the shower was. She also gave him some extra clothes from her boyfriend’s closet. Sylvie talked with Elizabeth about the man.

“So how do you know him?” asked Elizabeth.

“He’s my uncle,” replied Sylvie. Elizabeth looked shocked. “Well, his sister adopted me when I was eleven. Since then they’ve been my family.”

“Okay,” said her shocked friend. “But how did you meet him?”

“When I was on my way here, he bumped into me and sent me into a puddle on the floor. I asked him if he wanted to take a shower at your house and he’s homeless. Like me.” Sylvie only muttered the last part, but it was enough for Elizabeth to hear.

“Wait, Sylvie, you’re homeless?” Sylvie nodded as she looked down at the floor in embarrassment, holding the warm cup of hot cocoa close to her chest. She muttered an “I’m sorry.” and Elizabeth looked at her incredulously. “Sylvie! I could’ve given you a room in my house. I could’ve helped you find a job, a hobby and even a partner to share your life with!” Sylvie looked up at her dearest friend and smiled at her.

“Thank you Elizabeth but I’m fine,” right then Markus went in wearing a Tommy Bahama and some shorts. Sylvie snorted, cocoa shooting out of her nostrils. She rapidly fanned her face as Elizabeth stifled in a laugh. “Lizzie, it’s not funny!”

For the next months, Markus and Sylvie lived with Elizabeth and her boyfriend. They both had a pretty big house, so it didn’t necessarily bother them. But Sylvie had a secret she wouldn’t tell anyone, every time she tried to eat, everything just went back up again. She didn’t know what it was but it worried her and that’s precisely why she didn’t want to tell anyone. She didn’t want Elizabeth, or her boyfriend or Markus to worry about her. It wasn’t necessary. In the past month, she had lost a considerable amount of weight and she could see her ribs under her skin.

She had tried to go to the doctor, but something always came up. First the job interview, then Elizabeth coming everywhere with her. She just never found the time. Then they also had to find Markus a job too, it was just impossible. As the months passed Sylvie got worse and worse. Her birthday was also coming up. This was just like a terrible birthday present. Sylvie didn’t even know how she lasted this long. She was sure she was going to be dead by the fifth of May anyway. Her dream at that time was just to live long enough to have one more birthday party.

Speaking of parties. It was just her luck that today was a party and Sylvie had to go. Elizabeth had invited a buttload of people and there was food everywhere. Everybody gave her something to try but kept it all on her on her plate, not bothering to even bring it up to her lips, but dinner time (unfortunately) eventually had to come. Everyone sat at the table. Sylvie’s plate was still full, she didn’t want to be rude so she put a forkful of food into her mouth. She swallowed. She gagged at first but slowly tried again as the food went down her oesophagus. She could feel her stomach fighting back against the food.

She put on a fake smile as her face became a sickening green. Elizabeth asked if she was okay and Sylvie nodded. Elizabeth focused back on chatting with one of her colleagues from work. Sylvie got dizzy and lost the will to fight against her stomach. She threw up on the floor, falling out of her chair. Elizabeth rushed to her friend's side. Holding her in her arms as she seemed to be freezing from the way she shook. Elizabeth touched her friend's forehead and quickly pulled away at the freezing touch. Sylvie started to pass out as Elizabeth yelled at someone to call an ambulance. Then after that, all she saw was darkness.

Sylvie woke up in a hospital bed. She opened her eyes fully and saw a girl in the chair next to her bed. Beside her was a familiar looking man. “Hello, Sylvie.” She jumped at the sudden voice. The memories flooded her mind. The party, the food, passing out.

“How long was I out?” she asked. Elizabeth looked her friend straight in the eyes.

“A month,” she said. Sylvie sat back in thought. She l heard a groan from her right and there she saw...Mr. Renée? No. He had grey eyes.

“Jen…?” she looked at her adoptive brother. She smiled and jumped into his arms. Waking up the teenager sitting next to him. The girl had choppy black hair and big turquoise eyes. “Marie!” yelled Sylvie, pulling her sister into the hug.

“Want to go home?” asked Jen. Sylvie nodded like a chiwawa and got off of her siblings.

After Jen had a small word with a nurse at the counter, and then they were gone. They drove to the Renée mansion. Sylvie sat next to Jen in the passenger seat. They didn’t speak much, it felt awkward. But what had Sylvie wondering, was the constant smile on both of the two Renée siblings. She slowly smiled as she saw the white marvel mansion appear as they turned the corner. One moment it had been tall buildings (that weren’t there when Sylvie was younger by the way) and then it was a wide field with a white manor next to the forest.

Jen drove through the dirt path and parked in front of the oak doors. The three got out of the car as Elizabeth pulled up behind them. She and her boyfriend got out of their black SUV. Sylvie suddenly felt two hands over her eyes and felt someone guiding her to the doors. She smirked at the sound of shuffling feet. The person lifted the hands from her face and at first, all Sylvie could see darkness. Then a blinding light (ok, I exaggerated).

People jumped out from behind pots with plants, tables, chairs and from under the stairs yelling, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SYLVIE!”

There was a blue banner with the words “Happy B-Day Sylvie!” written in red. Her hands shot up to her mouth in shock and joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she jumped up and down. Everyone was there Mr and Mrs Renée, Markus, Jen, Marie, Elizabeth and somehow they had managed to get Rael and all of Sylvie's friends from the orphanage there. “Who put this all together?” she asked looking around at everybody. They all pointed at Jen. Sylvie ran up to him and gave him a koala hug. She got off and saw that his face was all red. She smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Jen.”She then went to her parents as they wrapped her in a huge hug.

The rest of her life  Sylvie lived with her family in the mansion. Markus lived there as well. Sylvie didn’t have eating problems any more after a bit of treatment. She gave advice to Marie and she would plan pranks with her on her husband Jen (It’s not weird because they’re adoptive siblings). He didn’t enjoy them, and with Sylvie’s years of thievery experience, it made it all the worse. Sometimes she would ask him if he had his wallet, and he confidently answered with a yes.

“You sure?” she would ask. Jen rolled his eyes and answered with another yes. But then he would look in his jean pockets as Sylvie showed his wallet in her hand.

They had twin brothers together and a daughter. Quinn, Harvey and Danielle, after Sylvie's blood sister. The two twins were both boy versions of a younger Sylvie and Danielle had the curly blonde hair from her grandmother along with the grey eyes of her father. Sylvie was also there to help her children out with their homework.

We were all riding in the van of my mother's childhood. She had begged dad to go to an abandoned mall, she literally stood on her knees with her hands clamped together as she begged him to go. The sight was pretty funny. Dad parked the van and helped me, Quinn and Harvey, out of the back. Mom ran through the mall looking for someplace. I don’t know what so don’t ask me. Finally, she stopped in front of a bookstore. Well, an abandoned one anyways. I wondered why she wanted to be here since she’s dyslexic. My mom is weird, you’ll learn that about her soon enough.

She came out with three huge backpacks. They were all packed with stuff. She said we were ready to go. After that, I discovered that what she had in the bags were books and notebooks filled with stuff she had written in them. That is how my mom soon became a famous author and I followed in her footsteps.

These days I write books for a living and share an apartment with my adoptive sister (and wife) Adelaila. We both own a dog called Claudia (after my grandmother) and a cat called Percy. Adelaila made me name it that. She helped me write the story of our mother, getting the information out of the old (yet beautiful) dyslexic woman. Mother doesn’t remember the name of the president very well but she can tell you her story with such detail that you feel everything that she felt. Her guidance has helped me and my sister out through this book.

All the way from reading her books and asking her in person. I hope you enjoyed this story. It was hard due to me and Adelaila’s daughter kept erasing it over and over. The story of my mother keeps inspiring me to this day and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Until my next story my readers.

Sincerely,

Your Author Danielle.

^this is how I picture Jen and Sylvie having fun when they become bf and gf (before they got married  basicaly).

[dorkcresswxll]

i went...... hard y’all this is so extra and embarrassing but i spent like,, over an hour writing this down so ur all gonna see it u better.

Why did you choose to play the character that you do at Crimson Revolt?

im gonna be honest like………………………………. i picked dirk bc i wanted to play ezra miller lmao. I KNOW HOW SHALLOW THAT IS DONT LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OKAY I CAN EXPLAIN!!!!!!!! alright so before i apped for crt the first time i was at…… a pretty low place confidence-wise bc i’d just left the first rpg i ever joined (also the first rp thing i ever did) and it was a pretty,,,, messy departure lmaoo i gotta admit i could’ve handled that better orz. BUT ANYWAY so i went looking through the ezra miller fc tag bc i’d just discovered this fabulous person and had vague ideas about a character that could fit the fc (dramatic, cheeky, a lil flamboyant) and was also thinking “i will never fall in love with a character the way i did my previous ones again” and more dramatic bullshit along those line bc like i said,,, bad time. obviously i didn’t find any active rpgs that had him in use so i checked crt bc i’d seen it around before and liked the look of it, so i sent the main an ask like “do you see ezra miller working for any of your open characters?” the admin at the time pointed me to barty crouch, peter pettigrew and dirk cresswell.

i just want to take a moment to digest that i could literally have played any of these three, cause all i had at the time was a vague idea of a character and a fc to match. i remember i spent days trying to decide between barty and dirk cause neither skeleton fit my vision perfectly and they both seemed aimed more towards an angry jock-type character (especially dirk his fc was miles teller which…. should give u a good idea of what the admin at the time had in mind for him) ( i mean the first skeleton. the one on the main now is one i rewrote after the main crashed back in june.) (just to clarify: the original skeleton had just as much potential to evolve to a complex and intriguing character as any other skeleton here at crt. i just had my vaguely dramatic ezra miller bby and i wanted it. lmao.) but i liked challenging set characterizations and bringing unique perspectives to contrast against any expectations the admin/s might have about a character. which is why i tend to go for skeleton rps, you get more freedom with those. eventually i decided on dirk bc i liked the sound of aversio and grey moralities appeal to me greatly. i spent a long time delving into the character’s backstory and personality and all those deep-seated insecurities and compelling contradictions that make dirk up to be the person he is now. by the time i submitted the app i was thoroughly in love with the character and haven’t stopped since. he’s my most developed and my most beloved character to play thus far.

Do you have a favorite holiday?

NOPE. as long as im surrounded by people i love and a lot of snacks im good.

Do you prefer coffee or tea? Perhaps neither, or both?

coffee. coffee coffee coffee.

What is your personality type?

INFP-T. the mediator. 86% introverted lmaooo.

What is your Hogwarts House?

ahhh. when i first read the books a few years ago i was like ‘iM A SLYTHERIN DONT TOUCH ME!!!!!’ but i…………literally have the subtlety of a bulldozing stampede of rhinos im sure y’all noticed. i took the pottermore test and had the glaring red n gold show up on my face and i shut the laptop down so fast like liES I BELIEVE NONE OF THIS. then i took a fan-made test that put me in ravenclaw and i was like…………….. ok i accept this compromise i can work with that. lmao im such a gryffindor tho don’t look at me im just *flops* pottermore was right….. i accept my place now i have stopped running from the truth orz.

What is your Zodiac Sign?

Taurus.

Three most recently watched on Netflix?

SURPRISE! i don’t have netflix. most recent stuff i watched tho are Stranger Things 2, IT (2017) and…. i can’t remember orz. but im obsessed with stranger things taLK TO ME ABOUT STEVE HARRINGTON PLS I LOVE HIM SO MUCH *SOBS*

Describe your ride-or-die friend.

don’t call me out like this…………………………………. i don’t make friends in real life people are difficult and i am awkward orz.

If you could have any superpower, what would you choose?

the ability to focus whenever i want at whatever i want for however long i want and actually manage to be productive with my time. what do u mean this is not a superpower i need it to be one.

Are you an early bird or a night owl?

i have no sleep schedule to speak of. sometimes i sleep at five am and wake up at eight am to get to my classes, then have a six hour nap when i get home and stay up until four am again. sometimes i go to bed on eight pm and wake up at four in the morning and still sleep through my classes, take a small four hour nap when im home and spend obligatory time with the fam for a couple hours lmao. it’s like im just sleeping or waking up either way im always a step removed from a zombie. there is. no reason for any of this i just do it.

What is your favorite color?

YELLOW. it’s so bright and sunny and iouwodc. i love it.

What is the last book you read? What is your favorite?

ahhhh i can’t remember my memory is failing me. which is sad cause i used to pick up a new novel every other day but i just can’t be bothered anymore ugh. i think my favorite was the whole PJO & HoO series’ – i haven’t read the last book yet tho, so i’ll start rereading all ten books when i get the chance.

Where would you rather be right now?

on a bed. sleeping. alone. with a lot of blankets. solitude appeals to me on such a deep level guys u don’t even know.

Have you ever watched the sunrise?

the ones i remember are three – once when i was a kid with my mom, bc i wouldn’t go to sleep and it was approaching sunrise and i rambled about wanting to see the sun come up so my mom was like………………… ‘*throws hands up* ok u lil monster u win’ and took me to the roof to watch the sunrise lol. it was glorious. and cold. bc winter. the second time was with my cousins who were sleeping over (for the first time in a loooong tiiiimmmeeee) and we decided to spend the night up on the roof bc why not. the last time was with my brother i think he was up there fixing something or the other and i was just there….. to be annoying lmao.

Do you listen to music when you write? If yes, what kind of music?

oh no i can’t. i need everything and everyone to be quiet or i can’t write a thing.

What’s the one thing you especially love about roleplaying your muse/s?

what do i love about playing dirk…… his impulsive and his bright attitude and his endless optimism. he has such an uplifting presence and a cheeky sort of charm that makes it impossible for people not to love him, that makes his worming into other people’s hearts so entirely predictable and entertaining to play out. he is a myriad of contradictions – the difference between what he thinks everyone deserves and what he thinks he deserves is appalling, and with time it becomes clear that when he says things like “everyone needs someone to lean on” or “everyone could use some support” he is not referring to himself as a part of this ‘everyone’, if even on a subconscious level, does not find himself worthy of such kindness. he is a character so full of love he is spilling and overflowing with it, his raw emotions and his turbulent nature one of the dearest parts of him to me. the thin line he walks between being kind and violent, loyal and unforgiving, genuine and secretive. all the little details that make him up are reason for me to love him as dearly as i do.

What’s your favorite type of weather?

cold, but not too cold, y’know? just enough to wear a jacket but not so much you spend the night under five covers and a thermometer lmaoo.

What’s your best RP experience?

crt. no contest. and im not just saying that cause i’ve been in a bunch of rpgs by now and they all either a) lack dedicated admins/members b) are cliquey and non-inclusive at all or b) fall into inactivity a meager month or two after opening. crt is one of a kind.

Who inspires you?

this is actually a tough question cause i never really stop to think about it?? i draw inspiration from everything around me and it’s kinda like…. im constantly absorbing stuff from the environment im in and it’s like i’m always half-thinking about writing at any given moment, if that makes sense?? dunno.

Spread some love: mention someone you’ve met that has influenced you or your writing in a positive way and explain how!

ahhh okay so. before i tried roleplaying i stumbled upon this rpg in the fandom tag over a year ago and it’s basically been the catalyst for my time in the rpc. i was looking through the character’s blogs and found someone playing peter and i was like……….. not fond of peter at the time tbh but this person’s writing was so fucking incredible i checked their blog daily, just to see how this thread or that thread would go. their take on a character i’d only held distaste for before was so compelling and complex i was drawn in all the way, i’d even come to love the character so much and was constantly disarmed by the smallest to the biggest details in that person’s characterization – at least the details i could pick up on, some i’m sure went way over my head at the time. some details i still remember vividly and they’ve helped me shape my first character and have influenced my writing thereafter. i learned a lot about the duality of a character’s mind and how to express inner conflict by observing that person’s writing. (yes i sent them a nerdy af message gushing about all that bc they hadda know man…. they hadda know.)

[themurphyzone]

Secret Santa Ch 6

Sorry about the wait! I went home for Thanksgiving and we just got the Internet back!

So yeah tons of cuteness in the last chapter. Headcanon that Bradley is totally a cat lover! Also Pepper’s original name was Ashley but then I thought Bradley already had a name that ends with -ley and it looked too similar. Besides, salt and pepper go together!

Ch 6- Bradley

“You’re picky, aren’t you?” Bradley asked. Pepper mewed and turned her nose up at the white cat bed Bradley pointed out. “Do you want a darker color?”

Pepper batted at the air in front of her.

“This one’s too big,” Bradley said, kneeling to look at the items on the bottom row. “And this one’s expensive.”

He set Pepper down so he could look at the price tag of a brown, circular bed. The fleece was soft and fluffy, and had room to spare as Pepper grew up.

“What about this one?” he asked, his heart sinking when he realized Pepper hadn’t answered like she normally did. “Pepper?”

It hadn’t been a week and he’d already lost track of his kitten. She couldn’t possibly get into trouble. No, there was no way she could waltz out the door and get chased by stray dogs or hit by a car or be buried in a landslide-

Bradley inhaled deeply, though it didn’t help calm his heart at all. He walked through the aisle twice, but there was no sign of a dark gray kitten anywhere.

“Bradley!” An all-too familiar voice shouted. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

The last thing he needed with this disaster of epic proportions was the epitome of catastrophe himself.

“Milo,” Bradley said flatly. “Go away. Weekends are my breaks.”

“Well, I can’t leave Diogee behind!” Milo cheerfully waved to Diogee, who was behind a large enclosure with a group of five other dogs. Diogee barked at the acknowledgement. “Also, Melissa’s the assistant teacher!”

“Assistant teacher for what?” Bradley asked.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Milo asked. “Diogee teaches ACL. American Canine Language for short. This pet store lets them use the space on Saturdays at noon. It’s really nice of them to do that.”

Melissa put a fluffy Pomeranian down, opening the door a crack so she could join the conversation but not let the dogs out. “Between you and me, I have no idea what they’re saying. I’m just here to pet some pooches,” she whispered to Bradley.

Bradley pulled away, quickly turning his back on Milo so he didn’t see his cheeks heat up. Of course he’d been thinking about Melissa’s gift, but he only thought about it during school since Pepper wasn’t distracting him. Not that all distractions were bad of course. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go find Pepper.”

“Did you lose her?” Milo asked. “I can help you look. It’s no trouble. Maybe I can get Diogee to sniff her out for you.”

“Yes, I lost her,” Bradley snapped. “And keep your mutt away.”

No amount of telling Milo to keep out of his business was working, so Bradley had no choice but to let Milo follow behind him. In that timespan, three shopping carts overturned and a large bag of dog food split open, the entire back half of the store now filled with the sounds of crunching kibble and barking dogs.

They checked the bird aisle, the toy section, the aquarium decorations, and the grooming services, but they still couldn’t spot Pepper anywhere.

“It’s hopeless,” Bradley muttered. “We’ll never find her.”

“Don’t give up!” Milo said. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Bradley scoffed, folding his arms. “And how do you know?”

“Because she’s right next to your head,” Milo replied. “Hi, Pepper! You had us all worried!”

Bradley whipped around, but before he could scoop Pepper up, she turned tail and settled into a black cat bed, curling in on herself and yawning.

“I can’t believe she was napping the entire time,” Bradley said, taking the cat bed off the shelf. “I’m not hanging around longer than I need to. I only came in here to buy her bed.”

Milo nodded. “See you on Monday then! Bye, Pepper!”

“Keep your voice down! She’s asleep!”

Pepper adjusted to his house quickly, so he was able to focus his attention on his gift to Melissa.

She was intelligent, but often forgetful. Bradley had seen her weak throwing arm, so sports equipment was ruled out.

Safety equipment? She was almost always in the splatter zone.

But Melissa never hesitated in telling people off when she thought they were being too paranoid around Milo. In Bradley’s opinion, there was little paranoia in fearing for his life when ‘anything that can go wrong’ did not exclude dying.

He liked to think he had good self-preservation instincts, a skill which many kids at Jefferson County Middle School sorely lacked.

Maybe a second opinion wouldn’t hurt. Girls were complicated after all.

Bradley deliberately hung back while the other kids crossed the street to get to the bus stop. Since there were currently only four functioning buses due to circus elephants stampeding through the parking lot at the main district office, the buses wouldn’t come around for another fifteen minutes.

That was plenty of time to chat.

“Elliot, I have a question for you,” Bradley said.

Elliot was still shaking his fist at Milo. “And if I even see you trying to cover your arm with any bracelet that’s on my prohibited list, you’ll be sorry!”

Bradley rolled his eyes. “Do I want to know why you have a prohibited list for bracelets?”

“Not just for bracelets. Also includes any other pieces of jewelry that can potentially get caught on water heaters, streetlamps, or luggage carts,” Elliot replied. “Always good to help educate a student on safety protocol.”

“No, that was a question formulated out of disbelief,” Bradley sighed. “Say, hypothetically, there was a pretty girl at school and a Secret Santa exchange is coming up in less than a month. What would you get her?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Elliot said. “Matching safety vests! That way you can walk home at night and the color is bright enough so people can see you! Except make sure the girl in question isn’t also a regionally acclaimed skateboarder. Wendy didn’t like it that much when I gave tickets to all the other skateboarders at the state competition for violating basic safety principles. It totally wasn’t my fault. They deserved those citations for not completely wearing a protective bubble wrap layer while skateboarding along the half-pipe like any sane person would.”

Bradley wouldn’t be caught dead in one of Elliot’s overly saturated safety vests.

He walked to the bus stop with nine minutes to spare. “Thanks for nothing. I have no idea what I was thinking asking him for help,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you ask Milo?” Mort suggested. “He hangs out with Melissa all the time. He’ll probably know a lot of things that she likes.”

Bradley tapped his pencil in irritation and tried to focus on the assignment in front of him. “I am not asking the Boy Blunder for help. I’m not that desperate.”

Mort raised an eyebrow. “You say you aren’t desperate. But your aura is a deep purple like you’re afraid of what will happen in the near future should you fail to procure a suitable present.”

“Don’t try to read my thoughts,” Bradley snapped. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“And there’s a hint of green mixed in there too. Usually it stands for disgust,” Mort said.

Bradley shrugged. “In my defense, they were serving meatloaf for lunch.”

He was not going to regret this. He was not going to watch what little dreams he had crash and burn before they even got off the ground.

“I need help,” he said.

He fought the urge to scream, run, and live like a hermit for the rest of his life. Getting Melissa a present took precedence over his disdain for Milo. It was a constant internal struggle.

Milo gasped, a sickeningly bright smile taking over his face. “Sure! I’d love to help! I don’t know what you might need it for, but consider it accepted anyway!”

As he stood up in excitement, the open water bottle on his desk tipped over, spilling liquid all over the nearby electrical cords. The cords sparked and they quickly moved away from the small fire that sprung up.

He was definitely starting to regret this decision.

Looking around to make sure Melissa wasn’t in the vicinity, Bradley beckoned Milo closer, though he made sure there was an arm’s length between them. “What does Melissa like?”

“Lots of things!” Milo exclaimed. Apparently he never learned volume control, Bradley thought. “Good grades, friends, Diogee, music, risk-taking, bets, and puppies. I’m guessing puppies are kinda out of your budget though.”  

As much as he wanted to disregard Milo, he had good ideas sometimes.

Only sometimes.

“Maybe not every kind of puppy,” Bradley said. “Does she like stuffed animals?”

Milo nodded. “She doesn’t really buy them herself. They’re usually gifts. And you can tell which ones were from me, because there’s always a leg or eye lost between the time I buy them and when she receives them. One time I knocked over the shelf where she displays them and now she has caution tape around the perimeter.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Bradley said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.”

“Where?” Milo asked.

A perfume cloud suddenly enveloped the classroom from a girl’s spilled bottle, causing the people in the back to cough as their senses were overwhelmed.

“Anywhere that doesn’t have an ocean mist scented perfume cloud,” Bradley replied, gathering his things and leaving the class so he didn’t get stuck with the scent all over his clothes. “And don’t think for one minute that asking for your help is going to be a regular occurrence.”

He found himself in the stuffed animal section of a toy store, looking through all the plush dogs on the shelves. They had just about every breed of canine imaginable, and Bradley belatedly realized he didn’t ask Milo about the breeds Melissa liked.

He tried to picture Diogee in his mind, though he had no idea what kind of dog he was. He appeared to be a corgi or dachshund though. It was probably the stubby legs.

After some debate, he picked a small Shiba Inu plushie complete with Santa hat. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but he hoped Melissa would find it cute anyway.

He was sure the plushie could never be as adorable as Pepper though.

[ubeb0nes]

Chap. 2 of CONTRACT KILLER: OC x Natasha Romanoff

Chap. 2 of this mess. Ofc I didn’t proof read. 

Word Count: 2852

Summary: One week after Jean returns home from assassinating James Wagner. Nothing particularly important happens in this chapter, only serving to slowly build the dynamic of her household. 

---Holiday Household---

INDIGO STRIKES AGAIN. JAMES WAGNER ASSASSINATED. 

"Quite the headline, anak," Grandma Harper said as she watched the reporter on the national news detail the events. 

"Eh," I called from the kitchen, more concerned with how the hell I was supposed to tell if the spam was cooked well enough or not, "Nothing special." 

"If it was nothing special, you wouldn't have come back with so many bruises," Grandma replied as she walked into the kitchen and tapped the stitches on my brow. "Black Widow?" 

I nodded and pursed my lips. "Black Widow." Somehow, the SHIELD Agent had become a household name in a household of people who worked against her. 

Grandma clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "When you're not using deadly force, you're far too less efficient. You need to figure that out," she said. 

I scoffed. "I was about to use deadly force," I replied. 

"Why?" 

"She almost had me," I said as I checked the underside of one of the spam slices. "Is that cooked, mama?" I asked dumbly, doing a double take between grandma and the food. 

Grandma Harper rolled her eyes. "World's Greatest Mercenary can't tell when spam is cooked," she echoed. 

"World's Greatest Mercenary is the reason you're living large, grandma," I said with a grin. Grandma Harper threw her head back and laughed. She'd been a horse breeder (among other things) back in her day. It might've been a lucrative business in 1910, but I don't know how well she'd fare now. 

Of course, she’d had other means of attracting income. Not too unlike my own. 

"It's only a matter of time before they send their big guns after you, Jean."

"Yeahhh…" I drawled, "Nothing that I can't handle. I'm surprised they haven't gotten the message by now, though. I don't kill good people." 

Wagner had been a rapist. My target preceding Wagner was a genocidal terrorist. And the man before that had been one of my worst targets yet. A popular singer and actor. I'd found child pornography in his living room, and a ten year-old boy in his bed. 

And somehow, the deaths of all those monsters had turned me into public enemy number one. 

Grandma Harper sighed as she took a seat at the dinner table. She looked more tired than usual, her eyes looking 123 years old even if the rest of her only looked about forty. 

"My day was simpler. The law was more lenient, more understanding," she said, "But at the same time, ruthless. I think you would've done better in my time, anak." 

I laughed mirthlessly as I stacked the spam up on a plate next to the eggs. Grandma Harper was actually my great grandma, a woman who was born and thrived as an outlaw near the turn of the century. I hadn't seen her in a real fight during my insignificant life span, but the look in her eye hadn't seemed to dull. 

"Kids! AJ! Isiah! Food's ready!" I called, picking up the pan and hitting a metal spoon against its underside. Grandma Harper sent me a sour look, and I put it down. 

Like the stampede from Lion King, AJ and Isiah’s three kids came crashing into the kitchen. They came in with so much heat that they would've slid to their doom and hit their heads on the corner of the table if Grandma didn't stop them. 

"Careful, you three," she said sternly. 

Reggie, the oldest at seven years, apologized sheepishly. "Sorry, grandma," he said, and with a kiss on her cheek was back in her good graces. His little siblings followed his lead to sit at the table, where I had to help four year-old Jenny sit down properly, and quickly stopped five year-old Katie from stabbing herself with a butter knife. 

AJ and Ian streamed in after them, talking quietly and critically. 

"You guys alright?" I asked, turning one of the table seats backwards and settling into it. 

AJ looked at me with a tired smile, not even bothering to hide her conflictions. "Yeah. It’s just been a rough week, what with all that,” she replied, gesturing to the tv screen. Katie extended her stubby hands towards the tv remote. I pointed towards the window to distract her, and then hid the remote.

“Auntie J, that’s you!” Reggie exclaimed, pointing at the screen as the name of my dual identity and my masked figure crossed over the screen. 

I shot Reggie a crooked smile. “Dang right it is.”

“Language,” Grandma shook a fork at me.

“I said dang!” 

“Language.”

I conceded, raising my hands in defeat and then looked at the couple still standing in the doorway. “Would you two sit down?” I said with slight exasperation, “I didn’t cook for you to just look at the food.”

“I wouldn’t call frying spam cooking, J,” Isiah said as he took a seat and started piling up his plate. AJ rolled her eyes as she followed suit. To her, this little bickering feud between Isiah and me was about ten years too old. 

“But you’re eating it, aren’t you, you walnut?” I retorted. Isiah shot me the “touche” nod, and went about chowing down. 

“You just cashed in a million dollar check, and we’re eating spam,” AJ said with a grin. 

“Broke people act rich, rich people act broke,” I said waving my own fork at her, “I swear, you two are just gonna eat the grease off the pan next time.” A ripple of laughter sounded through the table. Jenny and Katie laughed along for the hell of it. 

“A million dollars, auntie?” Reggie said wistfully, looking at me with his mouth wide open and showing off his munched up spam and rice. Isiah shook his head, and pushed up the boy’s chin with the end of his fork. 

“Yeah,” I replied. Grandma Harper sent me a look, and I nodded. “Uh... You know how much doctors make, though?”

“How much?” Reggie asked. 

Way less, I thought. “Three million,” I said. AJ hit her head against the table as she watched me resort to lying to cover my ass. Isiah looked at me, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk with his food, and just stared at me blankly. Grandma Harper sighed, and got up to find her pills.

Reggie shrugged. “But your job’s cooler. And you’re still making, like, a million dollars!” He exclaimed. 

I sputtered for a moment, and would’ve been done for because of it if Reggie was a little older. “Yeah, but don’t you wanna save lives like a doctor?” 

“You save lives,” he fired back. 

“Eh…” I cringed a bit at that, “I don’t exactly-”

“And you get to have guns!”

“Hold on-”

“And you didn’t have to go to college.”

“Kid-”

“But daddy told me you ‘officially started when you were twelve’. Is that true?”

I kicked Reggie’s mother in the shins, jolting her from her stupor as her son's questions evolved horribly. Help, I mouthed. 

AJ cleared her throat, and put her best mom’s voice on. “Junior, finish your food, okay?” She said, “Then you and dad can play Street Fighter until nine.” 

Reggie gawked, forgetting all about his blossoming ambitions to be a mercenary. “Until nine?”

“Finish your food first.” “Yes ma’am.” I don’t know why he emphasized “ma’am” like that, but I thought it was funny as hell and guffawed loudly, while simultaneously slumping over at dodging a (metaphorical) bullet. 

---

“I can’t believe you told the kid about how I first killed somebody,” I growled in a hushed tone at Isiah, just barely kept from ripping his head off by the grace of god and AJ’s occasional tentative hand on my shoulder. 

“It flew right over his head, don’t worry,” Isiah said flippantly, more focused on trying to get Ken to do a Hadouken without it being on accident. 

“That’s not the point, you perpetual loser,” I said quietly. The kids were still gathered around on the carpet, which I laid haphazardly on as I stared up at Isiah with vengeance in my eyes. I would save the more colorful insults for when they all went to bed. 

“Dad, stop cheating!” Reggie yelled as Isiah moved to casually stand in front of Reggie and obscure his view of the screen as they played against each other.

“Your children will grow up to hate you, Isiah Bradley,” I called from the carpet. Isiah raised his foot up, threatening to step on me. I scoffed. “I wish you would, Isiah. I wish you would.”

“So,” AJ said, sitting down next to me on the carpet as she attempted to avert my murderous gaze from her husband, “You went toe-to-toe with Agent Romanoff again?” I heard Grandma let out a faraway snort from the kitchen.

I sat up and subconsciously put a hand to the stitches on my brow. “Yeah. It dragged on a little longer than I originally planned,” I said. Then again, it was hard to plan ahead when faced with the Black Widow. 

“You need to get control over all your powers,” AJ advised, and I nodded, “You’d be Iron Man-level with them.” I scoffed. “What, am I not Iron Man-level without all the pyromania?” I asked. Sure, Black Widow might’ve nearly executed me by way of thigh, but I’d still won. 

“Don’t know. I mean, are you completely confident you can take a guy like that down when it comes to it?” She replied, “Because it will. Once SHIELD gets tired of this game of cat and mouse.”

And I was honestly surprised they hadn’t played one of their enigmatic little trump cards yet, seeing as we were three years into this little “game”. They could call upon Iron Man, War Machine, Black Widow, and even throw in Hawkeye, just for shits, if they wanted to. And I’d be a long since resolved problem. 

I gazed down at my own hands. They were slender and heavily scarred, but I’d covered up the flaws with tattoos. And within them was a power kept locked away in slumber, a power that, to be blunt, would turn me from a pesky mercenary to a worldwide threat. But it’d been sleeping in my family’s blood since Grandma Harper, so it was something even she couldn’t explain to me. 

“I mean, you remember that time you activated your powers on accident though, right?” AJ asked, recalling that one spar almost five years ago. 

Isiah had said something that pissed me off- big surprise there- during a spar, and I’d gone in for perhaps the angriest and most uncoordinated punch of my life. Flames had been born from my knuckles, licking at the back of my hand and then shooting forward at Isiah like something out of Avatar. The flames looked as if they were truly alive, and as angry as me at Isiah as they tried to consume him. But they died the moment I panicked at their birth, fearing what permanent damage they’d do to Isiah. And, unfortunately, he lived on.

“I doubt it’ll ever happen again,” I said. Since then, I hadn’t felt that dangerous heat rising in my palms. And I’d never tell any of my friends or even Grandma Harper, but it was the greatest feeling in the world. That power was beautiful. So beautiful, so enticing, in fact, that I couldn’t help but fear it. Just a little. 

Isiah chuckled. “Can’t wait to watch your kids figure it out, then,” he quipped, as Ryu- controlled by Reggie- Ultra Hadkouken’d his Ken into oblivion. 

“I thought we already went over this,” I replied with a chuckle, “I’m not popping any babies out.”

“Good. Imagine the power of those little devils,” he said with a snicker. 

AJ gave him a warning look. “Isiah.”

“Honey, you don’t understand,” Isiah insisted, shaking his head, “The power that was radiating off of this kid for that split second?” He shivered dramatically, “If I’m being honest, it might be that kind of thing that’s better left never discovered.”

“Even though I would’ve done us all a huge favor if I’d just made you a crispy chicken nugget,” I muttered under my breath. Isiah rolled his eyes, while AJ shook her head with a smile. 

“...” 

“...Back to the popping babies thing, though,” AJ said.

“Oh, heck no.” I started to stand up. 

“You’re young! A young bachelor! With money!” AJ made sure to emphasize the money factor heavily, making an emphatic ‘make it rain’ gesture. 

“No,” I said, marching up the stairs to the guest room that I stayed in whenever I was here, while Isiah yelled something about me having to play against him. To my chagrin, AJ followed me. “Go to your family, heathen,” I spat over my shoulder. 

“But you are family, kid,” she replied, throwing an arm over my shoulder as she rapidly switched into her Isiah-like persona, which only came out when we started to talk about relationships. Her reply would’ve warmed my heart if the conversation topic itself wasn’t revolting. 

“No.” I rushed into the guest room and tried to close it behind me before AJ could slip in, but slip in she did. 

“But yes,” she replied as she sat down at my desk, “C’mon Jean, you’re twenty-two! At least try and have a little fun more often.” I cringed, as I knew exactly what AJ’s idea of ‘fun’ was. Clubbing, house parties, and (before Isiah) plenty of unadulterated sex. She’d settled down from all of that since marrying that walnut, but she’d take some time to herself every now and then, and her ventures usually involved dragging me with her. 

“I have plenty of fun,” I replied sourly as I collapsed on my bed, ruining the perfect lines of Grandma Harper’s work to keep it tidy. 

“You haven’t changed one bit since you were a kid, you know that?” She said, “You still find pianos and books more attractive than actual people.”

“I find people attractive, Aliyah Jackman,” I retorted, sitting up, “I just don’t act on it. Leave me alone.”

There was a beat of silence. And I knew it was coming. 

“...I know for a fact that you were hitting on Black Widow while you guys fought.” I tried to keep a smirk down. “So what if I was?”

AJ let out a howl of laughter. “Be careful with that one, Jean Holiday.”

“Nothing about our lives involves the word ‘careful’,” I replied.

“True. But I gotta tell you, if I liked women, I’d like Black Widow too,” she quipped. 

“...You know, I can’t help but be a little jealous of her.”

“How so?”

I let out a sigh, rubbing my forehead. I was too young to constantly be feeling this old. “Remember those corrupted SHIELD files you and Isiah found?” I asked. 

“Yeah… You found some dirt on her, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. She wasn’t much better than us at one point. If not worse,” I replied, “How come she gets a second chance? And we continue to be prey?”

“It’s not like any of us are seeking redemption.” And I couldn’t disagree with that. 

I let out a sigh. “From what that file said, it seemed like Clint Barton took a chance on her. Likely that she wasn’t looking for redemption either. It just fell in her lap.”

“Look, you’ve got no reason to be jealous of her, kid,” AJ said. I looked up at her, furrowing my brow curiously. “It’s not like you don’t have your own chance. If you want to leave this behind, nobody’s gonna stop you.”

That weight settled back in my stomach. That weight that should’ve been carried by someone much older, much sadder. “It’s not that simple,” I muttered.

AJ scoffed, and I heard the chair creak as she stood up. “Look, you don’t need me to tell you that we’re not exactly good people. The only one making it ‘not that simple’ is you, Jean,” she said, “You have a choice. Don’t act like you don’t.” And with that, she left. I flopped down on my bed. 

It was an odd relationship I had with AJ, Isiah, and Grandma Harper. They willingly conditioned me to take on this life, and yet it seemed like they always wanted me to follow the other path at the crossroad. 

But Grandma Harper had been an outlaw, an idea I’d never romanticized. I knew she did nasty things, probably killed good people (although I’d never ask). Then after her, Grandpa Josiah had gone on an angry tirade for reasons I still didn’t know, rebelling against the law until it killed him. And after him, my mom… Emery Holiday. I think she might’ve tried to be good. She joined the military, flew in the name of the US. But somewhere along the way, I guess the curse of our family’s selfishness and corruption caught up to her. Again, I didn’t really know, too cowardly to ask. 

If that was all they ever were, how could I be any different? What right did I have to be any different?

And if we put that all aside, what hope did I have to be any different?

[texanredrose]

Celebrity Matchmaker (Part 7)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 (here) / Part 8  

"Well, Remnant, there you have it!" Coco cut in at that moment, stepping around the four to address the cameras and the audience beyond. "Our daring romantic lead has made her decision. Will Blake, Pyrrha, Yang, and Weiss enjoy their happy ending? The choice is yours, Remnant, here on Celebrity Matchmaker!" A cold weight dropped into the bottom of her stomach at those words; despite having come to a satisfying conclusion, whether or not they would get the opportunity to pursue it still hung in the air. "Now, using the mobile app on your scrolls or our CCT website, cast your vote. Give our daring foursome a thumbs up to approve this celebrity union or a thumbs down to end the happiness now!" Blake pushed closer to her side, offering her comfort and desperately needed support, and Pyrrha and Yang quickly followed suit, the four of them huddling together and waiting with bated breath. "Everyone has twenty minutes to cast their vote, but don’t go anywhere! We'll come back after this commercial break to deliver the verdict on this season's finale of Celebrity Matchmaker!"

A few moments later, they were off air, with the audience breaking out into a chattering mess as they all pulled out their scrolls and began voting. They weren't the only ones- the camera crew, those helpers standing off set, even the host pulled out their scrolls and let their voices be heard.

"Guess we just gotta wait out the rest, huh?" Yang offered, reaching up to fiddle with the hair tie holding back her unruly mane.

"So it seems." Pyrrha hummed, looking at the movie star. "I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

"I'm not so sure." Weiss bit her bottom lip, trying to keep the racing thoughts swirling through her head from stampeding out of control. While she thought she had a firm grasp on the odds when making her original decision, now there existed a whole slew of variables that put everything into question. How would the purists react? Could Remnant handle something so far from the mainstream ideal of romance as a polyamorous relationship? And then there was their careers to consider- how would their fans react? Would any of them even have careers after this? So caught up in the euphoria of a solution that didn't mean sacrificing the bonds she'd forged with each of her potential partners, she hadn't stopped to think of the ramifications of such a decision. "What if-"

"Stop." Blake's voice, calm and steady, was at odds with the flush still present in her cheeks. "There's no need to ask those questions right now."

"She's right, Princess." The rock star chuckled, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "We've got less than twenty minutes until the decision comes out, and worst case scenario we keep any interactions between us out of the public eye for three years. Ducking the paparazzi is, like, old hat by now, right? We'll be fine."

She winced, lowering her gaze sightly. "Actually, my contract with the show is worded a bit... differently." At the three curious looks she received, Weiss sighed and began a truncated version of the events leading her to this position in the first place. "I only agreed to do the show under the condition that, by completing the show's full run and remaining compliant with the finale's decision, it would remove my father as my agent and handler. As such, my contract lasts... considerably longer. If I attempted to exit the show or the relationship produced by it, my father regains his position and complete control over my life."

Blake and Pyrrha’s brows shot up, obviously surprised by the rather... extreme measures included in her contract. The blonde, on the other hand, looked a tad horrified.

"Wait, time out, can we go back a second?" Yang's brows furrowed, her expression screwed up in confusion. "Like, ten minutes ago, you were going to choose none of us. Wouldn't that have voided your contract anyway?"

"Yes," she replied, running a hand through her bangs. "My decision to not choose one of you wouldn't have fulfilled my obligation, so my father would've become my agent again." Holding up a hand, she prevented the inevitable follow up question by simply answering it without prompting. "I realize I could've chosen any of you and fulfilled the contract's requirements, exited the rather toxic professional relationship with my father, and simply approached the other two after we'd left the set... but... it honestly didn't occur to me to do things that way. I’m not as... familiar with the concept as you two are.” She nodded towards Blake and Yang. “Even now, I’m still not sure it would’ve occurred to me. Choosing just one of you... I wouldn't be able to escape the sensation that it would negatively impact our relationships regardless; I wouldn't want anyone feeling like they were the second choice, or the runner up, or... something other than the truth. I couldn't bear that, not even for a moment."

It probably sounded a tad bit ridiculous. It was true, of course, but in hindsight, perhaps the terrible anxiety eating away at her gut might've been avoided entirely had she simply abided by the expectations of the audience and chosen only one of them. Of course, she also hadn't truly considered the four could be together, on equal terms, and that would be agreeable to all parties, and there really was no way of her knowing at the time, but-

Suddenly, a finger gently tipped her chin up, so she could see Blake's tender expression. "All these years, they should've been calling you Ice Cream, considering your soft heart." As soon as the words left her mouth, the Faunus' face fell into one of despair. "Wait, did I just-"

"That was a pun!" Yang clapped her hands together, looking entirely pleased. "You just made a pun, Kitty Cat!" She reached up, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye. "I'm so proud." Blake rolled her eyes but didn't resist as the blonde threw an arm around her shoulders. "Seems like all my hard work has paid off."

"Great, you're slowly tainting all of us with poor humor." Weiss dryly commented, ignoring the way Pyrrha chuckled, as if she genuinely enjoyed both the joke and the ensuing exchange. "We're already beyond saving at this point."

"Aw, sounds like you're already givin' up, Princess."

"I guess you could say she's... met her match?" Pyrrha managed to cut the rocker off just in time, a sly smile on her lips.

Not even Weiss could resist laughing that time, having barely contained it when Blake's unintentional one slipped out, and she was joined a few moments later by the others. Maybe it was just their breaking point or a brief moment of levity everyone felt compelled to join in on given the situation, but before she knew it, she was surrounded again, catching her breath and looking at those who had grown so dear to her heart in recent weeks. Yang, on her right, with her wide smile and shining eyes, Blake on her left, with her ears up and out in relaxed enjoyment, and Pyrrha standing just behind her, a strong and comforting presence at her back.

"I suppose there's nothing left to do except wait, hmmm?" The movie star sighed, finding two hands slipping into hers and a set of arms encircling her waist, a chin resting atop her head. "We've done all we could."

"And we're not out of the fight yet." Yang pointed out, her voice much softer than usual. "If you honestly think we're just going to take whatever decision gets handed to us without a fight, you're dead wrong, Princess."

"We are the ones who decide our fates," Pyrrha said, brushing a soft kiss against the top of her head. "Our destiny is crafted by our choices and our deeds, and I think we're meant to be together. Therefore, we will be. One way or another."

"A compelling argument." Blake noted, squeezing her hand lightly. "And we're all committed enough to see it through."

"Yeah, someone promised me a kiss when we're alone, and like hell I'm letting her off the hook that easy!"

Amid the Faunus' groan, Yang's laugh, Pyrrha's chuckle, and the all encompassing embrace, it was difficult to feel the pressure of Remnant's imminent decision. At the very least, she could shove it to the side and simply bask in their presence, allowing her idle mind to drift towards the future, crafting little scenes she direly hoped would play out. Standing just off stage with Pyrrha and Blake while Yang 'rocked out' with thousands of screaming fans, sitting in box seats watching Pyrrha compete while Blake and Yang cheered beside her all decked out in team colors, attending a release party for one of Blake's books with all of them dressed to impress and Yang struggling to remain on her best behavior while Pyrrha and Blake slipped in and out of conversations easily, coming off set to find three pairs of arms just waiting to hold her while she prepared for the next scene, the four of them in the living room of a house they could call their own, curled up on the couch to watch a movie or simply reading while the blonde picked at her guitar- the possibilities were endless and she direly wanted to see them come true. It would be hard, of course, even harder than when she imagined the scheduling conflicts just two of them would have, nevermind four, but... damn it all, she would move countries and oceans to make it work.

"Hey, you four." She didn't even noticed she'd closed her eyes until Coco's voice called her back to the present, finding the host approached them bearing a familiar little basket. "Figured you might want these."

Contained within were their scrolls, which they'd naturally turned over at the onset to keep their opinions unbiased- and to reduce any anxiety regarding the ridiculous antics of gossip magazines. The first few weeks were stressful, being unable to check on any pending business relating to their careers, but they'd all come to enjoy the vacation, as evidenced by the slight reluctance in reclaiming the devices.

"Thought we weren't getting those back until after we wrapped up?" The blonde raised a brow at hers- battered and beaten from being dropped a few too many times- before preparing to tuck it away.

"Yeah, but I figure if all of Remnant gets to vote on your relationship, maybe you should get the option, too." She glanced over her shoulder. "Plus, no one's paying attention right now; the producers are catching hell from the illustrious Mr. Schnee."

"For not specifying the number of candidates a romantic lead can choose or for not making me follow through with my initial choice?" Weiss reclaimed hers, flicking it open and pulling up the website rather than wasting time with the application that would do the same. She would consider it a lesson learned to download all available external sources for any show she agreed to be on in the future, flicking her gaze between her screen and the amused little smile on Coco's lips.

"A little of column A, a little of column B, and a little of column the producers could care less about his objections because our ratings are through the roof." She shrugged. "Something about the drama bomb really got people tuning in; I wouldn't be surprised if we set a record or two tonight."

Casting her vote- and wishing there was some sort of preview function so she could see how the whole thing was going- and handing her scroll to Blake for safekeeping, the movie star turned her attention back to Coco. "So the producers..."

"They're on your side, trust me." She winked. "Seems like your old man can't claim breech of contract no matter how much he yells." A small relief, she thought, even as Pyrrha gave her scroll to Yang for the moment. "We're about to come back live. You four ready?"

"Do we have a choice?" The Faunus sighed, tucking her own scroll away the same as Yang and smoothing out her jacket.

As they went about preparing themselves for having the eyes of Remnant upon them again- smoothing out fabric, fiddling with hair, and it was so very nice to have someone else to help this time around- Weiss noticed one of the crew slip onto the set and deposit two more ring boxes on the pedestal. Now, there were four, and it made her heart leap into her throat to think how close she was, how close they all were to a tangible reality.

"Where should we get married?" The question sprang to her tongue and left almost before she could register it but now, she wanted to know. And, it was actually a very good question. They all hailed from different countries, different parts of Remnant- where could they hold a wedding between the four of them that would be equally meaningful?

"Vacuo," Yang replied immediately, smirking. "Not that I've done extensive research on the subject or anything, but they definitely allow for unions of more than just two people. And, since none of us are from there, we can all have a happy memory to claim it. Think of it as the next step in our plan to take over the world."

The Faunus laughed, shaking her head. "That is the silliest thing you've said so far."

"But she has something of a point." Pyrrha acknowledged. "We're in four unique fields that could possibly overlap and from four different countries, where our fanbases are largest. It does stand to reason we embody the phrase 'power couple' more than just about any other union in Remnant."

"Except for the 'couple' part," Blake replied, though she had a smile curling her lips. She also seemed too happy to be embarrassed by all the attention, her blush beginning to die down, but it could easily be the furrow in her brows as she searched for a word. "What would it be instead?"

"A quad, typically." The blonde seemed to not even register the questioning look she received, rolling right along while checking her hair tie again. "Three is a triad, four is a quad, five is a... quint? Although most people just go with 'moresome', which is cute, but I've never really considered having that many partners before, honestly. Triads and quads are more my style, so that's what I have experience with, really."

"Well, at least one of us knows what she's doing." Weiss offhandedly offered, reaching up to bat Yang's hands away. "It's driving you insane keeping it up like that, isn't it?"

"Just a little." The rock star puffed out a sigh. "But, ya now, it looks more formal and I was really trying."

Looking over her shoulders, Weiss noted the identical looks both Pyrrha and Blake wore. "Down?"

"Down," they both replied, and the redhead quickly reached over and, with careful fingers, pulled the hair tie out, allowing golden locks to rest freely against the woman's shoulders.

"Better?"

"Oh, so much." She ran her fingers through her hair, relief showing plain in her face. "I hate having my hair tied up, period."

They knew. The nearly identical looks the three of them bore said as much and Weiss almost couldn’t believe she’d missed it before.

"Alright, we've got thirty seconds!" Someone announced, and the four exchanged a few quick looks as the reminder of the looming results threatened to steal away the calm they'd managed to forge. But then Coco strode up to them, demanding their attention with a few quick commands.

"Alright, let's move you four this way. Come along, we don't have much time." She pulled them towards center stage, just behind the pedestal. "There we go, Blake up a little more, Pyrrha a half step back, Yang turn towards me a little, Weiss just a hair to your left, alright, there." The fashion designer stepped back, peering at them for a moment before nodding. "Good. Stay just like that. And a little PDA wouldn't hurt. There's still another ten minutes left of voting and people are still logging on; if you want to win this, now's not the time to hold anything back." She started to turn away but stopped, looking back at them- well, one in particular. "And no, Yang, that wasn't a suggestion for something lewd."

"Aw."

"It'd probably get your fans' attention, though." Blake acknowledged with a thoughtful hum, fidgeting slightly. "Perhaps we should-"

"Kitty Cat, if you're about to suggest something we haven't done already, don't worry about it." The blonde flashed a smile. "We don't need to dig that deep for this, promise. Princess already tried the whole 'valiant sacrifice' thing and I don't pull the same stunt twice."

"Much to our never ending concern," Pyrrha said, though there was a hint of a smile around the edges of the words.

Weiss wished she could turn around, because looking at the three was a good deal easier than the camera at present, the audience beyond kept barely shrouded by the lighting even as the man behind the camera counted them back in, meaning the deadline drew every closer no matter what they did or didn't do. She'd never felt so nervous, straightening her shoulders as Coco launched into her spiel, hoping a retreat into her calm facade would bring with it a measure of comfort.

[neen-writes]

Iron Legends: Reforged -- Chapter 11

Series: Fairy Tail

Characters: Gajeel, Levy, plus appearances from Natsu and Lucy.

Genre: Hurt/comfort, Sci-fi

Summary: The old lab had always been fuel for a good story, something you would half-heartedly joke about going to sometime.  Some did, and when they came back they never talked about it again.  The legends circulated, telling of ghosts, monsters, and anything else someone would be likely to conjure up about an abandoned building.  But even with all the stories meant to keep everyone away, there are still those for whom the intrigue is too tempting.  

Note: Reordering!  I feel much better having the interlude on chapter 10.  I fleshed this one out a little more too, but it’s still just a kind of intermission, so not a long chapter.

Read the Reforged chapters on FF.net here, Ao3 here, and read the entire original story here!!  AND find this fic’s soundtrack here!

Ch. 1  Ch. 2  Ch. 3  Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8 Ch. 9 Ch.10

“Have you completely lost it?!”

“Can it, Natsu!  Can’t you see how she’s feeling?”  Lucy scolded the pink-haired boy sitting on the ottoman from her spot on the sofa next to the blunette.  Lucy had hauled the sobbing, shaking girl over the the couch earlier, trying to make out anything she said.  But she only repeated unintelligible words over and over, sometimes sounding like she had been saying a name in between sobs.  It took her almost an hour to calm her breathing enough to speak.  Afraid of losing her resolve again, Levy had spilled everything at once at her best friend.  She detailed every visit from the day after the “attack,” how she had asked him to stay with her, and what she knew about what was done to him.  She kept some specifics to herself, not having the strength to admit how she felt to her friend. 

Lucy tried to interrupt her several times, shocked more and more by each detail.  Levy had to assure and halfway shout over and over that no, he wasn’t going to hurt me.  He wouldn’t hurt me.  He’s terrified, no listen to me! Don’t look at the counter, he wasn’t going to hurt me!

Lucy had called Natsu immediately after to come over, because this wasn’t something she could do alone.  It was something they were all involved in now, and Levy didn’t have it in her to stop her.  What did it matter now if he knew too?

Natsu puffed his cheeks and bit down on his lip to try and stem the vocal stampede that was threatening to rush forth.  Lucy shot him one more warning look, before focusing on Levy.  Truthfully, she felt the same as Natsu when she first told her.  Had Levy told her normally, at any other time, she might have put her through the ringer for it all.

But she didn’t.  She was an absolute mess, and Lucy had no choice but to be gentle with her.

Still, Lucy’s stomach was twisting uncontrollably throughout the entire conversation, and she felt absolutely sick that Levy had kept this from them, and had brought the source of their terror so close by no less.  All this time, the day of Halloween, he had been so close.  The creature that chased them in the dark and provided her with enough nightmares for days, had been here, in this same house.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Levy finally said into her hands, her voice hoarse.  “I never meant for it to be like this.  I never meant for it to become such a mess.  I-I just… someone needed to do something, no one ever has.”  Slowly, she lifted her head to look at them both, and they were struck silent for a moment by the absolute devastation on her face.  Lucy especially.  There had been one other time that she had seen Levy worse, and her gaze moved quickly to the unused hallway before looking back to her.  “He’s not what everyone thinks.  What you think.  And I know that means nothing to you two, because all you saw was what happened that night.  I understand how you feel, but he’s not that.”  Her already red eyes started to water a little again, and Lucy resumed rubbing soothing circles on her back.  “He’s more than that.  He’s like us, he used to live here, he was normal once.”

“Then why didn’t you tell us?” Natsu finally said, trying to keep his tone as non-judgmental as possible.  “We’re your friends, Levy.”  The hint of hurt, offense on his tone stoked her shame.

Levy bit her lip guiltily.  “Can you blame me?” she practically squeaked.  “Especially with your dad being who he is?”

Natsu, reactive as he was, opened his mouth to say something else but Lucy lifted her hand quickly to give him pause.  Natsu cocked his head at her in silent question, but after a moment, he conceded.  He liked to think his father was separate from this, but he would have been a terrifying person to have discover her secret.  

After all, that was why the three of them agreed to keep it quiet in the first place, because of how bizarre it all was and how much trouble they could have gotten into.  Lucy could imagine the weight Levy, with all her kindness, would have felt trying to keep the man safe from both the world and them.

“I know I lied to you, I was just trying to do the right thing.”  Levy swallowed hard and hung her head in her hands again, “But it got so complicated, so…” she trailed off and Lucy looked to her suddenly, leaving Natsu in the dark.  He tilted his head, watching the thoughts fly across Lucy’s face before she settled on some kind of realization. Lucy’s eyes went wide, and she glanced to Natsu who could only mouth the word ‘what?’ to her.  The blonde shook her head quickly, silencing him.  Because he of course didn’t get it, but Levy wouldn’t have to say another word for Lucy to understand.  “I accused him of something terrible, and I put him in danger.  Who knows what’s going to happen to him now,” her voice cracked again and the tears fell once more.  “I screwed up.  He was so…” she coughed out a whimper, “I really, really screwed up.”  

“Hey!” Natsu finally called to her, breaking her out of her thoughts.  He was done being silenced by the blonde. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” he called her attention back up from her hands.  “We’re your friends.”  The words came out slow, deliberate, “I’m miffed that you hid this from us, and I’m not gonna let you forget it.  For, at least a few months. But you didn’t ‘betray’ us.”  

Levy’s eyes widened a little as he flashed her a toothy smile, and she looked to Lucy for affirmation.  Her best friend put on a warm smile as well, and nodded.

“Levy… this is not easy.  But we trust you.  I know you.  You can find the good in anyone.  And if you saw something in this Gajeel person, then something is there.”  Lucy had waited anxiously all through high school for Levy to find someone.  You know, like any best friend does.  There had been drive-by crushes and interests here and there, but the blunette was a particular type, and it wasn’t easy for someone to catch and hold her romantic attention.  Despite that, she cared deeply, for just about everyone.  It was inevitable that she would find someone on which to pour all her heart, and that when she did, it would be with great immoderation.  It all made sense now.

The blunette watched Natsu nod in agreement with a kind smirk, and she leaned over into Lucy as she put her hand over her eyes.  “You guys…” she choked, the hot tears spilling forward again.  “Thank you.”

Lucy hummed in acknowledgement, “Of course, Levy.”  She smiled again, gently.  “Now, how can we help?”

Levy was beyond moved by the offer, and now couldn’t help feeling terribly for thinking her own friends couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.  Or be willing to stand by her.  Having that kind of support took a great deal of the weight off her back and lit a spark of hope in her that allowed her to turn her thoughts back to her dragon, and the mustached man–Jose–that sent him into oblivion.  Her chest tightened as the image of Gajeel’s face surfaced clearly, and even more so when thinking of the threat that had driven him away.  The threat that knew her face and her name.  He won’t come for me.  And I can’t tell them he knows, it could put them in danger too.  Knowing his name is good enough for now.

What Gajeel needed was some kind of protection, but how was she going to do that?  What could someone like her possibly do for him when what he’s wrapped up in is far bigger than any of them could even comprehend?

None of that changed the fact that he needed her help.  Hell if she knew how she was going to do it, but none of that mattered.  Levy looked up with hope and determination in her puffy eyes, smiling gratefully to her friends.  “I need to find him.  I need…”  She paused, “I need to do more research.”

There was no sleep to be had for Levy that night, unlike the slumbering blonde next to her.  Her thoughts raced, and she couldn’t get him out of her head.  Their final moments played over and over on a loop, and every time she closed her eyes, he was all she saw.  Asking her why.  Why did I say that.  Why then.

There was no guarantee that he would even want to see her when she went back, let alone even be there in the first place.  With how distressed he had been, she would have been surprised if he was still at the lab.  But she would never forgive herself if she gave up, and didn’t at least try to find him there.  If anything, she might find something there that would help her track him now.

The faint light outside provided some relief for her, as it signaled the end of hours of pulling herself apart under the guise of sleep.  At the crack of dawn, she slipped out of bed and wrote Lucy and Natsu–who was currently passed out in the living room–a hasty note.  

Went to the lab.  I need to go alone, in case he is there.  I made a promise, please understand.  I will be back by noon.  Thank you so much.

–Levy

With a knot in her stomach, she left it on the pillow next to Lucy, and quietly slipped into heavy layers and her warmest boots before sneaking out in the golden morning light.

It took the small woman much longer to arrive at the frosted fence with the heavy layer of snow coating the woods, but the snowfall had let up overnight and the sky was clear of clouds.  It did nothing to curb the chill, but it helped her on her journey.  Even if just a little.  It took everything she had to not lose her resolve, but she admittedly lost her composure more than once after stumbling on a snow-covered root.  In her desperation, she half expected, and wholly hoped, for him to appear from the wood to lift her up, reprimand her, and call her shrimp before taking them back.

But soon enough, she found herself, and her silence, standing in front of the destroyed hole in the fence.  She took several moments to even out her breathing, the fog passing in front of her very flushed face.  Levy slowly moved her gaze over the grounds, taking in the looming two-story building, the empty grounds, and the path of rubble and disturbed snow leading to what looked like a destroyed gate in the back she hadn’t noticed before.  

Despite the dread that seeped into her, she headed for the gaping entrance, and she saw the extent of recent disturbance.  The snow outside the entrance was violently torn up, all the way down to the dirt underneath.  Debris from inside was now outside and littered the snow.  Slowly, she stepped inside and found the lobby was in a greater state of ruin than it had been before.  Which was saying something.

Desks were smashed, chairs flung across the room.  The air was heavy with freshly stirred must.  What did he…  In her mind’s eye she saw her gentle dragon in a rage, destroying anything he could inconsequentially take his anger out upon.  It was a violence she did not want to imagine, and the fact that she had been the catalyst for it was nigh unbearable.  She felt like she was going to be sick.  

Levy stood rooted, with a hand to her chest, in the middle of the atrium.  “Gajeel?” she projected, unsure, her voice echoing within the walls.

Levy waited, knowing her voice could not possibly travel through the entirety of the impossibly large structure.  But she knew him and what he could do.  If he was here, he would hear her, no matter how weak her voice was.

Nothing answered her but dead silence and the sound of a brushing breeze outside.  Not even a sign of the small black cat.  Levy felt a lump rise in her throat as her prediction started to assemble in front of her.  There was silence.  “Gajeel!” Levy called out again, walking forward now through the fresh rubble.

Still nothing.

Something on the floor caught her eye, however, and she slowly stepped over to see what it was.  As she kneeled down and took the item up in her hands, her heart fell.  Levy’s eyes burned as the realization became more clear and her fears became tangible.  In her hand was the red and white scarf she had given him, frayed and marred with dirt.  He’s not here.  Levy brought the scarf to her face, trying to smother the tears that had started to spill over.  Gajeel… There’s so much I didn’t say, please.  But she couldn’t fall apart, not now.  She had things to do.

Desperately, she swept her gaze around the room again, refreshing herself on every detail. Enough dust still lingered in the air, creating shafts of light from the clouded windows that extended upwards towards the high roof of the lab’s small atrium. To her right, she could see the dark doorway that led into the underbelly of the facility and swallowed hard.  Slowly, she looked to the left, noting again the large, damaged staircase that led upwards.  The one she had wondered about so many times before.  Levy had talked herself out of it because it didn’t look safe before, but now that just seemed so silly.  

Levy clenched her fist around the scarf and all but ran to the stairwell and haphazardly scaled them, skipping steps when needed and clinging to the railing with the hope it continued to hold.  Everything else around her faded away in light of her new target, and she stepped through the doorless entrance.

As she stepped onto the second floor, she found herself with three different halls to choose from: two short ones to the left and right that curved somewhere to hallways beyond, and one long one straight ahead.   Levy took a second to stand there and take in the scene in front of her, lit dimly by skylights and a few windows.

Doors were completely ripped off their hinges and tossed aside like trash, walls had massive holes smashed into them.  The hall directly ahead of her, however, looked far worse than any of the rest.  More than halfway down that hall, which she felt must have led all the way to the other side of the building, a massive hole was ripped open in the floor, and straight up through the ceiling.  Every surface around that destruction was charred black, and daylight cascaded in a shaft through the opening.  There was a whole other sector of the lab she hadn’t been to, because she didn’t remember seeing anywhere with that level of damage.  

She had a feeling that whatever rampage that had been the ultimate downfall of Jupiter Technology, ended on this floor.  Stepping over rubble and debris, she went left first down the short hallway and found nothing but supply rooms and janitorial closets.  She furrowed her brow, frustrated, and doubled back to the main hall again.  She hadn’t wanted to head that way just for the level of damage, but it was evident she had to.  

As she moved forward, she noticed that many of the doorways had plaques next to them with names, or looked like they might have at one point.  Offices?  she thought, multiple with names she didn’t recognize.

The further she got, the worse the damage was as well, and in it’s own dark way it was promising for what she was ultimately looking for.  Finally, one nameplate stopped her dead in her tracks.  It was smashed in half and hung loosely from the damaged wall.  The first name with its title, however, was more than clear to her.  

Dr. Jose--

Her eyes narrowed and looked beyond the gaping hole in the wall to the destroyed office; the door, charred black, was melted shut.  The desk was broken clear in half, and there were deep slashes in the walls. At least three semi-recognizable bookshelves and a filing cabinet were in the office, but only one still stood; the other had been tipped over.  Levy ducked through the hole in the wall, and maneuvered back to the standing shelf.  She brushed away the thick layer of dust–partly age, partly from the destruction–from the books that were still on the shelf.  Most were textbooks, and not particularly what she was looking for.

Peaking under the partially toppled shelves, she saw more textbooks and frowned.  This isn’t what I need, she thought, before finally lifting her eyes to the file cabinet, dented and leaning sideways against the wall.  Several of the drawers were already extended, likely as a result of the trauma the unit had suffered.  They were empty.  The very bottom drawer, however, was the  one that interested her most: it was the only one with a keyhole.  But it wasn't just left open, it looked like something, or someone, had literally ripped it open. Like a crudely opened package. Gajeel…

Levy thought a moment, before wrapping the dirty headband around her right hand and grabbing what was left of the rusted handle.  She pulled hard, and after several tries yanked the drawer open with a protesting screech.  The blunette was more than pleased to find that inside was a thick stack of black-covered notebooks much like the one Gajeel had brought her.  Behind the stack, was a substantial amount of paperwork, divided up by year and month, and one divider labeled “Participants: X Class.”  Behind it were several folders, each with the X-number designations she had seen before. Right there, amongst others, was his: X777. His was much thinner than the others, until she remembered what he had told her. The other files still had the subject’s original information: who they were before Jupiter. Gajeel had destroyed his. She figured he went looking for answers on who he was and sought that part of his file only.  

Her hands moved first to the books, grabbing the one at the front of the drawer with the hope that it was the most recent.  The book crackled in protest as she pulled it open to one of the last pages.  The handwriting was noticeably messier than the one she had read before.  

August 29th, 2012

Finally.  The lacrima channels appear to at last be fully functional in all subjects and have fully integrated.  Infusions are no longer necessary, all that has been dosed to our subjects are now part of their systems.  They are cycling on their own and powering their own implants.  Full conversion was maintained by multiple subjects at the last trial, with best control exhibited by X777.  Each surviving subject has been a treat, and the roulette of discovering how the lacrima implants affect each has been a scientist’s dream. I cannot fully express the pride I feel at the success of this study, and this data is going to make us a fortune.

Nearly all subjects are responding well to the revised conditioning process and outbursts have been reduced to less than 5 a week between all subjects.  X777 continues to be the most stubborn, but this issue is insignificant compared to our progress, and he faces well against X772; their clashes are stunning.  X761 has become no less defiant, however through our trials we have learned how to muzzle him, as it were.  Better, we have learned how to harness his abilities for our own uses.  Operating costs have fallen significantly!

Digressing, field trials have yielded valuable data in a nearly uncontrolled environment, however our issue continues to be stopping each round in time.  We lost one subject last week in the pit.  Our subjects exhibit exactly what we need from them, for their purpose, but stopping them proves a challenge.  This is not, however, enough to set us back.  On the battlefield, they need only be pointed in a direction.  In those situations they do not need to be stopped before killing another.

I am making the final preparations to submit my work; I am so close to the summit, I can taste it.  The applications of the lacrima channels and infusions are limitless.  The potential to weaponize is astronomical, and the negotiations to sell each subject are already rolling forward.  With great compensation.  Funds should double with the publication, allowing us to take in even more subjects and continue making our weapons.

This only goes to show that all the ethical red tape only limits research.  Once the paper is published they will all see, and the ethical board will understand the mistakes they have made.  

I will make them understand.

Levy rocked back to sit flat on the floor, and rested her back against the demolished desk.  Her free hand cleared the blue locks from her face and she stared straight ahead for a moment.  Her thoughts spun, trying to absorb what she just read.  There’s that word again, ‘lacrima.’  Is that how they made them able to do what they do? she thought, having finally confirmed the root of all of it, even if she suspected.  The purpose of the experiments.  They were weapons.  Tools.

Quickly, she set the book aside and delved back into the drawer, flipping through the folder tabs a little more carefully.  And sure enough: “Lacrima Specifications.”

She pulled it out, and settled it onto her lap.  It didn’t look like the full document they planned to publish, which wasn’t surprising.  Something like that was far more likely to be digital, or somehow taken during the collapse.  Likely all of this information has several digital copies somewhere, they wouldn’t have just left this otherwise.  This just seemed to be a reference document, a copy from a text that might have been the scaffolding for the project.  Her eyes scanned over the paper, brows furrowing while she tried to focus.

‘Medium that can be implanted directly into subjects or compounded into intravenous injections.’

‘Previously indicated to amplify latent abilities.’

‘Have been shown to allow manipulation of certain elements, at random.’

‘Some users can convert states to match designated elements.’

‘Side effects include relying on, even craving designated elements for sustenance.  Difficulty controlling anger in high stress events.’

‘Provide the user with enhanced senses and strength.’

‘Significant fatalities amongst incompatible users.’

‘Eventual integration of compound and implants that allow subjects to sustain changes, on a genetic level, long-term without further intervention.’

It all made sense.  Everything that she had read made sense with this piece.  And she finally understood why Gajeel was so afraid of this person.  Not only had Jose been the source of his torment, but there easily could have been a whole other world of torture in store for him if the lab hadn’t been shut down.  And this man, after three years, had returned. Presumably to reclaim what he thought belonged to him.  Which meant she couldn’t stay here or any longer or expect Gajeel to come back here.  The lab wasn’t safe and she needed to leave it behind.

It also meant she needed to take as much of this with her as possible.  If she had any hope of helping him, of getting help for him, she needed to keep as much of this as she could.  

With new resolve, Levy grabbed his folder, the lacrima folder, and as many of the journals she could fit into the bag she bought with her.  

Levy had to steel herself for the onslaught when she returned home with literature in hand. She mumbled sorry so many times it stopped feeling like a word.  More than once both exclaimed that her note was the only reason they hadn’t called the police.  She had tried to protest, to beg them to listen because they had so little time to waste, they couldn’t waste it fighting.  So she gave up and just took off her backpack, pulled out one folder, and plopped it onto her kitchen table.  “Look at it.” was all she said, seriously enough that they stopped talking immediately and slowly approached to look inside.

“So he’s superhuman,” Natsu said finally, his wonder betraying him.  

“Essentially, yes.  He’s been implanted, against his will, with this lacrima stuff, and it’s given him these abilities.  His element is iron, who knows what kind of other elements the other subjects have.  That explains his abilities and the fact that he eats it.”  Lucy and Natsu both shot her open-mouthed looks, and she was reminded of the details she hadn’t told them yet.  “He eats iron, and can live off it,” she added quickly, trying to move past what she already knew.  “I think with all of this there might be a way to do something.  Because this is all so illegal. Not to mention inhumane,” Levy explained, holding up her stack of proof, “If Jose is still out there we can nail him with this.”

Natsu took a deep breath, staring at the file for several moments longer. “My dad can help,” he offered, and Lucy looked to him.

“Do you really want to tell Igneel?  We did something illegal too, remember?”  Lucy cautioned.

“I know.  But this is way bigger than that, bigger than what we did.  We can all see that, right?” he looked to them both, and could tell by Levy’s face that he didn’t need to convince her.   ”He’s the police chief, and he can do something about this.  He can help, maybe what we have found already will be enough to distract him from what we did, and save me from a very long lecture and moving back home...” Natsu trailed off with a grimace.  Living on his own was infinitely more enjoyable, but he was no stranger to mischief and he was already on thin ice with his father thanks to several house parties.  No boy his age wanted to move back in with a parent, no matter how much he liked the old man.

The blunette mulled over it for a moment, before shaking her head.  “We can’t take this to him until we have proof that Jose is even here,” Levy finally said.  “All it’ll do is put Gajeel in danger.  We need the person responsible to be the focus for all this, not Gajeel.”  She didn’t want to wait, but she had to be realistic.  She had no idea where to find Gajeel, where he would have gone, and she didn’t have any idea who Jose was other than that encounter in her store, and the fact Gajeel thought she smelled like him.  He may have known her name, but that was it.  She had convinced herself that she would be fine in the meantime.  After all, Gajeel was no longer here, what reason had he to find her now?

“Right,” Natsu agreed.  

Lucy nodded in agreement, as well before looking back to Levy.  “I take it he wasn’t there,” she remarked, gently.  Levy gave her a quiet, dejected shake of her head.  “Did you find any clues on how you’re going to find him?”

Levy’s gaze dropped back to the floor with another shake of her head.  “No.”  The word left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was not something she was thrilled to admit, and it only left her feeling just as poorly as before.  “All we have is this.  And Jose.  As much as it hurts me, he’s our best shot,” Levy added, looking back to her friends.  “Thank you, for staying with me.  And I’m sorry for everything…but I just need time to figure this out, you guys don’t have to stay.  I’m sure you have things to do.”  She mustered up the best smile she could manage, and she knew that Lucy would see right through her.

But Lucy also knew when to give her the space she needed.  And with a nudge to Natsu, she nodded her head towards the door.  He looked reluctant, and looked to Levy for affirmation.

“Really, I promise.  You guys were here all night.  I’m fine.  I just have a lot of reading to do,”  Levy insisted, as Lucy took him by the arm and started to pull him out.

“If you pull something else like this I’m not gonna let you off easy, Levy.  Call me if you come up with anything,” Lucy called over her shoulder on the way out the door.  “We’ll be back to check in later.”  She beckoned to Natsu, who looked uninclined to leave, but a glare from Lucy was all he needed to convince him.

The moment the door closed and clicked, Levy’s smile fell.  She exhaled the tension from her body and quietly padded down the hall to her room.  She dropped her bag onto the floor by her bed with a heavy thud and stared quietly at her window.  Those torturous tears pricked at her eyes again and she shook, trying to stifle it.  Where have you gone, Gajeel?

Realizing now how painfully dry her throat was, she returned to her kitchen, desperate for water and a distraction.  She was mid gulp when she heard a scratching at the double doors.  Adrenaline surged through her, flipping her stomach as she whirled to face the doors.  But outside, she did not see the towering man.  Just, open air.

Honey-colored eyes trailed down the length of the doors, before settling on a black creature at the bottom, a dark gaze fixed on her expectantly.  It took her a moment to register, until she saw the scar on the left side of his face.  “Lily?” she gasped, rushing to the doors to throw them open.  The cat casually strolled inside, leaping up to the kitchen table as Levy closed the door behind him.  He wrapped his tail around himself, and stared quietly at Levy.

She turned to stare back at the cat, a sudden dread rising in her.  If he was here, that could only mean, “He left you behind too.” Levy stated, realizing she was talking to a cat.  He only answered her with a rough mrow.

The fact that he was here, that this little creature had found his way to her home instead of waiting for his large companion spoke everything she had been afraid to admit.  If he had left the lab, then this was the very last nail in her fear’s coffin.  This was it.  He had no reason at all to be there anymore.

Levy moved forward slowly, reaching out to lift him carefully by the armpits.  To her relief, the cat did not protest as she held him in her arms, clutching him to her chest and pressing a damp cheek into his sleek, black fur.

Here, in her little-big, quiet house, there was no way for her to keep running from it.  Especially with this final, devastating development.  You have to say it.  You have to say it so it’s real.  “He’s gone,” she said aloud, her voice cracking slightly.  “I don’t know if he’s coming back.”  Levy shut her eyes, forcing the tears down her face.  “And I, god, I think I love him.”

[changesevenmagazine]

Marching Solo with a Half Million Friends by Jim Ross

Jim Ross, Contributing Writer

Why Walk?

When a friend added me to the Nasty Women’s March group three days after the election, I knew I’d be going. Soon after, Nasty Women merged into the National Women’s March. At one time, rallying and marching in solidarity played a unifying, focusing role in my life. In recent years, after reaching retirement age, I’ve been picking up parts of myself I regretted leaving behind, like writing, like demonstrating.

Bigger than Life

During the Vietnam War, for seven years I marched and demonstrated to end the war. Doing so entailed certain risks. Once, while hippy chicks placed limp daisies in the bayonet barrels of the military police, I wandered far from the line of confrontation, and members of an Army battalion blindsided me by hoisting me in the air and heaving me down a long hill, a drop of fifteen to twenty feet.   I limped home and missed the mass arrests.

There was always a strong risk someone might lose control, throw a tear gas canister, or start a stampede. I’d seen people stampeded.  I’d seen people cornered at eight-foot-high wooden fences they couldn’t scale. My final anti-war, anti-Nixon demonstration occurred on August 8, 1974 in front of the White House. Nixon resigned rather than face impeachment.   Soon after, life told me to put my head down to focus on working, raising a family, and staying out of trouble.  I stopped writing.

I joined my first demonstration of the current era in October 2010.  I was traveling solo in France during the lead-up to a planned national strike. In the medieval village of Figeac, I first watched students and teachers together, sitting in the road, intermittently blocking traffic. The second day, I blended into a large gathering dominated by railroad workers.  I talked with people about why they were demonstrating, what they hoped to accomplish, how they planned to change to accomplish those things. Demonstrators freely shared bread, cheese and wine they’d brought for the “manifestation.” One cannabis advocate offered to share.

We Shall Overcomb

After I came home from France, I attended the raucous John Stewart/Steven Colbert rally on the National Mall in Washington. As crowds rushed for the Metro afterwards, I felt intimidated and instead walked 12 miles back to the suburbs.  On August 28, 2013, I walked in the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington with a friend who’d participated in the original 1963 event.  When he heartfully sang “We Shall Overcome,” a woman walking next to us broke down in prolonged sobs. However, when my friend saw the security backup on the Mall, he turned around and went home. I stayed in the black and white crowd.   For three hours, we waited to pass through metal detectors.   As the crowd periodically surged forward, I feared the crush might knock people over and cause a pileup. Instead, the crowd merely became more densely packed, with hardly room to breathe. People began expressing anger they’d miss seeing Oprah and Obama. A red-headed security woman crossed the line and began handing out bottled water.  Eventually, they waved us all through with wands.  That’s roughly when I started writing again. The release I needed to write went hand in hand with my return to demonstrating.

Pink Pussy Hats and Inauguration Flags

My participation in environmentally focused demonstrations began when my son and I went to the “Pope rally,” that is, the demonstration planned by the Moral Action on Climate (MAC) to coincide with Pope Francis’s meeting with Congress on September 24, 2015. A permit was obtained for 300,000 attendees.  Of the 15,000 who came, two-thirds were siphoned off by the Speaker of the House to provide an audience for Pope Francis’s address to the people from the portico.  After that, I took part in multiple environmentally focused demonstrations, some including street theater.  My crowd-averse wife came with me to a smaller one.  I briefly got involved in conversations to extend MAC and ensure the topic of climate change entered the presidential debates. The MAC conversations dissipated, the presidential debates ignored climate change, and I didn’t find a useful role to play in climate change activism.

Collective Action

So why go to the women’s march?  I’ve wanted to do something. I’ve needed to figure out how to fruitfully spend the years that remain.   My walking ability has devolved into an on-again, off-again proposition over the past two years. My wife and adult children didn’t want me going because they feared I’d fall or unwittingly walk into an outbreak of violence. The violence exhibited by inauguration demonstrators the day before the Women’s March exacerbated their fears, and seeing those protesters run from tear gas resurfaced my own. Still, I assured them the Women’s March would be peaceful. I went, in part, to show I could.

From a political and social perspective, I went because it’s all connected, and I strongly believe that, as Martin Luther King said, “Every man of humane convictions must decide on the protest that best suits his convictions, but we must all protest.” Protest can be private or public, shoulder-to-shoulder or virtual, and the forms it takes can morph as we age, but protest itself is essential, inescapable, and a moral responsibility. Protesting publicly and collectively fosters solidarity, makes connections, and influences decision makers. On May 9, 1970, at 5 a.m. Nixon snuck out of the White House without Secret Service escort to talk with demonstrators who came to Washington as part of the national student strike after the Kent State Massacre. He claimed he wouldn’t be influenced, but I’m convinced he was.

In anticipation of the Women’s March, a neighbor invited me to attend “intervention and active bystander training” with him. I jumped at the opportunity because I’d been concerned about what the March organizers were doing about marshals. We attended a training conducted by Swamp Revolt and learned we weren’t marshals exactly. Our job was to support anyone being verbally attacked, even a counter-protester being attacked by marchers. After training, participants said they felt they had a sacred role to play at the March. The woman with whom I was partnered for role plays said she recently had to run from police after they threw tear gas to disperse demonstrators. She and I acknowledged a mutual fear of the possibility of violence and the prospect of having to run away from tear gas.

Our neighborhood ran shuttles to the Metro on the morning of the March, starting at 5 a.m.  I knew many people who were going to the March, some solo, but I planned to go with the same neighbor who involved me with Swamp Revolt.  Still, I was concerned about my ability to keep up the pace.  We agreed to meet near the Metro in DC, but I walked too slowly and arrived too late.  So instead I marched solo, with a half million friends.

A Statement About Pink

En route to the venue, at the corner by the Native American Museum, people lost direction in droves, walked down blockaded roads, and had to retreat. The human traffic reached an almost total standstill for over an hour. The crowd began surging. People started complaining about pushing. This surfaced memories of security back-ups at the 50th Anniversary March. Marchers asked each other whether we’d ever find our way.  We concluded, even if we didn’t, it was good being there together.  As we disentangled, we waved to old-time Los Angeles activist Angela Davis walking down the other side of the street. She waved and shouted back.

The march was for all ages, all races. And there were plenty of other men. Many wore pink pussy hats like the women, but at least one wore a classy blue pussy hat. The central issue was women’s reproductive rights. LGBTQ rights were strongly represented too, at least among those behind whom I marched. “Resist” was a pervasive theme; so was, “We reject fear and hate and embrace love.” Many posters commented on Trump’s connection to Putin. Because it’s all connected, scarcely an issue was left out of the signs and chants.  A strong Red Nation presence reminded us that “Water is life.”  Humor trumped anger. “Now you’ve pissed off grandpa,” “She’s such a nasty woman,” (showing Trump dancing with the Statue of Liberty), and “We shall overcomb” were among my favorites. I was most moved by a young demonstrator whose sign read, “This transboy stands with his sisters.”

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The crowds occasionally broke into song, but merely walking together with others and observing their artful posters and varied hats sang to my soul. At moments, I found myself carried back to November 15, 1969, when the crowd swayed and sang along with Pete Seeger at the National Moratorium against the Vietnam War, “All we are asking is give peace a chance.”

The day after the Women’s March, I learned of many more friends who’d gone. I could have tagged along with any, but going it alone seems to be my way.  I also learned there’s soon to be a national march of scientists to combat the flat-earth mentality of the Trump administration. I’ve already heard from my son, who asked, “You want to go to this together?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“You need to invite the Women’s March.  This is important,” he insisted.

“I’ll do it, but I think they’re already talking to each other,” I answered.

“It’s like the 60s are making a comeback,” he said, with welcome in his voice.

My soul smiled.

After retiring in early 2015 from a career in public health research, Jim Ross dove back into creative pursuits in hope of resuscitating his long-neglected right brain. Since then, he’s published over 20 pieces of nonfiction and over 80 photos in 25 journals, including 1966, Cactus Heart, Cargo Literary, Friends Journal, Lunch Ticket, Gravel, Chicago’s MAKE Literary Magazine, Memory House, Pif Magazine, Riverbabble, and Sheephead Review. Forthcoming: Apeiron Review, Entropy, and Palooka. New grandparents of twins, he and his wife split their time between Maryland and West Virginia.

Read More Work by this Author:

Rue des Indigents

  Holly Day is the artist whose needlepoint “After” appears on our poster

Artist and writer Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center and in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Nordeast Minneapolis: A History, A Brief History of Stillwater Minnesota, and Ugly Girl.  Her needlepoints and bead work have recently appeared in QWERTY, Cardinal Sins, Grey Sparrow, and Calyx. (She is the featured artist whose needlepoint “After” appears on our poster above.)

                Marching Solo with a Half Million Friends by Jim Ross #WomensMarchOnWashington Why Walk? When a friend added me to the Nasty Women’s March group three days after the election, I knew I’d be going.

[shirlleycoyle]

The Boy on the Mountaintop

Our subletting Funbagger Drew Magary’s third novel, Point B, was released yesterday. A reader once said Drew’s novels read like a really long answer to a Funbag question. So it is with Point B, which asks the question, “Hey, what if you could teleport anywhere you wanted, simply by using your phone?” The following excerpt provides one of many, many answers.

THE BOY ON THE MOUNTAINTOP

By Katy Wagner, GizPo

9/21/2030

(COOS BAY, OR) — Melanie Greenberg has a plan for what to do if she ever meets the Kirsch family. She's rehearsed her speech in the mirror for over a year now. Late at night, when she's mired in the private hell of insomnia, she'll jot down tweaks to her working script, each word chosen carefully for maximum impact. She's learned to write legibly in darkness; rarely does she misspell a word or write one word over another despite writing blind. She can feel the pages for indentations from where she's put pen to paper, so she can locate free white space beneath. And she has sharpened the words down to a blade, so that when she sticks them into a Kirsch, they'll leave a mark.

Can you tell me what you plan on saying?

"The words 'you killed my son' will be in there somewhere."

You think they killed him.

"I know they did. Emilia Kirsch runs the company. Jason Kirsch invented the technology. Tell me who else would be responsible."

Do you want to physically harm Emilia and Jason?

"Yes, but I know I can't. I've convinced myself it's the wrong idea anyway. I want them to live with the hell of being themselves. Emilia and Jason can stay rich. They can stay free. But they'll always have to live inside their hateful bodies, and I want that to hurt them."

It wasn't always easy to get to Coos Bay. You used to have to drive here from Portland, taking the 5 South down to Route 38 and then across to 101, a tattered ribbon of a country highway that would test even a cast-iron stomach. That slim passageway through the wild, coupled with eternally damp weather, was enough to keep Coos Bay relatively isolated in the beginning of the century, especially as shipping jobs began to dry up and drugs took hold over this otherwise anonymous bit of Oregon shoreline.

"We'd have campers and tweakers," says Greenberg. "But now you get these clusters of surfers and fishermen, all zapping in together at exact times and making a goddamn mess before zapping right back out again. And, of course, we have a few port refugees from here and there."

But the greater impact that porting has had on Coos Bay hasn't come from people bypassing the endless roads to come here, but rather its original residents leaving. When the world opened up, the youth of Coos Bay fled in droves. So many kids have dropped out of nearby Marchfield High that the school has been forced to shutter entirely.

One of the kids who dropped out was Melanie's son, Jeffrey. If you're conjuring the stereotype in your head of what a high school dropout might look like these days—lazy, disaffected, porting at random, addicted to black market opioids, etc.—Jeffrey's story will alter that image drastically. He was a straight-A student. He was lead trumpet in the school marching band. He never drank or smoked. A sophomore at Marchfield during the advent of porting, he was already receiving letters from prominent Pac-12 schools with hints of scholarship money in the offing.

"I think, in some ways, porting has been worse for the smart kids," Melanie tells me. I'm in her house right now. It's a split-level abode nestled deep in the woods. This is an area that gets little port traffic, although that hasn't stopped Melanie from keeping dozens of guns handy to fend off aggressive trespassers and would-be squatters. She makes me a fresh pot of coffee but, in a moment of absent-mindedness, forgets to put a filter in the coffeemaker. Hot water and loose grounds spurt all over the kitchen counter.

"Jeffrey wanted to leave Coos Bay, and I don't blame him. I mean, this place was a meth hole. He was excited to get out and see the world, and I was excited for it, too. I just think you have to be ready, you know? No one was ready for it."

She held off buying Jeffrey a PortPhone for as long as she could, but after he saved up hundreds from his own personal landscaping business, she couldn't fend him off any longer.

"I remember where he ported to first," Melanie says to me as she rinses the soaked coffee grounds out of her pot and puts in a fresh filter. "It was Cancun, which is predictable for a 16-year-old. I made him promise only to go for a couple of minutes. So he zaps out, and I'm waiting, and waiting, and I've got half a mind to go to his pin and thrash him in front of all of Mexico. Then he finally came back."

And what was that like?

"He wouldn't stop laughing. That ever happen to you? You're so happy you start laughing, and you don't know why? It was that. And I saw that look of joy from him and…" she begins to cry, "I'm a mom, you know? When you see your kid happy, you want them to stay that way forever. It's like when you give a small child candy, and they go crazy for it. It makes you want to give them more. To spoil them. Because it's so easy. Spoiling them makes them happy. But you know you can't spoil them always because if you keep giving candy to them, it'll…" She can't finish the thought. She presses her hands against the counter and lets out a long exhale.

Jeffrey began porting every weekend, and then every night. Once PortSys began offering unlimited plans, Melanie felt powerless to stop him. He always managed to talk his way out of having the phone confiscated. Sometimes they would port together places, but more often it would be Jeffrey out in the world on his own, Melanie dying a little inside every time he vanished.

"Everything was different overnight, and I needed more time to adjust to that. We all did. We all still do! But PortSys? They never gave a shit. They weren't careful. They didn't bother preparing anyone for this kind of world. They charged ahead because they knew no one would ever have the courage to stop them."

One Sunday in May, Jeffrey told his mom he was going to Los Angeles with fellow bandmate Paul Gallagher. They had an agreement that he would share his pin with her anytime he went somewhere. This day, the destination was the Santa Monica Pier. Melanie watched Jeffrey port out, then ported to Atlanta herself to visit a friend before coming home to wait for him.

But Jeffrey never showed. Melanie called her son. She texted. Still no answer. When she checked her own PortSys account, she realized that Jeffrey had unfriended her that morning, leaving her unable to see his port history. By the time Monday morning arrived, she had turned frantic, porting to Jeffrey's chosen pin on the beach and wading through hordes of unimaginative tourists to look for her son, a human needle in the haystack. When she called PortSys to try to verify his current location, they refused to disclose it.

"Sometimes," Melanie says, "You trust your children too much, you know? Jeffrey was such a good kid, I'd have trusted him with any decision he made. But then I would forget he's still just a kid."

What Melanie didn't know was that Jeffrey's trip to Santa Monica was actually a premeditated ruse. He and Gallagher weren't going to California at all. Rather, they had spent the better part of a month sketching out a plan to port to the summit of Mount Everest. They studied storm patterns. They borrowed mountaineering gear from a friend (lightweight, to adhere to PortSys' YOU PLUS TWO guidelines, which allow for teleporting an extra two kilograms on your person in addition to the mass of your naked body) plus bottles of supplemental from a more experienced summiter. They went on long runs in high altitude cities: cities that Jeffrey had truthfully told his mother he was going to visit, while keeping hidden his ulterior motive for the jaunts.

The plan was port to increasingly high altitudes, get acclimated, and then hit the summit. Once on the roof of the world, Jeffrey and Paul would take in the view of the surrounding hemisphere, get a selfie, and then leave in an instant.

It is, of course, not legal to port to the summit of Everest. Since the advent of porting, only the South Slope of the mountain is open to climbing, with the North Slope formally closed by a Chinese government that outlawed porting from the start and has no plans to reverse that policy. Thus, oversight of Everest's unlicensed port tourism has fallen mostly to overwhelmed Nepalese officials.

The path to the summit was awash in litter and human excrement long before the advent of PortPhones, and porting has only exacerbated the problems at the top of the mountain. As with other national landmarks all over the world, port tourists have overwhelmed and desecrated what were once carefully preserved lands. In a bit of morbid irony, the deadly environs of Everest have help protect it from being completely overrun. Other parks and attractions lack such natural deterrents.

And standard tourist attractions are even more vulnerable, particularly spots highlighted by popular WorldGram travel accounts like @GoHere, which can create nightmare crowding situations the instant it recommends a porting destination. The Eiffel Tower in Paris is patrolled by armed forces at all times because port tourists stampede in at all hours, but the Tower is fortunate enough to be able to afford that security. Prominent amusement parks like Cedar Point in Ohio now must charge by the ride instead of charging gate admission because they can't build a portwall large enough to secure the grounds. Pebble Beach golf course in California now has PINE agents on carts patrolling the holes 24/7. Other hotspots, such as Monte Alban in Oaxaca and parts north of the aurora oval in Alaska, lack the funding to afford a portwall or beefed-up security, and have thus suffered environmental and ecological decay due to massive increases in foot traffic.

The summit of Everest, despite its hostile climate, has also suffered likewise. Perhaps it hasn't suffered the same amount of damage as Uluru in Australia, but any damage done to the roof of the world is substantial and permanent. New mountaineering laws have not helped. Anyone caught porting to the summit of Everest is subject to arrest and fines in excess of $500,000. But catching violators and enforcing fines is nearly impossible. While Nepalese officials were glad that porting eased some of traffic to the summit, they have had little control over the inevitable overcrowding that now routinely happens on it, especially when weather conditions prove favorable. How can you control the top of a mountain when anyone can get there by pushing a button and stepping into a wormhole? You can't keep a police force 33,000 feet up in the sky. You can't patrol it from the air. Proposals to create a portwall around the summit have proved unworkable.

To prevent being identified at the summit, Jeffrey Greenberg and Paul Gallagher left their passport lanyards behind in a still-unknown location. Jeffrey's callowness meant that he had vastly overestimated his ability to execute the Everest plan. As they ported from one acclimation point to the next, Jeffrey complained to Gallagher that he felt nauseous and dizzy: unmistakable signs of altitude sickness. An encroaching storm system—not exactly a surprise development around Everest—forced Jeffrey and Gallagher to accelerate their plans and shorten their acclimation intervals so that they could port to the summit and get out before the squall bore down.

That would prove to be a fatal error, because Jeffrey's lungs were already starved for oxygen. At the peak of Everest, the air only has roughly a third of the oxygen contained in the air at sea level. That thin air, combined with the drop in air pressure, can tax the lungs of even a seasoned climber. And Jeffrey was far from that.

The instant the two boys ported to the South Summit, with an altitude of 28,704 feet, Jeffrey collapsed and began to convulse, the result of a cerebral edema. Gallagher, now terrified, tried to program Jeffrey's PortPhone to port his friend back to safer ground, but couldn't get his bandmate's finger to hold steady on the phone's scanner prompt. Even if Gallagher had succeeded in this, Jeffrey never would have been able to take the crucial step to complete the porting. He was stuck seizing at the summit, his body desperate to hyperventilate but too weak to do so. His diaphragm cramped into a hard knot. The oxygen supply to his brain got cut off entirely. When Gallagher called American medical startup 1RSPND and begged them to have first responders port to the summit, the company told him that they were over their monthly porting data limit, and that PortSys had throttled their service. Mountaineers that had secured official permits to summit the mountain began to openly grouse at the two boys clogging up the summit, which has a surface area roughly the size of an apartment closet. No one was going to help Jeffrey Greenberg.

It was all over in less than a minute. A nearby team of experienced climbers, who had made the summit the old-fashioned way, rushed to administer CPR to Jeffrey, but by then he had no pulse. With the storm closing in quickly, Paul Gallagher, who would only agree to speak on background for this story, had little choice but to abandon his friend right there, 100 meters below the highest point on Earth.

Jeffrey Greenberg's body remains on Everest to this day, scattered among the hundreds of other corpses resting on the mountain that cannot be removed, neither by porting nor by law. He is far from alone in being the only young person to meet a gruesome fate by porting somewhere he didn't belong. There was the case of Taylor Garrison, a college student who accidentally ported into the middle of the Pacific Ocean and drowned. There was the case of Megan Abay, who got stuck in a faulty wormhole that teleported her back and forth from her apartment in Chicago to her parents' home in Addis Ababa every microsecond, splitting her into two places simultaneously and destroying her mind. There was Leann Egan, who was ported 200 feet above her intended pin in Maui thanks to what PortSys described as a "glitch" in its famously guarded algorithm. She fell to her death.

And then there was the strange case of Anthony Drazic, a seven-year-old who, through yet another system "bug," ported directly into the body of a full-grown man named Joshua Klim, killing both instantly. Drazic's body had to be surgically removed from Klim's abdomen in a gruesome Caesarian section that would take a Serbian coroner thirteen hours to complete. To this day, it remains the only violation of PortSys's supposedly ironclad law that solid matter cannot port into other solid matter. And then there are, of course, the tens of thousands of runaways and refugees shot and killed by interior patrols lurking in the United States, the United Kingdom, Spain, Russia, and every other country looking to crack down on port migration.

These deaths, be they the result of direct failures in PortSys's algorithm, or the result of PortSys failing to curtail its users' more reckless impulses, have invariably resulted in solemn statements issued by the company, along with any number of discreetly agreed-upon cash settlements. Melanie Greenberg was offered $28,000 to settle her case against PortSys. When she refused and filed a formal lawsuit, the case was thrown out in Federal court after Congress passed a law that made it illegal to sue "any porting carrier" (curious wording, given that PortSys is the only porting carrier in existence) for accidents resulting from the use of their products.

Calls for PortSys to restrict how users port—into private homes, into war zones, and to dangerous terrain—have been rebuffed by the company in the name of port neutrality. The closest PortSys has come to fixing the problem is establishing two-factor confirmation for any user wishing to port into "conflict zones," areas marked as dangerous by the company (of course, those designations have often been met with vehement protest by residents of said zones). They promise that the bugs that killed Josh Klim and Leann Egan have been fixed in later software updates. The company's parental controls, ostensibly introduced to help parents monitor where kids port, remain cumbersome and lightly used.

When Jason Kirsch was confronted with these facts in an email exchange with me, he remained defiant.

"Our terms of service are clear," he told me. "Our port moderators do not advise people porting to certain areas they have declared as unsafe, but we are not going to close off those areas and restrict the God-given freedoms of those who are experienced and hardy enough to tackle that kind of terrain. I myself have ported to such locations. Have you been to the top of Devil's Tower? I have. It's breathtaking. It is incumbent upon users to follow both their better instincts and the laws of anywhere they choose to port."

"So you're absolved of all responsibility in these deaths?" I asked him.

"Let me make it clear, Katy: This company saved the world. You know that. I know I speak for my mother when I say it's a terrible thing any time someone experiences a porting malfunction."

You mean a porting death.

"No, these are unfortunate malfunctions. In the event of someone harming himself during the porting process, we mourn just as his family mourns."

I don't believe that.

"Believe what you want to believe," Jason Kirsch wrote back. "I have the facts on my side, and what the facts say is that porting solved this planet's energy crisis, along with its housing crisis and its traffic crisis. People can now evacuate from natural disasters in a snap, and rescue workers can port into those same areas with equal speed. Once we get China on board with porting, we'll have improved modern civilization by orders of magnitude. To me, it's insane that some people don't appreciate this. WE INVENTED TELEPORTATION. How can you not be astounded by that? I'm astounded by it every day! Do you understand how many lives this company has saved? 40,000 automobile related deaths in the United States alone. Every year. All saved. Why is that not the focus of your story?"

(Jason Kirsch is not entirely correct here: While passenger automobile deaths are now nearly extinct, trucking fatalities have increased over 500% since the advent of porting, thanks to decaying highway infrastructure plus huge increases in demand for construction and shipped goods in formerly remote areas.)

Melanie Greenberg has never seen her son's body. To visit Jeffrey, she would either have to pay an outrageous amount to have it removed from Everest, or she herself would have to port to the summit, something she is terrified to do both from a physical and legal standpoint. For now, Jeffrey's body remains on display in a permanent, open wake she'll never be able to attend. She long ago forgave Paul Gallagher for his role in Jeffrey's death. Instead, she saves the bulk of her ire for PortSys and the Kirsch family. Sometimes, when she wakes up in the morning, she discovers that she's written hundreds of words in frantic night scribbling. She shows me the notes, which take up an entire filing box.

Are all those notes for the Kirsches?

"Not all of them. I spare more than a few for myself."

I don't think you're alone in having a hard time reckoning with how much freedom to give your children.

"Yeah but my son is dead, so I have hard proof I did a lousy job, don't I? I caved when I should've been stronger. And I let him have this power, because I wanted to have it too."

This is when I notice a rectangular bulge in Melanie's pocket. She takes out her old PortPhone6, the screen slightly cracked and the chrome edges nicked and scarred. She knows what I'm about to ask, so she goes ahead and answers in advance.

"It's for the Kirsches. It's my only way to get to Emilia and Jason. When they do one of their bullshit listening tours, or when Jason stages one of his insufferable new product launches, that's when I'm gonna port in and tell them about my son."

And then?

"And then, I swear to you, I will throw this thing in the fucking ocean."

The Boy on the Mountaintop syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/