#Which makes them all furious at me and accuse me of trying to steal 'em 🙃

[beechicory]

Oh my Godddddddd, another day, another confirmation that, in terms of parent quality in terms of my young relative it goes:

Me

our cat (look, she thinks she's responsible for us, and she does a good job!)

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the other potential parental figures, including their actual biological parents and their legal guardian

Just...fucking absolute ghouls. Levels of selfishness that go beyond comprehension. Sickening cruelty. I want to tar and feather them. Jesus Christ.

[0bfvscate]

I’ve been working very hard to keep my Good Omens hyperfixation off my main writing blog, but I  accidentally wrote a crossover fic with @orbitaldropkick‘s Kill Six Billion Demons, and I like it. So here it is, submitted for general consideration; one of the many stories of 3 Principality Aziraphale Who Guards the Eastern Gate of God’s Immortal Garden With a Flaming Sword, and the demon who much prefers to go by ‘Crowley’.

I like to imagine Aziraphale is wearing something strongly reminiscent of khaki shorts in this universe.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” said 3 Principality Aziraphale Who Guards the Eastern Gate of God’s Immortal Garden With a Flaming Sword. “What was it you were saying again?”

“I said that one went down like a lead balloon.” Said Anthony J Jonah Jameson Crowley Crawly Esquire the Third, Flame of the Sunken Star.

“Yes, it was quite unnerving to find your mask smashed to pieces against the entrance of the maze,” the angel said, worrying at an uneven, protruding quartz crystal on his thumb. “What happened?”

“I was under contract with a sorcerer. He wanted to steal from the Maze of Arun Dat,” he said. 

Arun Dat was remembered most fondly as a master mathematician, but he had a special penchant for labyrinths. Always liked them, never got the chance to explore one himself. He did, however, draw them— copious paper labyrinths, all over his study. Labyrinths like mandalas, meditations that drove men mad trying to plot. When he retired he dedicated his life to finally building a real labyrinth, with the intention of making one impossible to crack. It was rumored to hold a reward at its core, although no record existed among the plans, and Arun Dat was not so wealthy that he could afford to dump the last of his life’s savings just to die with a legacy.

Principality bought them dumplings to share, and left them sitting between them on the stone steps. Crowley wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. He felt small and blue.

“Did you get to the core?” 3 Principality asked.

Crowley shook his head. “No, the team fell apart when we got inside. Three days in, all the humans are gnashing their teeth and accusing each other of old grudges. Turned out the summoner had a habit of writing bad checks. Stuck it out for a week before turning back.”

“Oh, well, the sorcerer must not have liked that.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched, filled with the uncomfortable fact that it was abundantly clear the sorcerer didn’t take well to Crowley’s intuition. 

Crowley stretched his back and gave a loud, theatrical yawn. “I’m glad to be back so soon. Who did the summoning?”

“—er,” the Principality said, chewing his peach dumpling. He had half his helm off, which left the wisps of his eternal flame to curl like hair around his head. Through the eyeholes of his faceplate, he seemed very uncomfortable. “—well—“

Crowley was struck dumb. “You?”

3 Principality Aziraphale fidgeted with the quartz on his thumb. “Well, I was the only one around. I knew your name and your mask, and it wasn’t fair—“

“Angel!” Crowley shouted. “Bloody stupid fool! Brainlessly rockheaded skull, tha! Tha formst a contract with the formless flame, me, to feast on tha light? How could tha be so reckless!?”

The basis of their friendship was a genuine interest and respect for mortal life, paired with a consequential distrust for their respective kin. Aziraphale couldn’t understand why his brothers were so against the wonderfully clever creatures who taught themselves how to traverse the Wheel, and Crowley was always a bit squeamish about treating sapient life like fresh, bleeding meat. For several thousands of years he’d tried to avoid the White-Eyed Woman and the City of Devils underneath, and as a result, spoke the Black Speech with less ease and fluency than others did. 

“Well, you’re my friend,” Aziraphale said, sounding rather put out. “You’d do the same for me.”

“Wouldn’t have the same implications, would it?” Crowley snapped. “Doesn’t have the same long reaching complications, now does it!?”

“Oh, mortals summon demons all the time without any ill effects,” Aziraphale said airly. “And look at how weak their little flames are! Why, this might be the most beneficial contract you’ve ever filled.”

“Oh yes I’m very lucky to find such a gullible angel to feed on.”

“Not to worry, the contract didn’t have any set terms. All you took was enough to get you started.” 3 Principality said cheerfully.

“Tha moth-eaten cottonhead— so you’re the one who came up with this stupid name!?”

“It’s harder then it looks to name an undomesticated flame.” The angel said.

“What’s this ‘Flame of the Sunken Star’ business!?”

“Good friend of mine, awaiting reincarnation in the void. Didn’t think he’d mind.”

“An angel’s— !” Crowley choked, glasses sliding down his nose. His sunglasses were, likewise, smashed by the furious sorcerer that summoned him, but Aziraphale had taken the time to find the make and model Crowley preferred. He’d known demons tended to be smaller after banishment, and tried to purchase accordingly, but the pair barely hung on by their hooks at the back of Crowley’s ears. “That’s the first one I’m shedding. Imagine if your brothers found out you gave a demon an angel’s name.”

“Don’t think they’d care, really,” Aziraphale said, with a bitter hint to his voice. He took a particularly large bite of dumpling and chewed aggressively. “Spend all their time plotting the mass extinction of all life in the cosmos. Call it ‘cleansing the wheel’, they do. Honestly, to hear them talk, you’d think God would pop right back into existence when they‘re done. ‘Good work, chaps, really couldn’t have done it without you’. Can’t expect them to bother with one pesky demon with a plan like that.”

Crowley drew his tongue against his teeth. It was forked, the way it always was. Funny what stayed and what changed between incarnations. 

An awkward silence fell, interrupted by an even more awkward cough.

“Glad you don’t agree with ‘em.” Crowley added.

“Cheers,” Aziraphale said wearily, staring out at the street in front of them. People walked by with barely a glance down, on their own business. Men, women and people of all genders bustling about, some with bags or other luggage, some without. Some in fine clothes, others a bit more plainly dressed. “At least we have a love for life in common.”

“Oh, sure. Lovely, smart mortals. They make clothes and tellies and gates to bridge the spokes of the wheel. Love what they’ve done with the place, me.” Crowley agreed. He crossed his legs and leaned back, in a much smaller approximation of his usual lean. 

“Might be good for business to hang around a copper for a few years.” Crowley mused.

“Former copper, you mean.” 

“Right,” Crowley muttered. “The bookshop.”

“It’s quite fun, actually. You’ll see.”

“Don’t sell many books, do you?”

“I sell enough to get by— oh! Look at that little family!” Aziraphale said excitedly, clasping his hands in delight. “Reach heaven through violence, my dears! May your children grow strong enough to cave the skies! —anyway, the real fun is in appraisals.”

Crowley sighed. It was a sigh too heavy for the small, bony body he inhabited, a sigh borne of many thousands of years walking the spokes of the Red City. He, too, had been present in God’s Immortal Garden. It was where they’d first met.

“--going to estates to view the books, oh my dear you’ll love it. There are so many books of magic with minds of their own! They’re not very clever, sadly, but it’s so funny to see a completely artificial burgeoning soul!”

Crowley’s attention was already starting to drift. He’d never much liked the idea of settling down but, well, he owed the angel. And they got along well enough. Perhaps Aziraphale was right, and he’d enjoy doing book appraisals, or scaring the money out of customers, or some other aspect of keeping a bookshop. Perhaps the books with a sliver of sentience had their own burgeoning soul-flames, he thought mildly as Aziraphale kept up a steady stream of excited chatter.

[pokeshippingflashfic]

one word prompt: Hug (I don't recall a single episode those 2 have ever hugged each other in).

Meditation. What you need most now is meditation.

Most of the time, your travels with Ash and Brock were entertaining, even somewhat pacifying. You were overwhelmed with blissful pleasantries between helping passersby or traveling to new regions and (more specifically) cities, to meeting and potentially catching new Pokemon, introducing yourself to people who reminded you of yourself…

Every once in awhile, your adventures turned irritating, maybe even swerving all the way over to infuriating on the annoyance meter. What with Team Rocket’s near daily attempts to steal your Pokemon, your arguments with one highly immature Ash Ketchum (seldom though they’d come to be after three or so years of traveling together, replaced instead by almost enjoyable banter), and there was always the occasional closed-minded stranger you might run into…

And, farthest and fewest in between, were the instances your adventures with your friends turned agonizingly life-threatening. There were the times you were suspended from frail bridges or hanging from the edges of cliffs, times when particularly violent Pokemon species chased you down in the wild… And how could you forget that one terrible period where you’d been left for dead on a sinking cruise ship, followed immediately by being stranded on a raft at sea with your sworn enemies, and then ended up swept up in a twister only to wash ashore on an island seemingly completely uninhabited except for colossal Pokemon a hundred times their normal size?

Your next drawn breath comes abruptly, a chill running up and down your spine before you try once more to relax in your seat, wringing your hands against the fabric of your red shoulder bag sitting in your lap.

And yet… and yet all your thought process does is send you spiraling further down the dark path to morbid fear, a memory coming to mind unbidden and resistant to your attempts to hold it at bay.

Ash, trapped under a chandelier in a dark and musty tower, not moving, not breathing…

Ash so sick in bed, flushed with fever, he can barely form the words to ask for assistance…

Ash, clothes torn askew and flesh burning in spots after trying to save a Pokemon or fend off Team Rocket…

Ash, looking heartbroken over a wounded and unconscious Pikachu after he’d lost a battle against some powerful foe (human or Pokemon; it didn’t matter)…

Ash… lost in the abyss of a subzero degree sea and barely kept alive by Pikachu’s best efforts to prevent him from sinking below the frigid waves doing their best to crash over him while the creatures behind his near demise continued to clash against one another in the skies above him…

The words come to your lips and demand to be heard before you have enough sense to realize they’re better left buried deep down inside.

“What the heck were you thinking, you idiot…?” 

Thankfully, they’re no louder than a whisper, yet you blink warily, wrenching around and hoping nobody’s around to hear you. Unfortunately, while you’re looking furtively for any potential eavesdropper, you’re not paying attention to the teenage boy in the hospital bed.

“Pikachu… All of our Pokemon were in trouble, Misty…” comes a grunt, causing you to swing back around and face straight ahead, “Someone had to do something, didn’t they?”

“Ash!” you nearly shriek but your voice is still hoarse from restraining tears and shouts all afternoon so it comes out sounding more like a dry croak as you scooch your chair closer to his bedside. “When did you wake up?!”

“Just now, I guess…” he groans, inching himself gingerly into a sitting position and flinching for good measure here and there. “How long have I been out?”

“Probably not long enough to teach you a lesson,” you admonish darkly, turning your nose up just enough at him to get him to scowl at you in reply. “Honestly, Ash, you’re such a glutton! Brock had gone to get help! Team Rocket’s stolen our Pokemon a hundred times before and we always get them back within twenty-four hours! You just can’t help playing the hero, huh?”

You know you’re overstepping but your shot and buried nerves have given you a downright terrible case of foot-in-mouth syndrome.

Ash seems somewhat reflective however seeing as he doesn’t immediately offer up a harsh rebuttal.

“Well… I’m already so used to it, I guess. Why not let it be me who helps? Besides, the reason we generally get our Pokemon back so quick usually has to do with one of us immediately running after Team Rocket to stop ‘em, doesn’t it?”

You’re grateful to whatever all-powerful force that keeps him from looking you in the eye after that. You can’t help seething, steeped in his unequivocal candor. You figure he must have hit his head harder than anyone thought if he’s making this much sense…

“So where’s Brock now anyway? I don’t really… remember what happened.”

“Well, you’ve been out cold since this morning. Brock came back with Officer Jenny and, since you were distracting Team Rocket pretty good, she was able to sneak up and catch them off-guard with her Pokemon. Unfortunately, those idiots directed their Pokemon to attack without informing them about changing targets so they ended up knocking you out…” you inform him, watching warily as he tries to adjust himself to a position that would somehow not aggravate the bruised ribs he doesn’t even know he has. “We’ve been here all day waiting for you to wake up but Brock finally decided a little while ago that we should eat. He’s at the cafeteria.”

“I’m… in the hospital.”

“Yeah you are, you dummy.”

“I guess,” he begins with a sharp wince you relish a little too much, “I really was hurt pretty bad.”

“A concussion, some bruising. I guess nothing you’re not already very used to, like you said.”

“I sense you’re upset, Mist,” he deadpans, finally daring to face you.

“Of course I am, Mr. Pokemon Master!” you nearly screech in response, and at least your voice has mostly returned to normal so he can hear you mean business. “I’m sick and tired of this! I’m tired of you getting hurt this often! It’s not normal to risk yourself so much!”

At some point, you’ve leaped out of your chair and are towering down at him in the bed, arms flailing wide in a broad gesture. His brows furrow in response, his lips (one of which is just barely split) mashed somehow thoughtfully together, however he doesn’t look like he wants to fight you. Perhaps there really is a first time for everything.

“I’ve seen you jump into danger to help others lotsa times,” he murmurs just loud enough to hear. “And I know… if I hadn’t’ve been there, you woulda taken care of things pretty much the same way.”

That’s twice he’s got you now and you’re so overwhelmed with a complicated jumble of emotion that you collapse back into your seat, glaring daggers into the scuffed linoleum floor underneath.

Meditate. You need to meditate. Take your space and…

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

Once again, your mouth flies open and tries to cause problems. Your eyes are shut tight because you’re not sure you can handle a stare-off right now.

“But it’s what I like about you.”

The worn wire wound restrictively around your muscles loosens all in one go, and you unwind and slouch in your chair. He’s never said he likes much of anything about you before. You’re flattered and furious all rolled into one. A sight to behold.

“Listen, Misty, if you’re worried about me…”

But before he can continue, you’ve flown once more, upright, forward, arms around him tight enough to make him grimace from the pain (which reminds you to loosen your grip just a little even though you refuse to let go).

It’s the first time he’s ever accused you of being worried. In most other situations, on most other days, you’d deny it in a heartbeat. And something in the back of your mind is reminded once more of those other times his life has been at risk.

“So Misty, you’re really worried about me!” a distant child guffaws softly in your ear, and a younger version of yourself whips around in confusion. You could have sworn that was Ash…

“I am! I’m worried! You scare me to death, you… you idiot!” you cry fiercely, your cheeks tinging a bashful pink at such a confession. “I’m tired of worrying about you, I’m tired of seeing you get seriously beat up or knocked out! I know… I know when we started traveling together… I know sometimes… it was - could - be funny… maybe but…”

You taper off into a sniffle, rubbing your damp eyes roughly against his black tee shirt.

Ash is silent and stiff wedged awkwardly in your embrace, you’re not sure from the new form of contact or the pain he’s probably in. Eventually you do let go, falling back once more into your chair and staring intensely at one of his ears because you can’t look him in the eyes just yet.

You don’t know what to say about the sting of hurt that courses through you in response to his lack of reciprocation. Sure, the hug was entirely new, a foreign means of intimate, unspoken communication… but still…

You feel a slight pressure and notice that he’s grasped your hand in his. Now it’s his turn to be too embarrassed to face you evenly, his turn to blush a mildly alarming scarlet.

“I… I don’t know what… to say, what you expect…” he stumbles and stammers in reply. “But I like that you worry about me. Can you keep doing that?”

It’s not remotely close to what you wanted to hear, the type of compromise you were hoping for, but there’s something raw and very Ash-and-Misty about such a request…

Still, you refuse to let him walk away with your heart so freely.

“Fine but only if you promise t - to care - ah, I mean - worry about me too!”

The warmth between you crosses from his palm to your fingertips, from his thumb to your wrist, slowly consuming every limb and inch of skin before he finds the nerve to beam at you through his pain. His response, somewhat delayed, is at the least brutally, blissfully honest…

“Of course, Misty!”

… And you think to yourself that, hey, this is far more than what you had from him before.

(Sheesh, I struggled so much with this! I adored the prompt - thanks, anon, for sending it in, I totally agree about the travesty in Ash and Misty’s lack of hugs - but I was working 17 hours on 3 hours of sleep… Then my first draft vanished so I started over… Overall, I really like the finished product though…)

[the-elemental-sides]

The Elemental Sides: Chapter 2

Urban fantasy AU: The Sides are four spirits trapped in an amulet. When Thomas finds it and puts it on, he gains the powers of the four elements…or that’s what should have happened, but mistakes were made. Now the Sides have to coach him in their respective elements while Thomas deals with both his new powers and his ability to see into the magical realm. Not only is magic real, but there’s some pretty intimidating stuff out there, and only Thomas and the Sides have the power to stop it.

A/N: The newest chapter is here! Again, tHANK YOU for the nice comments and reblogs and likes. It’s all so appreciated!

TAG LIST (!!!!!): @shinylyni, @hissesssss, @vexation-virgil, @madd-catter, @rptheturk, @asofterfan

Previous Chapter

***

The ride back to Thomas’ apartment was silent.

Joan offered to stick around, but Thomas declined politely after swearing to text Joan later just to confirm he was still okay. He watched Joan leave, thinking about how lucky he was to have his friends.

Then it was onto more pressing matters.

Thomas’s eyes darted nervously around his apartment. Those hallucinations...were they watching him?

He touched the crystal amulet, which he still hadn’t taken off. The four colored marbles were dark.

“If there’s anyone in here,” Thomas said loudly, just in case, “I have a very intimidating friend who will curse at you if I don’t text them back!”

“Joan, right?” said a voice. Thomas almost fell over in spite of himself. The first copy was back again. He’d changed his clothes into a sensible dark shirt and tie, and he was wearing glasses...Thomas’s glasses?

Thomas ripped off the necklace and prepared to throw it at him.

“NO NO NO!” he yelled, and suddenly the other two clones were there too, trying to stop him.

“Don’t throw that!” the prince-ish one was saying. “Do NOT let go of that!”

“Stop yelling!” protested Thomas.

“Okay, time-out!” The third one was also wearing Thomas’ glasses, and he’d replaced his cat onesie with a gray sweater on his shoulders. “Indoor voices, now.”

“What’s going on?” asked Thomas.

“Thomas, we are inside that amulet, and we can only come out of it when you’re touching it,” the prince said with forced calm. “We just got done with spending fifteen years in there. Please put it back on.”

Silence. All the copies watched him. Thomas sighed and slipped on the necklace. “I’m gonna need some answers, because I am very confused,” he said.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the one with the tie. “My name is L—“

“Wait!” the strangely dad-like one said. “Don’t you want to hide our names with, I don’t know, apt descriptions of our personality, and then reveal our names during suitable moments with a lot of emotional buildup?”

More silence, but this time it was because everyone was just staring at him.

“Point taken!” he concluded. “Hi there! I’m Patton.”

The one in the tie growled a little. “Stealing my thunder, all right, that’s fine. My name is—“

“I am Roman!” the princely one declared with a dramatic hand gesture. “Pleased to meet me, acquaintance?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Of course you are!”

“Ugh! I’m Logan!” Logan scowled. “You guys are always ruining my fun.”

“Wasn’t there a fourth one?” Thomas asked.

“Oh, that’s just Virgil,” Roman said dismissively. “Or, as I like to call him, Ruby Gloom, the Grim Creeper, Raggedy Anxious, An Emo Nightmare—“

“You called?” the fourth copy said, appearing behind Roman, which made him scream and lose his composure.

“You—” Roman fumed. “Ugh! I don’t like you.”

“Isn’t that flattering.” Virgil sidled off to sit on the arm of Thomas’ couch. Thomas noticed that, in addition to a purple-and-black jacket, he had black makeup thickly drawn under his eyes. He looked a little like a raccoon.

“So, uhhhh….” Thomas said. “How did you know my friend’s name?”

“Because we know your memories, Thomas,” Logan said, clearly glad to be back in control of the situation. “You’ve been friends with them for a long time now, right?”

“Yeah….”

“Since you were the one who picked up our amulet, we’re a part of you now,” Roman said. “Or, to put it another way: you are lucky enough to have us around to guide you!”

“Wait, what?”

“So it only makes sense that we know who you are as a person! We have to make sure the right guy found us. Can’t have Dingo Dingus from down the lane stumbling around with my magic powers.”

“Um, again, what??”

“Okay, let’s back up,” said Logan. “In short: yes, we have magical powers. We would like to give you those powers. So we’re just poking around to make sure you can handle them.”

“Me?” Thomas said in shock. “Why me?”

“Because you picked up the amulet, son!” Patton said.

“I—that’s a little weird? I’m not your son?”

“You’re the shining sun in my heart!”

“Try to use them,” Virgil offered.

“Use what, the powers?” Virgil gave him a look that meant ‘well, clearly.’ “Okay, okay. Um, what exactly are they, though?”

“EARTH!” Logan yelled.

“FIRE!” Roman yelled.

After a long pause, Virgil said “Wa—”

“AIR!” screamed Patton, and waved his hands wildly, creating a gust of something bright green that blew across the room and managed to knock over Thomas’ lamp.

“...So that’s what we can do,” Logan said while Thomas picked his furniture back up. “But you? You can use all four of them.”

“Water, earth, fire, air?”

“Correct.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m the Avatar?!!”

“You’re the what now?”

“I’m like Aang from The Last Airbender! Oh my goodness gracious, that’s great!”

“I’m...not following.”

“You know? The show from 2005?”

“We don’t know anything past 2003. We were a little busy being in a crystal.”

“But...how can you not know? It’s like, super popular.”

“We were supposed to be doing Captain Planet, but Virgil got it wrong,” Roman grumped. “Also, we don’t have a Heart.” (Patton, for a second, looked offended.)

“You know what Captain Planet reminds me of?” Thomas said thoughtfully. “That old thing, the Rainforest Rap.”

Logan gasped. “Now what is a rainforest let me tell you—”

Another gust of green wind blew across the room and violently blew Logan’s tie into his face.

“Whoops!” Patton said cheerfully. “I’m still a little airheaded after being out of practice for so long! Hey, why don’t you give it a try, kiddo?”

“Well, okay,” said Thomas. He concentrated, took a deep breath, and flailed his arms in the air like Kermit. Nothing happened except that he looked pretty silly.

“Earth might be more your style.” Logan created an illusory rock from nothing and tossed it at Thomas. It bounced off his chest and dissipated on the floor.

“Fire?” Roman asked.

“No, not in the apartment!”

“Relax! As long as we’re transparent, our attacks are too. Patton’s the only one who can touch anything.” Roman opened his hand and created a thin column of fire. He approached Thomas and carefully placed it in his cupped hands. The second Roman stepped back, it was snuffed out.

“Well, heckity heck.”

Thomas looked at Virgil, who made no move to try anything. “Mine’s not gonna go any better. Look, we should give this up.”

“What’s going on?” Logan asked himself, frustrated. “Skilled or not, you should at least have some grasp of using magic merely by having the amulet. I—Oh no. Thomas, when you put the crystal on, did you feel anything?”

“A little,” Thomas reflected. “It just made me feel really sick and dizzy.”

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“Yeah, what, Left Brain?” Roman asked.

“We messed up. We have to have messed up.”

Logan started pacing. He was so nervous that he wasn’t looking where he was going. He walked back and forth straight through the couch and partly into the stairs. “The formulas…” he was muttering. “The compounds, the rituals we all had to perform. It was all perfect. I made sure of it. Who messed it up?” He turned on the other sides. “Who messed it up?”

None of the spirits said anything.

“Virgil?” Logan demanded.

“Why are you looking at me!” Thomas hadn’t seen the fourth spirit emote much, but he was furious when Logan accused him first. He stood up. “I’m sick of this, okay? I thought you’d have learned to treat me better after fifteen years. What happened to sticking up for me, Patton?”

“Hey, kiddo—“

“That’s enough. I’m out.” Virgil vanished. Thomas looked at his crystal just in time to see that the four marbles had been glowing again, and the purple one abruptly went dark.

“There he goes again,” Roman mumbled, but there wasn’t the same snark behind it.

“Can anyone...explain what just happened?”

“It’s not your fault,” Patton said. “But, uh. Logan?”

Logan stared at Thomas. He looked like a very old and tired college professor. “The ritual we used to seal ourselves in the crystal,” he whispered. “We weren’t always spirits, you know. We were human too, fifteen years ago. We were supposed to find someone, make sure they could be trusted with our powers, and move on. But if you got sick, it means our powers didn’t take. We’re trapped here. We messed up.”

“Logan…” Patton said.

“I worked so hard,” said Logan. Then he vanished.

“It’s not that bad, right?” Thomas asked Patton and Roman feebly. “If I learn your powers, the problem is solved, isn’t it?”

“It’s not just that,” Roman said darkly. “It’s...oh, never mind, Thomas. Look, we never finished the background check. We’ll go in the crystal, and, you know, confirm you’re all right to hand off our powers to. If you’re even capable.”

“Are you okay going back in the crystal?”

“Oh, yeah,” Roman said. “As long as you’re in contact with it, it’s not what it used to be. There’s a pretty sweet mind palace in the place now. Virgil’s already built his own room.”

“Don’t worry too much, okay, sport?” asked Patton as Roman gave Thomas a tired wave and disappeared. “Logan’s always stressed when he hasn’t had his jam fix in a while.”

“Is everything okay?” Thomas asked.

“It’s fine!” Patton was smiling as he always was, but Thomas couldn’t deny that he looked worried in his own way. “We made our own crystally beds long ago, and now we’re lying in ‘em. We’ll talk to you later, all right, Thom-O? Text your friends.”

“If you say so.”

“Would your ol’ pops lie to you?” Patton asked confidently. But before he vanished like all the others, Thomas thought he saw a flash of guilt.

***

Next Chapter