#and I think they felt something weird under their hoof because they didn’t step hard enough to break anything

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

My sixth grade teacher read us a story where someone got stomped to death by a moose (the only other thing i remember about the story was learning about snow blindness) and I’m just supposed to not be scared of moose? I think I’m more scared of moose than I am of grizzly bears. There are guides about how you can survive grizzly bears and how not to set them off and it’s pretty straightforward. Sure, it might not always work, but I’ve usually been ignored by grizzly bears. Moose have the anxiety of a prey animal though, even if most of the predators that went after American megafauna went extinct several thousand years ago. They still have predators, yeah, but adults are basically tanks that can easily handle different types of terrain. They are huge and they aren’t as cocky. They are also a bit less predictable. I don’t hate moose, and I’ve encountered more of them than i have grizzly bears (more black bears than both combined though, but they are fairly easy to exist around without panicking imo) but the moose scare me more. And the mom ones are more defensive than normal and male ones get all heated when they’re horny and if I’m not completely terrified around bears (most, I’m not going anywhere near polar bears if I can help it) because I listen to safety guides and I know all I can do is try to avoid either of us getting aggressive, I should probably be okay around moose, right? I mean, I listen to the advice about them and I’m careful, but no. Your sixth grade teacher reads a book where a guy gets trampled into some pile of viscera and you aren’t taking anxiety medication yet and suddenly you’re probably traumatized and are now scared of moose for life, and in a way that you aren’t scared of a lot of other animals. It doesn’t help that they can be a bit less predictable than bears and that the prion disease makes them a mess. I don’t really have anything against moose, I wouldn’t want to hurt one, but I’m also terrified of them in a way that I’m not scared of many other animals. Most of the other animals I’m scared of were also ones I learned something traumatizing about before I was medicated, but moose are the ones I run into most (aside from rodents but for some reason they aren’t as scary? Probably because the scary part isn’t the rodent themselves, but the haunta virus) so it feels like the most pressing one. I’ll be hiking (or sometimes just existing outside of town) and then a moose will show up and the people I’m with will be like “woah! Cool! Don’t you want to take a picture? You do photography” and I’m shaking a little because nope! I am not getting closer to the moose. I’m aware that they are 30ft away, that doesn’t mean that I’m not still scared.

[shadowsshowdown]

Deus Ex: Human Revolution Shadow’s Showdown 41

The Great Ball Part II

Sarif Industries

Jensen twitched, showing his nervousness at what he heard. Connor wasn't surprised at all and was the only one applauding her. Megan shook her head in resignation, and Sarif, in a desperate attempt to save his good name, with a wide smile encouraged the gathered crowd to dance, forcing the Security Chief and Doctor Reed to lead by example. Laura was squeezing through the crowd toward the exit when she felt someone grabbing her arm.

"Get off me, Adam. I don't care what you think," she growled, trying to free herself. "But I do care about you," Connor replied softly. "Besides, you're not going to turn me down for a dance, are you?" he asked, fixing his black and white jacket, from under which a dark purple shirt and black tie with tiny blue hexagons were visible.

The hacker sighed. She didn't like situations like this, but it gave her a chance to question him about the gift.

"One dance, and then I'm leaving," she replied. "Agreed," he smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist and gently taking her left hand. "Connor?" she lifted her head to look into his eyes. "That look doesn't bode well," he muttered amusedly. "You bought me this dress, didn't you?" She asked straightforwardly without playing the trick, watching his reaction.

The man laughed. "I would love to, but Vito Valentino is an expensive boutique."

"How do you know it's from that particular store?" she inquired, wrinkling her brow. "Oh man, you should probably be a detective because I feel like I'm being interrogated," he gasped quietly. "I was looking for something appropriate for the ball and went to Vito Valentino, but the prices effectively discouraged me so I left. I saw a similar gown there."

At the next turn, Connor noticed that Adam wasn't focusing his attention on Megan at all but on them so he decided it was high time to kick him hard right in the balls.

"You want to win Adam back?" he asked directly, changing the subject. "Why do you ask out of a sudden? After all, you don't like him," the hacker was surprised by his directness. "Just answer," he insisted. "Of course I do, but he's the one who should be fight..."

Connor interrupted her with a sudden kiss so fervent she felt like she was about to faint. While doing so, he peeked to know if Jensen was still watching, regretting that he couldn't take a picture right now.

"Are you crazy?!" she growled, but he silenced her with another kiss. "Don't scream. If this is going to work, you need to act natural," he said snuggling his face into her neck. "You smell wonderful, and your lips are so sweet. I envy him," he muttered. "That comment is part of the plan?" she inquired, trying to calm herself. "It's a private observation that I don't regret one bit," he replied in a confident voice. "We need to have a serious talk," she said wanting to warn him but not getting the desired effect. "Whatever you want, sweetheart, but not now. Adam is watching us. I'm betting another minute, and I'll lose at least half of my teeth," he muttered in her ear. "You're enjoying this!" she growled, wanting to escape Connor's embrace but he hugged her tighter. "But of course I do!” he silently exclaimed. “It's been a long time since I've seen someone so very indecisive. He wants to be with you but just a little. At the same time, he doesn't let anyone get even one step closer. There are clouds of smoke coming out of his nose while he furiously digs his hoof into the ground. At the same time, when it comes to the longed-for tete-a-tete, he can't release the brakes and go all the way. This guy is like a corked volcano and someone should pull that cork, don't you think?" "You haven't thought about the fact that maybe he has reasons?" she asked ignoring his psychological portrait of Adam. "Unbelievable! You're the one defending him. You just declared war on him, and now you're looking for an explanation for his behavior? You both are weird." "I simply know more than you do," she replied shortly. "Your behavior is as incomprehensible as his. What is this all about?"

Laura felt the air thicken, taking her breath away. She felt as if some tremendous force was clenching her throat and crushing her lungs. Connor's firmness terrified her; almost every conversation they had seemed like an interrogation. She didn't even know when the next song started, and they were still dancing. Instead, she noticed Adam standing alone with a glass of punch near a table covered with a red tablecloth on which stood a crystal swan filled with pink liquid. The waiter standing next to the table was making sure the guests were happy. He looked bored, which diminished his professionalism. Jensen's gaze pierced Connor's back, then focused on Laura’s face. She saw boundless anger and grief, which did not surprise her at all. First, she'd said goodbye to her job in her own way, and now she was kissing his enemy.

"I told you enough when we were in Uppsala and that was my biggest mistake," she stated firmly, wanting to end the uncomfortable subject. "It was the best thing you could have done. By keeping the truth to yourself, you are not protecting anyone that way, least of all Adam. If not to him tell me, after all, I am vulnerable to Damien's attack too."

When the second song was over they stepped aside. Hacker wouldn't just let her go, he was the complete opposite of Jensen, but it was hard to tell if he was doing it because of the situation or if it was just usual him.

"I'm not letting you go until I know the truth," he insisted. He could feel the fear rising in the hacker, but he had to be firm.

Laura clenched the handle of her purse in her hands, took a deep breath but only managed to open her mouth.

"Miss Werner, we need to talk," Adam's voice was like cursing and salvation.

The official tone only confirmed the fact that he was mad at her. He used it whenever she did something, not the way he would have wished it.

"We have nothing to talk about," the hacker muttered without even looking at him. "I ask you into my office," he insisted ignoring her words. "I'm not going anywhere, get the fuck away from me," she growled.

Those harsh words didn't impress Adam at all; on the contrary, they only reinforced his assumption that Laura was afraid of him. She's trying to play abruptly to confuse him.

Faridah sat at the table drinking a cocktail. She noticed that something bad was going on, but she didn't know what it could be about. At least half of the company employees were whispering about something in the corners, and they looked agitated. The head of the pilots was absent from the speech because she had an important flight and was probably approaching the landing at that time. She wanted to go to find out what was going on, but Frank disturbed her. He didn't look happy, however, there was nothing strange about it.

"I wanted an orange, and this stupid machine gave me lemon-lime," he whined while holding a can of drink in his hand. "As if I didn't have enough problems. You know what that stupid woman did?!" he growled irritably. "I don't know who it's about, much less what happened. I just got back," she replied, though she felt Laura had something to do with it. "About your friend and my former employee. She publicly insulted everyone gathered in the lobby. She mumbled something about being humiliated and finally said 'Screw you'," his voice was getting more unbearably squawking with every word.

Faridah didn't know what to say, she thoughtfully moved a straw dipped in a liquid of unnatural green color. Laura was capable of this, but it really must have been very bad she had decided to take such a step. She was beginning to regret leaving her alone with all this. After all, she knew there could be an open war, and yet she ignored the threat. She bit her lip tormented with pricks of conscience.

"You won't say anything, do you? Or did you talk her into it yourself, huh?" he asked reproachfully. "But of course, I planned all this to harm just don't know who," she snorted taking a sip of her drink. She really felt like getting drunk.

Pritchard took the seat across from her without asking permission, which did not please Malik at all. He was wearing an orange suit and a Panama hat of the same color. To look even more idiotic he wore a white shirt and a black tie patterned with orange nerd glasses.

“I’d like to ask for your attention, please,” she heard after a moment a voice coming from the platform where the speech had taken place earlier. “As you are probably well aware, it is time for our annual twist contest!” announced a balding man of low stature dressed in an old-fashioned suit. “Entries will be accepted for a quarter of an hour, so I suggest you hurry up!” The main prize is a Golden Icarus statue and three days off to be used as you wish," he encouraged.

At that very moment, Faridah's mind was plotting an act of almost perfect revenge on Pritchard. She extinguished all sympathy within herself so she didn’t even wonder how long the company employees would be laughing at the head of Cyber Security.

“We’re going to participate in the contest,” she announced in an unobjectionable tone. “No, no and no again!” protested Frank. “I’m not going to dance. I don’t like to dance. Ask Jensen.” “I think you’ve misunderstood something,” misunderstood something," she insisted, drilling him with a look from her brown eyes. “I want to dance and win a statue, and you’re going to help me do that and you better do it right.” “That can’t be true. She’s kidding! Francis Pritchard, the top computer brain of Sarif Industries, the rising star of Picus TV, is dancing in some stupid contest?” he thought. “Faridah Malik and Francis Pritchard!” she exclaimed, raising her hand in the air before the hacker had time to do anything. “Come to me, please. Unfortunately, even here the formalities got to us,” the presenter tried to joke, but it was more embarrassing than funny.

Malik tugged on Pritchard's jacket sleeve and moved toward the maroon, oval-shaped reception desk that had been converted for the ball time into a bar where bartenders served drinks. As she filled out the application, her gaze went to Laura, Connor, and Adam standing near a large display advertising Neuropozyne. She frowned seeing that none of them were having much fun. Laura and Adam were no doubt furious with each other. The hacker was almost trembling with rage and her hands clenched into fists. The Head of Security tried to feign calm and composure but, like her, he was only waiting for the moment when he could give vent to his anger. Connor, on the other hand, was a passive observer who tried to find a solution but remained powerless.

The woman already wanted to treat Adam with another outburst of anger but Connor's warning look only made her open her mouth and sigh. She stood, not at all wanting to follow Jensen, but the hacker had pushed her towards the stairs so she had no other option. She took her time to catch up with Adam, who was almost to the floor. Even in his silhouette and his movements, she could see the anger that was clutching all his muscles creating an image of an officer on duty. In addition, one who never turns a blind eye to misconduct. As if in spite, the man was waiting for her at the next staircase, which seemed to shrink suddenly because they were on the third floor way too quickly. Even being angry Jensen let her inside the office first. For a split second, she hoped it was just one of his ways of getting them alone, but that hope flew away even faster.

“I would expect many things from you, Miss Werner, but not something like this!” his shout immediately greeted her. “You shouldn’t care. I won’t be here any time soon anyway, so your reputation will remain untarnished,” she replied calmly, shrugging at the same time. “Tolerating such behavior is not part of my job description. You have embarrassed everyone, and I will see to it that you suffer the consequences.” “Funny how those who mocked me and humiliated me won't answer for anything.”

She was intrigued by the fact that he didn't say a word about her insulting him. Did he really care that much about the company or was it just an implicit expression of concern for her?

"Maybe I already dealt with that?"

She decided to take her chances. It couldn't get any worse anyway so if not him then she would show courage.

"Why did you bring me here? Honestly," she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

With that question, she knocked the Security Chief off guard. He actually wanted to see her, despite his monstrous anger, and she had figured it out. He felt completely naked and ashamed of the fact that he had to hide behind a wall made of Sarif Industries matters.

“You're right, I wanted to talk but I didn’t anticipate you might come up with something like this. I thought Connor being in Uppsala had talked to you about...” "Wait a minute," the hacker interjected. "You used him for your own purpose? You didn't have the courage to do it yourself?!" she growled. "Wait, let me explain, please..." he tried to stop her by grabbing her hand, but he happened to be using the cut one so his grip wasn't strong enough. "I hate you!" she screamed, slapping his cheek with her other hand.

The man hissed in pain, and Laura took advantage of this moment of disorientation to make her escape. She rushed out into the hallway and ran down the stairs to the Lobby where preparations for the twist contest were underway. She saw Faridah dragging a disgruntled Frank onto the dance floor, then pulling up her dress, taking off shoes, and leaving her shawl on the bar. She also saw a huge hole in one of Pritchard's gray socks. As they faced each other, the Cyber Security Chief involuntarily rolled his eyes along the triangular deep neckline of Malik's black dress. The woman gave him a warning glance as she corrected the short, orange-red sleeves. They started dancing as soon as the music came from the speakers. Surprisingly, Pritchard was really good at it.

It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

Laura would very much like to see and film this, but she was aware that Adam might be looking for her so she should disappear.

They furnished off an apartment with a two room Roebuck sale The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale But when Pierre found work, the little money comin' worked out well "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

On her way to the door, Laura drank two glasses of punch at once and left the company. She was greeted by a chill and unpleasant dampness that hung in the air irritating her skin. The hacker had quickened her pace, wanting to avoid meeting anyone who might try to help her resolve this situation. She didn't need help. She didn't need anyone. If she sold the apartment, she would have enough money to start over away from Detroit. Laura hated that city to the extreme. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't live in Uppsala. Berlin was out of the question. Too many bad things had happened there. Maybe Prague, Scotland, or some village in Poland. The latter tempted her the most. No one would ever guess she had gone there. With a nervous movement, she looked for a tissue in her bag, but instead, she found something she did not expect to find. She squinted as she saw the box tied with a ribbon and it took her a moment to realize she had been stupid enough to take a gift for Adam with her. She had done it hoping, no, she had done it because like a child she had imagined they would surely spend most of their time alone in his office, dancing hugging each other, whispering sweet words. It was not too late, so she rushed to the store where she bought the trinket. Luckily, the salesman accepted the return based on her detailed description of the day and time of purchase. The man found the proof of sale in the register and returned the full amount, regretting that her beloved didn't like the gift. Laura did not want to explain the details at all. She thanked the man politely and left the store before the salesman could change his mind.

Adam followed after Laura as soon as she left his office. He wouldn't abandon her like that, not now that he had made up his mind. Jensen was in too much of a hurry so he left the door open and his coat on the coat rack. He ran down the stairs as fast as he could, looking around the lobby on the way.

They had a hi-fi phono, boy, did they let it blast Seven hundred little records, all rock, rhythm and jazz But when the sun went down, the rapid tempo of the music fell "C'est la vie", say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

There was no Laura anywhere, so he immediately rushed for the door. He was almost leaving when one of the employees stopped him and asked to intervene. From what he understood it was about some insignificant fight, which was not part of his duties to break it up, but he had no choice. He admonished both of them and told them to go home because they had drunk too much. Barely had they left wobbling on their feet, Jensen resumed his search.

"Have you seen Laura?" he heard Connor's voice behind him and fury surged within him. "Let's go outside," he ordered. "We can talk in here," protested the hacker, feeling that losing his teeth might be more real than he had thought. "Outside! Right now!" he growled grabbing him by the shirt, ripping off several buttons in the process. Connor gave up though the whole situation amused him immensely. "So what now? Are you going to punch me in the face?" he sneered as they stood alone facing each other like two gunmen with a blood-red carpet under their feet.

The answer came faster than he expected. It was a chaotic right hook aimed at his cheek. Connor was lighter and more agile so he dodged it easily. Same as Adam's subsequent expressions of fury.

"Stop punching like a woman, Jensen!" he provoked with another punch, which this time was more precise but gave him a general idea of the Security Chief's fighting technique. "Odpierdol się od Laury raz na zawsze albo ci, kurwa, łeb upierdolę!" he growled through clenched teeth getting ready for another punch, which this time hit Connor right in the nose.

The man hissed in pain covering his face with his hands. "Ochujałeś, Jensen?! One tiny kiss and so much fuss about that," he said wiping away the blood. "If she was your wife or at least your girlfriend you'd have every right to be mad."

"You lied to me! You said you'd help me!" he yelled while pummeling the hacker.

Connor dodged the blows looking for a good moment to counter. Unfortunately, the blows came down on him like an avalanche of stones and their unpredictability made it difficult for him to react. "Didn't you notice, you blind idiot, that's what I'm doing?!"

Adam halted his attack by stopping his fist in mid-motion. It was then he got hit hard at his left temple. Blood trickled down his cheek in a thin stream swirling over his skin.

"We're even. Can we talk man to man now or are we still playing kids?"

Ex-SWAT nodded toward a nearby bench where they sat. He took out a box of cigarettes from his trousers pocket, which he offered to the hacker along with a lighter. Connor hesitated but figured that if he lit one occasionally nothing would happen to him.

"What was supposed to mean this: Odpierdol się od Laury raz na zawsze albo ci, kurwa, łeb upierdolę?" he asked letting out a mouthful of smoke. "Pretty much that you should stay away from Laura once and for all or I'll cut your head off," he replied scratching his forehead with his thumb.

Connor nodded slowly and touched his sore nose. A few people came out of the company but thankfully they took no interest in them.

"'Ochujałeś', I don't know that word," Adam muttered, slipping the end of his cigarette between his lips. "That's what you say when someone talks shit," he explained as he watched someone enter the company.

Jensen frowned and rubbed his nose. "What did I say?" he asked not sure he wanted to know.

"Laura is an interesting woman. I can't deny that. She's beautiful, talented, and has character. But she loves someone and that person is not me. I have my principles that I stick to." "Then why did you kiss her?" he muttered with indignation in his voice. "Because I had to do something to make you finally explode with jealousy, which was supposed to push you to make a decision. Unfortunately, you screwed up again."

Connor's harshness angered Adam, but it was extremely apt so he refrained from commenting. He was more annoyed, however, that outsiders had to help him with something that was so obvious and simple.

"Do you mind if we take a selfie?" Connor asked in a completely different tone than before. There was a wide smile on his face. "You know I don't..." Jensen sighed. "Well, okay," he agreed with great reluctance.

The hacker put his arm around him like a good old buddy, so the ex-SWAT did the same, trying to bring something resembling a smile to his face. They looked pathetic, one with a bloody temple and the other with blood clots under his nose.

"Sorry, I hit too hard. Maybe it's broken?" he asked, and Connor felt a shadow of concern in his voice. "No, just solidly bruised. There won't be a mark in a few days," He shrugged. "Worse if Laura sees you."

Adam laughed and after a moment they were both laughing. There was no telling what would happen tomorrow, but today he could call him a friend.

"How do you know Polish curses anyway?" "When I was in SWAT, we had a boy on the team who was from Poland. He taught us useful phrases. He was killed during one of the missions. He fell into a trap. He had no chance to save himself, so he decided to die spectacularly. He blew up the whole building according to the mission plan. At the funeral, I gave a speech in Polish and then instead of a minute of silence everyone cursed as best they could."

Connor didn't know what to say, so he decided to remain silent.

"And how do you know useful Polish phrases?" Jensen looked at him out of the corner of his eye, finishing his cigarette. "I like watching Polish movies," he lied, hoping it was at least somewhat believable. "I should go look for Laura. I hope she's safe at home," the ex-SWAT announced without inquiring about movie titles. "I'll stay here, maybe pick up some girl for a broken nose, who knows?" he carelessly said getting up from the bench.

The Security Chief was already coming down the stairs when Connor's voice stopped him. "Jensen?"

"Yeah?" he turned his head stopping halfway down the stairs. "Don't screw it up again," he said seriously. "I'm not going to," he replied shortly and walked away.

Hacker shook his head as he looked at the man's dwindling figure. Only now did he feel he was cold.

Laura was just two blocks from the house when she suddenly felt a sudden jerk, followed by a pull into a dark alley. A moment later she heard a voice that didn't seem one bit familiar.

"Kratos sends his regards," she heard an unpleasantly harsh tone when a leather-gloved hand covered her mouth.

She tried breaking free, to kick her opponent or step on his foot but she felt under her boot that his leg was unnaturally hard and then realized that her attacker was an aug.

All  chapters can be found: [AO3], [dA], [Wattpad] and [Tumblr]

[yourdeepestfathoms]

bloodhorse

this was supposed to be a short fic,, i was wrong

the Jockey’s name is Sorrel!

also im sorry if i got the Netherworld wrong. i don’t quite know how it works but i am Trying.

using the concept where the Dead can feel the pain of how they died!

Word count: 6071

TW: Blood, death, implied child abuse

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

Sorrel was eight when she first watched The Lion King, maybe nine. She couldn’t quite remember. But what she could remember was the horror of Mufasa’s death. Her jaw had dropped as the big, fluffy kitty was stepped on by all the weird-looking deer, and she screamed in reaction, floundering over to her smartly-dressed parents in tears to blubber about what she had just witnessed. They had, as they always had with anything she did, looked bothered by her presence around them, and her father tiredly explained what was going on to her, but even then she still couldn’t really understand. She just knew that it was scary and sad. 

But watching someone get trampled and actually being trampled were two entirely different things.

Despite her best efforts to forget, Sorrel remembered That Day clearly. She was sitting in the jockey room, in a far corner, away from all of the other jockeys. She had already dressed out and was patiently waiting for her race of the day. She was clad in black riding boots, white pants, and a checkered ruby red and white jacket that she knew was going to be covered in dust and dirt by the end of the race. Her safety helmet, goggles, and crop were beside her on the bench she was sitting on. She already had her long brown hair done in a braid and then a tight bun so she could tuck it safely out of eyesight when the time came to race.

At first glances, she almost looked like she knew what she was doing.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. She did know what she was doing, she had been training, but the anxiety of racing was getting to her, as it always did. For example, she had woken up that morning mid-panic attack before her eyes even fully opened.

And she knew for a fact that jockeys that knew what they were doing wouldn’t have that happen to them.

It didn’t help that everyone else in the room was a man, meaning she was not only the youngest, but also the only girl. Now she really had to prove herself worthy of being equal to her male counterparts.

Hoping to distract herself from her festering anxiety, Sorrel had looked up to watch the big TV up on the far wall, where the hosts of the racing channel talked about the odds and favorites of the next race today. All That Jazz was the favorite going into the race, with another horse by the name of Knock Your Socks Off right after.

Names Sorrel didn’t recognize at all continued to pop up on the screen, until, finally…

All That Jazz

Knock Your Socks Off

Fly Me To The Moon

Too Close For Comfort

Killer Whale

When Lightning Strikes

Donut Tell Daddy 

Rookie’s Gambling Chance 

Dime-a-Dozen

Blazing Berry

  “Would you look at that,” A biting voice cackled from the side. “Little girl actually made it in the top five.”

Sorrel whipped her head around to glare at the owner of the voice- a young man about nineteen with enough gel in his hair to start a fire. Sorrel did her best to just ignore him, busying herself with her boots instead, making sure they were fastened properly. 

Harassment in the jockey room wasn’t uncommon for Sorrel- in fact, it was weird if she didn’t get picked on at least once. Her young age didn’t deter the men, either. If anything, it made them even more manic in their persecution of her. More…handsy.

Sorrel swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the Other Times. When nobody could see the handprints because of the dirt slathered up and down her sides. When she was accused of trying to slander her opponents because she “couldn’t handle losing.” 

  “Are you ignoring me?” The young man said. He sidled more into view, and Sorrel could see that his uniform was yellow and white. She turned her head away more, saying nothing.

She was sure the man was about to spew out even more misogyny when someone came into the room to tell the jockeys it was time for them to saddle up. The man, quick to straighten himself up, headed out for the place where all the horses were being held at the end of the walk. Sorrel glared at the back of his helmeted head, considering using her whip on him, finally standing up for herself, but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Maybe if she had, she would have been disqualified, and then none of this would have happened in the first place.

They all heard loud voices of the fans as they made their way to the paddocks. As the horses and trainers lined up came into view, each jockey moved towards their respective mount. There, amid the rising dust, Sorrel saw her stallion shifting anxiously on his haunches, looking all around as the sounds grew louder and louder. Her trainer was doing his best to calm the colt.

Her horse was well named. After SeaWorld’s most famous orca, Tilikum, aka Killer Whale while on the track, was a massive beast with sleek roan fur and an ebony black head, legs, mane, and tail, as if he had crawled out of the very shadows themselves. His eyes were pitch dark and wild, and he never seemed to stop moving. He was an aloof, ill-tempered, cranky young colt, and nobody ever seemed to have any idea how his caretaker became the most shy, anxious, and socially awkward girl to possibly ever exist.

That girl was Sorrel.

She and Tilikum just had a connection! She had raised him herself, despite how agitated he always was, and never gave up on him no matter how many times he bit her, bucked her, scratched her, or knocked her down. He was her best friend! Not that the bar was very high, she didn’t have very many friends to begin with, but still! They were a dynamic duo!

  “Come on, Sorrel,” Her trainer said impatiently. “Up you go. You have a race to win. We gotta pull in cash somehow.”

Sorrel nodded, put on her helmet and goggles, then grabbed the saddle and clambered onto Tilikum’s muscular back, which took a few tries because of how big he was and how much muscle she lacked. Surprised, the horse stumbled a little, pawing at the dirt with a front hoof. Then, he settled. Somewhat. He didn’t seem happy.

Tilikum hesitated. He shuffled back and forth. Under Sorrel’s thighs, his muscles tensed, and, for a moment, Sorrel feared he was going to throw her off (he had done that before. before a race like this. she had yet to get over that one). Then, he craned his head around, looking for something. Sorrel laughed softly and gave it to him- a sugar cube.

A watching jockey wrinkled his nose a little at this. Another bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  “He shouldn’t be so fidgety when you get onto him,” Said the first jockey. He was sitting maturely on the back of his dark bay thoroughbred, probably thinking he knew everything about racing. “And you shouldn’t have to tempt him into listening to you with treats… Is he not trained?”

  “He is trained!” Sorrel snapped, causing Tilikum to stir in agitation at the tone of her voice. She quieted herself, hunching her shoulders in, and muttered an apology to her mount. “Tilikum’s just…he has a temper. That’s all.”

The jockey quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn’t say anything else. Sorrel looked away.

  “Remember,” Her trainer spoke back up. “Let him make his own pace coming out of the gate. Don’t push him until the very end. And don’t listen to those PETA pussies. It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason. If he isn’t listening to you, give him a good lashing.”

Sorrel didn’t like the sound of that at all. As someone who had been subjected to the other end of a switch (she lived in the country, after all, it was bound to happen eventually), she knew how badly it could hurt and she didn’t want Tilikum to have to feel that. But still, she nodded, not wanting to anger her trainer. He already always looked frustrated with her as is.

  “Good luck,” The trainer called after her as the horses were led out onto the track by escorts. “Don’t disappoint us this time.”

Passing that threshold, Sorrel realized she and her horse were no longer Sorrel and Tilikum.

They were Sorrel and Killer Whale.

Cheers erupted from the stands as the ten horses in the race were walked out onto the field. Sorrel had told herself to keep her eyes forward, to stay focused, but she found herself looking all around the track stadium to try and find the only people she wanted to see. It was hard to discern the mass of people, but she hoped they were here this time.

The escorts led the horses up to the starting gate as the announcer spoke loudly to the crowd, introducing the racers. One by one, each horse was walked into the stalls in order. Tilikum-- no, Killer Whale had no problem getting into his designated spot, number six, but once the door shut behind him loudly with a clank and squeal, that was when he began to act up.

Killer Whale began nervously neighing and backing up against the gate. Tilikum was starting to slip out of his race facade, which really wasn’t something Sorrel wanted to happen. Not during a race. Not again.

  “Shh, shh,” Sorrel whispered, leaning down to speak into her horse’s ear. “It’s okay. It’s--” She cut herself off with a yelp as the chestnut  stallion to her left rammed against the metal grating separating the two of them, startling Killer Whale further.

The clamor was starting to get to Sorrel, too. The stall was so small and it was so noisy from all the rattling iron and horse cries. She felt like she was suffocating and, without realizing it, she found herself becoming shortened of breath. All the dust was choking her. The smell of metal and horses burned in her nostrils.

Don’t freak out, don’t freak out… 

  “Holy shit, kid, are you alright?” The man to her left, the one with the chestnut stallion who hit into her grate (he apologized, at least) asked.

  “She’s fine,” Said the young man to Sorrel’s right- the same young man who had harassed her in the jockey room. “Let her work herself up. Maybe then she’ll realize this isn’t for her.” He laughed cruelly.

His taunting words registered in Sorrel’s ringing ears and she grit her teeth, stamping down her panic attack. It just kept bubbling to the surface, so she finally gave up on calming herself and rather turned to her horse.

  “Come on, boy,” She whispered, almost hissed through her clenched teeth as her anger mounted. “Calm down. It’s okay. I’m with you.”

Just when she thought she had Killer Whale settled, an ear piercing ringing sounded from above and the gates flew open.

The horses jetted from their stalls, and Killer Whale took off.

The sound of the hoofbeats was hypnotizing. And it only got more and more hypnotic the closer and closer Sorrel and Killer Whale inched towards the competition.

Sorrel leaned forward, keeping her balance with ease, her legs an iron band around Killer Whale’s girth. She could feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing, the heat and sweat leaching through her pants, searing her skin.

The herd of professionals was galloping, yet Killer Whale ran just as fast. He twisted to the right, to the left, his body never straight. Sorrel felt like she was riding a wild, plunging river, a torrent that tossed her, battered her, until she hardly knew where she was.

It was incredible.

The first horse they passed was a deep red color, then a chocolate brown one, then one the shade of bloody mud.

  “Easy, Tilly, easy,” Sorrel said to her horse. “You’re doing great, buddy. Steady on.”

Killer Whale snorted and urged himself forward without his rider’s command. Almost sensing his need to speed up, Sorrel obliged and finally lifted herself fully off of the saddle, leaning forward and adjusting her weight so it would be at the front. Practically standing up on this sprinting beast’s back made a strong sense of vertigo wash over her, and she thought she might fall off, but Killer Whale’s increasing speed brushed away her worries.

Sorrel’s grip may have been tight on the reins, but Killer Whale was controlling himself. He weaved through two horses almost perfectly, despite them never training with moving obstacles, only the occasional stock-still ones. He knew to angle to the right to avoid getting his legs tangled up in an opponent’s and banked a hard left at the next turn that was so sharp it cut off the rider in front of him.

They both crossed the finish line for the third time, starting the final lap. Sorrel was still shouting in glee when, suddenly, something slammed into Killer Whale’s side on the last leg of the race, ramming him right against the wall where one side of the stands were situated above. Sorrel yelped as her shoulder and side were grated painfully against the metal as her horse was pushed further against the structure. She turned to see the man from the jockey room glaring at her from his raging red horse, Knock Your Socks Off.

  “You’ll learn one way or another, little girl!” The man spat, “This isn’t for you!”

Sorrel grunted and she heard Killer Whale screech a furious neigh. He whipped his head to the side, baring his teeth and rotating his ears back. His anger was a cold, deep, dark thing that Sorrel knew about well. He once kicked down a barn door just because he was pet in an area he didn’t want to be pet in. That being said, Sorrel has taken a lot of time to learn his mannerisms and techniques to calm the beast.

Now was not one of the times to use those.

  “You don’t belong here!” The man hissed.

Sorrel grit her teeth, feeling the scrapes already tearing open on her shoulder thanks to the wall. Even over the sound of hoofbeats and horses, she could still hear her trainer’s words ringing in her ears.

  “It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason.”

Sorry, buddy, Sorrel thought before yanking on the reins to get away from the man and unholstering her crop. The sound of it cracking against Killer Whale’s side echoed in her head.

That was her biggest mistake.

Killer Whale screeched. He sped up with a burst of speed, then began to have a fit. 

Sorrel helplessly cried for her steed to calm down, but her yelling only seemed to spur his frenzy further. He whipped his head back and forth, turned in every direction, reared and bucked until, finally, Sorrel came loose from his back and was flung to the dirt. 

Sorrel lay dazed on the ground for several long seconds. She was winded, confused, and very disorientated. She struggled to breathe as several other cries of horses sounded around her. They must have gotten spooked by Killer Whale’s tantrum.

And then, a hoof came crashing down onto her stomach.

Now, Sorrel had felt pain before, that in itself wasn’t anything new. Once, when she was ten, she had gotten stung by a hornet while at a birthday party for her younger cousin. At the time, she thought that was the worst pain anyone could ever go through. But now, five years later, with 1100 pounds of pure muscle pressing into her abdominal cavity, she would have much preferred the hornet.

Sorrel couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even wheeze as the horse that had stepped on her charged onwards, the edge of its hoof catching on her uniform and flesh and taking some of it with it. Another hoof came down on her, then another, then another, then another, until it felt like she was caught in a hurricane that had raindrops made of thick keratin. She tried to curl in on herself, tried to protect her organs, but they hooves kept coming and she couldn’t move and she was so fucking scared.

Through the dust and black spots that began to appear all along her vision, she saw Killer Whale, and his eyes were stark white and full of rage.

Pure rage.

She could see it now. That wasn’t Killer Whale looking back at her. It wasn’t even Tilikum. It was a horse she forced into racing because she wanted them to be a duo. And he hated her with every inch of his being.

I’m sorry, dear friend.

--

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are up for the fifth race here at Hartford Stadium. Once again, Maxwell Gingham and the incredible All That Jazz bring up the front in a crowd favorite.

And they’re off!

With the gate up, Blazing Berry and Knock Your Socks Off tie for the front, but All That Jazz is not far behind. Donut Tell Daddy right there. Too Close For Comfort a length off the pace. Killer Whale is in front of When Lightning Strikes, but All That Jazz trails the leader by only three lengths. Blazing Berry leads by a head. Dime-a-Dozen hangs tight with jockey Richard Bride aboard. Rookie’s Gambling Chance is challenging the rest of the pack. 

Into the next turn, Blazing Berry still controlling the pace, with All That Jazz close behind. Knock Your Socks Off content with third place at this point. Fly Me To The Moon falling off a bit. Donut Tell Daddy and Too Close For Comfort are in good position in the second group. Killer Whale mounting a challenge, but it could be too much. He’s making a bold move on the outside and looking for a way in around the bend-- Look out! Killer Whale’s rider goes down! Jockeys do their best to avoid a pile-up! All the horses go through, but the rider… Oh dear-- oh god! Stop the cameras! Stop! Someone get help down there! I don’t think she’s--”

--

Sorrel had not been looking forward to dying. Not one bit. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She was supposed to become the world’s best jockey, become famous, finally be loved by her parents… She wasn’t supposed to die, not this soon, not this early.

But she could safely say that she was looking forward to not being in pain anymore. Death, at least, would provide respite from the awful way she went out. She would no longer feel the crunching of her bones, the tearing of her flesh, the ripping of her organs, the spilling of her own blood, the pounding of the hooves of her enraged horse who wanted nothing more than to pummel her into the dirt. It would finally all be gone and she would be at peace.

But she wasn’t. Because when her eyes opened and she found herself lying on the track, sprawled in mud that was mixed with her own blood, she was met with the unbearable agony of invisible hooves smashing her organs and had to roll over to vomit blood all over the dirt.

For a long time, Sorrel cried until it felt like she couldn’t breathe- and then she realized she wasn’t breathing. Not really. But she could still feel pain and her lungs felt like they were being ripped right out of her chest, her rib cage crumpling inwards to pierce her heart and diaphragm. She gurgled on her blood.

It was dark. The track was dead. She was dead. The only people around were a few stragglers who must have worked at the stadium. She tried to get up to run to them, but she couldn’t stand up. When she looked down, she saw that her right femur was sticking out of her thigh. She threw up again, then settled for crawling.

  “Help me,” Sorrel begged, dragging herself to a group of three people speaking in hushed whispers. “Please, please help me-- it hurts-- I want my mom--”

But her pleading went unnoticed. It wasn’t until her hand phased right through one of the men that she truly realized what had happened.

Sorrel curled into a ball again, weeping even more. The pain grew unbearable. She thought death was supposed to be peaceful. 

The group left, eventually. The moon rose high in the sky. Its glow caught on something lying listlessly in the dirt of the track. Sorrel crawled over to it. 

The Handbook For The Recently Deceased. That was what it said, and reading it made Sorrel feel even more sick. She forced herself to not throw up this time, though she could feel the blood slowly filling her lungs like a thick red tar.

Sorrel accidentally stained the dusty pages when she flipped through the book. Her gloves were coated in a fine layer of dust and blood. Her uniform was the same way, she realized, slathered in the muck of her own fluids and dirt from the track. Hoofprints trodded up and down her chest, stomach, and legs, marks to remember what had happened, though she was sure the trauma would never leave her brain, even after death. Her helmet was cracked down the middle, but still firmly strapped to her skull. It did its job, it seemed, because her head hurt the least amount out of every spot on her throbbing body.

She read through the book with cloudy eyes. She was exhausted, mentally and physically. She wanted to lay down and never wake up. She wanted the pain to go away. She wanted her mom.

Eventually, she managed to find a passage with directions to some place called the “Netherworld,” and she was in little room to question anything at that point, so she followed what it said. 

She didn’t have any chalk to draw a door, so she had to settle for her own blood. She hobbled to one of the stadium walls, which took forever because her small intestines came out at one point and made her have a screaming fit for five minutes straight before she was able to stuff them back into her abdominal cavity and continue her journey. When she finally got there, she slicked her already-filthy hands with the blood from her many, MANY wounds (god, those horses did a number on her, didn’t they?) and sloppily drew a red door on the wall. She added a doorknob, which ended up being too large because she had slammed her hand down in the reaction to the pain of her small intestines trying to slither their way out of her again, then knocked three times while hugging her stomach with one arm, trying to keep her organs in where they belonged. Slowly, the door opened up to her and she was bathed in green light.

It did little to comfort her.

The myriad of dead people through the doorway did even less.

Sorrel spit blood, then let her guts fall out as she sank to her knees.

She was so tired.

--

It was official: Sorrel hated being dead. And it wasn’t simply because she was dead, no, she could have dealt with that if the afterlife was cool like it was in Coco or something, but this-- this fucking sucked.

She was lonely. Even though the Netherworld was built like a regular society- a society that glowed green and sheltered walking corpses, but a society nonetheless- there were no people for her. Nobody ever wanted to talk to her, no matter how hard she tried. And even though she was only a “few dead days old,” she was already thinking about giving up because how the hell were you supposed to make friends in hell? Surely that was what this place was. That was what she got for being born into a family that was above middle-class.

It was also just so confusing. Why was she in debt? Why did she need a job when she was fifteen and, you know, DEAD? Why was there an economic system in the underworld? What was all this paperwork for? WHO WAS BEETLEJUICE???

She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it. And that was saying a lot because her head was the only thing apart of her that was completely intact after The Accident. 

She tried to get help, tried to ask questions, but everyone else looked at her in amusement or disdain whenever she did. It was the same way whenever she expressed any form of pain or didn’t understand something or let her organs fall out on accident. It was like they were expecting her to instantly know everything there was to know about being dead and if she didn’t, she was beneath them and wasn’t worth their time.

Funny. Her parents were the same way.

And then, there was the pain. It always came back to the pain.

Some days, she could deal with it, really. Some days it was only a dull pounding in her stomach or soreness in her chest. Some days it was only her legs, other days her shoulders, and other other days her sternum.

But some days, it was all over. And she couldn’t handle it.

This was how Those Days usually went: Her stomach began to throb and ache an hour after waking up. Joints and muscles started swelling two hours in. At three hours they’d go numb and heavy, forcing her to strain her body just to keep moving. Four hours in, feeling would return in the form of deep, slicing pain that lingered long into the day. After that, her bones would begin splintering, her organs would try to shove their way out of her, and her lungs start to hemorrhage. 

The pressure and pain her death put on her very being was constant. Oh how she wanted to be rid of this deep-seeded agony that was not only tearing her body apart, but her second “life”, too.

The way the shock from each throb made her fingers start to go numb if she had a grip on just about anything for too long, and she didn’t even know if she would be able to speak when she opened her mouth. The way her spine, heavily trampled and damaged from the hooves, knotted up until it felt wooden. The way her guts sloshed in her stomach like soup on some days, leaking viscous fluid that wasn’t really blood out of any opening they could find, forcing her to hug her middle or be shamed with them spilling out of her already-soiled uniform. The way her limbs screamed when she flew with an agony that seemed to echo in her more than her joints at some point. The way she would lie in the bed of her lonely Netherworld apartment and try not to shriek along with every muscle in her body, the way her body didn’t even seem to belong to her anymore.

She ached when she was lying down.

She ached when she was standing.

She ached when she was doing her job.

She ached on days she did nothing and she ached on the day that Breather in black came by with her father. 

She ached because she ached.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she sometimes found herself making a litany of her pain. A whisper of suffering that she tried to focus on so she wasn’t focused on the actual feeling. Anything but the feeling.

But if that wasn’t bad enough… 

The fact that she had to constantly deal with what felt like physical torture day to day wasn’t enough of a burden for one person. She had also been burdened with being an eyesore and a disappointment, though that wasn’t really new. She could feel the scorn and disgust the other dead felt when they saw her. Sometimes, that was worse than the pain itself.

It was just discomfort. All the time. Even things like getting up in the “mornings” (she still had no idea how time worked down here) and sleeping couldn’t be taken for granted. There was nothing good about her body.

It rocked to a rhythm that felt like it was being conducted by her very soul, but it did nothing to ease the fire in her veins.

She wished it was fire. That was what she had thought it was, at first. A little while ago.

Fire burned, but not in the same way. Fire was detached, impersonal. It didn’t care what got in the way. It burned and charred and devoured everything in minutes and went on its way, leaving the scorched corpses in its wake. Fire was powerful and murderous but it wasn’t torturous- the man who had gone up in flames because he smoked in bed proved that to her because he seemed to be doing just fine. Sulfur on the other hand…well, falling into a burning pool of that stuff was a different beast entirely.

Sulfur clung in a way that fire did not. It wrapped its monstrous hands around you, drawing you in closer, exposing more of you to its touch until it framed each piece of you intimately, until it was every much a part of you as your skin was.

Fire would leave. Sulfur stayed.

It stayed even after your death. It made you burn until you lost yourself, until there was nothing left except the fiery red afterglow and the screams inside of your head. It branded you, so that you and the whole fucking Netherworld knew that you were being burned. Being roasted alive. Being cauterized, like an open wound. You were something that was wrong, something bad, something that needed to be fixed or punished.

Mama has the switch. Can she get me down here? 

Sorrel would have much preferred fire.

The sulfur had burned her consciousness away, seared her eyes until all she saw was black spots. Filled her lungs until her chest felt like it was an open furnace. Blistered through her stomach and chest and legs and arms and back until they became a sick rendition of what they were supposed to be, like one big fucking cosmic joke. Sorrel was so sick of being the fucking punchline.

But, in the end, it didn’t really matter much one way or another because she suffered in silence. She strained herself to keep her body functioning so none of the other dead would get annoyed with her. She forced herself to go to work because she was a people-pleaser at heart and didn’t want to disappoint anyone. She tortured herself just to keep people who didn’t even care about her content, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not anymore. She was in too deep to do anything now.

This week had been especially brutal. The bruises stamped up and down the front of her body seemed to be at war with the cuts from the hooves, determined to see what could make her hurt more. Her lungs were bleeding extra today, too, and she kept accidentally spitting blood into people’s faces when she talked to them. She ended up spraying the wrong person, a woman with pale blue skin and deep purple brittle fingers and icicles hanging from her frosted hair (hypothermia, Sorrel guessed), because she was shoved backwards with enough force to send her careening into a desk in the office she had been bustling through. The edge of the table stabbed into her lower back, making her entire body tense up. When she tried to sidle to the side, a bloody apology dripping from her lips, her right femur suddenly snapped beneath her weight and she crumpled to the ground. Despite her training herself to not react to any pain she was in, she couldn’t bite back a scream this time.

There was a reason why broken femurs were so severe.

The hypothermic woman leered down at her squirming figure as if she were a worm she found nibbling on her corpse. “You’re a disgrace to the dead.” She spat.

Sorrel gurgled on her blood in response, digging her fingernails into the gash in her thigh where the bone was trying to inch its way out to freedom.

The hypothermic woman sneered in disgust. A cloud of freezing fog puffed out of her nostrils as if she were a terrifying ice dragon. Shaking her head in contempt, she wiped her face, then walked away, leaving Sorrel to reset her femur on her own.

Sorrel looked at the fallen stack of paperwork she had dropped in dismay. Juno wasn’t going to be happy with this one.

--

All things considered, Miss Argentina was quite lucky. Compared to the rest of the Dead, she had a rather simple, easy-to-deal-with death. Not to say that slashing open her own wrists with a razor blade wasn’t painful, but “living” with it in the Netherworld was like living with carpal tunnel syndrome- it was manageable.

Certainly more manageable than whatever the hell was going on with the horse girl in one of the offices.

Miss Argentina knew a lot of people. One of the perks of working in maintenance, she supposed. So she had seen this specific Dead before, quite a few times, actually, the most notable being when the goth Breather and her father stupidly decided to come down for a visit, but she never got around to talk to the child. 

Until now, of course.

When the “work day” finally ended and Miss Argentina was leaving for her apartment, she heard it. The whimpering. It reminded her of something a sick puppy would make or maybe a kitten with an upset stomach. Whatever it was, it was distressing, but also very intriguing, so she followed it deeper into the building. Stepping into one of the offices that was rank with blood, she found where those papers she had been looking for were.

Slightly sticking out from behind a table, Miss Argentina saw the little jockey sprawled on the floor, a fresh staining of blood seeping into her already-bloodied horse racing uniform. She was twisted into an awkward position, similar to how the corpses in those crime shows she used to watch when she was alive would be in- face-down with her arms tucked into her and her legs folded inward and knees pointing sharply to the side. Inching closer, fuelled by morbid curiosity, Miss Argentina realized why she was in such an arrangement.

The femur was sticking out of her right thigh. 

Miss Argentina couldn’t help grimace. When she was alive, she had a friend who broke his femur during a sports accident. He had to go to physical therapy to simply learn how to walk again. Death and the supernatural body, at the very least, saved this child from that, but the pain she had to have been in… No wonder she was lying on the floor.

Miss Argentina had heard about what happened to this little one. Trampled to death by horses. And she would admit that she got a laugh out of it at first, because what kind of death was that? But it quickly became less amusing when she saw the state the girl was in when she first showed up two weeks ago.

Hoofprints stomped all along the front of her body, uniform ripped and bloody, cuts and bruises all over, crunching bones when she moved and spilling organs that constantly tried to escape her abdominal cavity like restless snakes and gushing blood from her mouth. What made it worse was how little she was. A young jockey that died in the middle of a race. She couldn’t imagine what that had been like for her. 

The jockey didn’t stir when she stepped towards her, and Miss Argentina rationalized that she must have fallen asleep. Or blacked out, which seemed way more likely because that exposed bone looked worse and worse the closer and closer she got.

She knelt down to the jockey and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Honey?” Miss Argentina called out. “Wake up.”

The jockey gasped, sharply drawing in a useless breath of air, which quickly thickened with blood and came back out red. Miss Argentina grimaced and wondered if she should pat the girl’s back to help her get the gunk out of her throat (you were supposed to do that, right? or was it just a myth? she never thought to test it when she was alive), but thought against it when she saw the hoofprints on her back. She grimaced again. Did this child have any spot on her body that hadn’t been beaten mercilessly by horses?

The jockey eventually stopped leaking from her mouth and looked up at her dazedly, blood dripping from her chin in a dark waterfall of red. She squinted at her, then turned her head to the accumulating puddle beneath her head.

  “Sorry about the floor,” She croaked, and her voice was hoarse, but high and youthful.

  “It’s alright,” Miss Argentina assured her. “Are you okay?”

The jockey blinked at her slowly, as if confused as to why she was checking up on her. Miss Argentina could understand why, though. There was a reason she had told Lydia that everyone was alone in the Netherworld- nobody liked meddling in the affairs or business of others.

And yet, here she was.

  “Yes…” The jockey said slowly, sounding unsure. She tried to sit up, but froze when she moved her legs and looked back at them nervously. She bit her lip when she saw the state of her femur, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Argentina asked.

  “Yes,” The jockey said again, this time less unsure, but much meeker. She ducked her head to avoid Miss Argentina’s worried gaze and the rim of her helmet fell into her eyes.

Miss Argentina frowned. She watched as the jockey twisted around and managed to sit up, bracing herself against the table she had been laying beside. She pushed her femur back into her thigh with a horrible grinding-crunching sound and was very clearly struggling not to scream.

  “Sorry,” The jockey whispered after a moment. Her hands were still resting on her thigh, and her gloves (Miss Argentina thought they may have been white at some point) were soaking up a new layer of filth as blood drooled agaisnt them.

  “What for?” Miss Argentina tilted her head. “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

  “Y-yeah, but--” The jockey sounded anxious, like she was afraid of being yelled at for simply expressing discomfort. “The Dead-- I don’t wanna be weak, but-- it hurts. Everything hurts. And I--” She caught herself. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

Miss Argentina frowned. She reached out and lifted the jockey’s head with one hand. Using the other, she pushed her helmet back and saw that her eyes were a brilliant shade of hazel. There were tears gathering inside of them. The jockey stared up at her in shock, then leaned into her touch like a kitten seeking warmth from its mother.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Miss Argentina murmured to her. “It’s okay. You aren’t going to get in trouble for hurting. Everyone else are just uptight a--” She looked the jockey over, taking in how young she really was. “Jerks.”

That got a giggle out of the jockey, which quickly became wet with blood. She covered her mouth and swallowed, then pulled her hand away. Miss Argentina couldn’t imagine having to deal with a chronic bloody mouth. 

  “Okay,” The jockey whispered. She sniffled. “Sorry. I mean-- I apologize a lot. Sorry. Oh--”

Miss Argentina laughed. She felt endearment grow in her heart for this ragged, bloody child. 

  “It’s quite alright, honey,” Miss Argentina told her. She stood up and extended a hand down to the jockey. “Do you have anywhere to be?” 

The jockey took her hand and was pulled to her feet. She staggered for a moment, then steadied herself, wincing slightly. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Argentina raised an eyebrow. “‘Ma’am’?” She echoed. “That’s new for me.”

The jockey blushed shyly. “Sorry. Raised to be well-manered and all…”

  “No, no,” Miss Argentina was quick to assure her when she began to get nervous. “You’re a very sweet girl. It’s a nice change of pace from everything else. But you don’t have to be so formal with me.”

The jockey gave a light laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. I was, like, bred to be the perfect, polite daughter.” She said. “But, ahh-- no. No, I don’t have anywhere to be. Usually I just sit in my bed after work and try to turn out the sound of screeching horses in my head.”

Miss Argentina blinked worriedly. “Why don’t you tag along with me? You look like you could use some good company.”

The jockey perked up. “Really?”

Miss Argentina smiled at her warmly. “Really.”

It could be a start to make the pain go away. 

[name-me-regret]

Second Star To The Right - Chapter 3

Second Star To The Right Chapter Three

Read on AO3.

- - - -

“Before all of this ever went down In another place, another town, You were just a face in the crowd Out in the street, walking around A face in the crowd

Out of a dream, out of the sky Into my heart, into my life And you were just a face in the crowd Out in the street, thinking out loud A face in the crowd.”

A Face In The Crowd - Tom Petty

- - - -

June 15, 2019 (Saturday)

He’d refused to return to the park no matter how many times Abbie begged him all weekend.

“I wanna see the stolen boy! Maybe we can help save him from the fairies!” she’d shouted. Tony wasn’t there to hear her, or he’d likely have something to say. He had agreed with Harley when she’d talked about meeting a fairy and that it was probably some kid playing a prank on them. As for Harley, he hadn’t told them Peter’s name, because he was afraid that he really was a boy stolen by the fairies and his face would be on a missing poster or something.

Now it was his birthday and it seemed Abbie was more devious than he gave her credit for. She’d somehow convinced Pepper, who was their adopted mother since she was married to Tony, that it’d be a good idea to have Harley’s birthday party in Central Park.

It wasn’t exactly a party, but ‘A Walking Tour & Picnic’. It was a guided tour of Central Park and there was a picnic after the 2 hour tour! Two hours! Who wanted to walk for two hours on their birthday?!

Well, technically his birthday had been Monday and they’d had a small cake just the newly formed family, and now some of Tony’s friends would be along for the festivities since neither Harley nor Abbie had any friends. But still, he didn’t want to go on a hike. Harley didn’t want to risk running into Peter again, because cute boy or not, he was super weird and freaked Harley out.

That’s the reason he was trailing behind the group, hardly peddling on this stupid bike he’d been forced to ride. They weren’t even that far into the two hours, it’d been ten minutes and Harley wanted to quit. It wasn’t because he was out of shape, because he was use to hoofing it to school if he ever missed the bus. He just thought this was really dorky and there were some kids his age pointing and laughing at them.

“I wanna die,” he groaned, wishing he could hide his face at least, but the bike was so old that if he let go he’d likely topple off it.

“Then perish,” a voice cackled. His head whipped around toward the familiar voice, and his stomach flipped when he saw Peter in the trees he was passing.

Harley wanted to ride off, but his gen-z genes wouldn’t let him. “That’s not right. I have to say, I would die for you. And then you say, then perish.” He’d stopped, putting one foot on the ground so he would topple.

Peter grinned with a shrug. “I’ve never been one for memes.”

Harley eyed him. “You are strange, what kid of gen-Z kid doesn’t like memes?” He noticed then that he had the same clothes... again. “And don’t you ever change clothes? Do you live in Central Park or something?”

Peter looked down at his clothes with a confused look. “This is what I had on when I was taken, so I can’t change.” He looked at him, head tilting with a sorrowful expression. “You still don’t believe me, do you?” He stepped back into the tree line, and damned if he wasn’t starting to disappear right before Harley’s eyes.

“Wait!” Harley called, dropping the bike and rushing forward. Peter paused and started to reform again, almost like some kind of ghost. “Shit... fuck,” the taller boy gasped, stopping just a few steps from him. “If... if you’re being held by fairies, can I help? Can I save you?”

His heart was pounding as Peter looked at him, head titled curiously. “Maybe... maybe you can,” he said slowly.

“Harley, where’d you go?” Harley heard Tony’s voice.

Peter looked shocked when he heard the voice, turning to look at Harley. “Peter? What is it?”

He shook his head, stepping away from him. ’Come back... don’t forget about me,’ he whispered, but his mouth didn’t move this time. Before Harley could reach for him, he he was gone as if he hadn’t been there at all.

Tony found him a moment later, but Harley was too shaken that he only managed a ‘sorry’ to being reprimanded about falling behind, and followed the man back to where he’d dropped his bike.

- - - -

June 16, 2019 (Sunday)

Harley wouldn’t say that he was scared, because he wasn’t, not anymore. He’d seen the sadness in Peter’s eyes, the truth; or at least, what he believed to be true. Peter truly believed that he was being kept prisoner by fairies, and he wanted to help him. Harley didn’t want Peter to keep having that desperate look on his face. So, against his better judgment, he returned to the park the next day without telling anyone where he was going.

Sundays were a bit tricky for Harley. His mama had always insisted on going to church every Sunday, and Harley always resisted her on account that he’d feel like a big hypocrite. He was what all the people in the congregation referred to as ‘wicked’. Damn, how he despised that word more than anything he could ever describe. It was hard being gay and religious, because he did believe. How could he look at his mama, who worked so hard so they the things they needed, and not believe. While she was gone now, he still had his sister, he saw her as her smile got a bit wider each day, and she made him not just give up.

So, it was necessarily that he didn’t believe, he just didn’t want to go to a place that called him wicked, disgusting, or immoral. Harley knew that no every place was like that, but he had no time to try and differentiate. He was fifteen, had a nine year old sister that needed him, and that’s all that matter.

Only, Abbie wanted to go to church, and Pepper had agreed to take her, because it’s what their mama use to do. Harley didn’t go, refused to be guilted into going even by her. So, he had Sundays to himself, trying to figure out what to do with himself.

This is the reason he was here now, back in Central Park and trying to find a boy that may, or may not be a ghost. Hell, he could be one of those supposed fairies he said that had stolen him away, and now wanted to steal Harley away. Harley would just have to make sure not to eat any food the other might offer him. It was just that, he didn’t know the first place to start looking.

Harley was moving along The Ramble when he heard something that sounded like ‘pssst!’, which was strange to hear so clearly when there was a lot of people around. Then he saw Peter motioning from somewhere off the man-made path, looking to he halfway inside the stones. It was late afternoon, and it was slightly darker here with the amount of trees surrounding this place.

It was Sunday, so the majority of the people were located in the larger areas of the park, such as the ballfields and the playground areas. This part of The Ramble was strangely secluded at the moment, almost like it was intentional. It felt a bit ominous to Harley, and he felt uneasy, because he wasn’t too familiar with New York, never mind the 840 acre Central Park.

Even so, he jumped the fence easily and approached with caution to where the ghost (maybe) was waving at him. “Hey,” he said cautiously, and was a bit surprised when he seemed to have changed his appearance even when he’d said that he couldn’t change. He would have said something, but he was worried that he might disappear again.

The clothes he was wearing weren’t any less strange, with a bright orange shirt and a green windbreaker with blue trim, and a pair of black and white shorts. His whole outfit clashed with one another, but damned if he didn’t look adorable. ‘Could you stop being a disaster gay for a moment, Harley,’ the blonde haired teen chastised himself.

Peter looked at him, swaying back and forth as if being buffeted back and forth by the wind, only, there was no wind to be felt. It was warm and uncomfortably sticky, so Harley would have been grateful for just a small breeze. He was use to Tennessee weather, but he’d never liked them. At the moment he was wearing cut-off jeans, and a white t-shirt along with his old beat up white sneakers. While it was true that he had been adopted by Tony Stark (there had been a press conference and everything, but Harley and Abbie’s faces hadn’t been shown to protect them for the time being), that didn’t mean he was going to become a douchey rich kid. He still wore the clothes he’d brought from Tennessee.

When he reached Peter, he saw that he’d been right about his mismatched clothes being terrible, but he still made it work some how. Or Harley was just blinded by a cute boy. “So, what do I have to do to... help you?” he asked, trying not to shuffle nervously. Because cute boy or not, he was also a ghost or a fairy trying to steal his soul or something like that.

The other grinned, reaching out toward him and Harley was proud of himself for not flinching away. When their hand’s connected, and it was strange but it didn’t feel like a flesh hand, but it was corporeal and cool to the touch. Harley shivered a bit as he got closer, but made no move to distance himself from Peter. He was seriously screwed if Peter was some kind of fairy creature trying to steal, or eat his soul.

“Come on,” Peter said, grinning as he pulled him forward. He found himself being led down a stone stairway. There was literally nothing down there, and Harley had to duck down under the large rock to get to the sheltered inlet that Peter led him to. He was surprised when he saw some kind of blanket or other spread out, so he didn’t get the seat of his shorts down when he sat on the ground.

When he turned toward the front, he was a bit stunned at the sight. The streets were low with their green leaves, some just bushes, and the shade they provided was no as ominous at all as he’d first thought. It was beautiful, and there was almost something rhythmic in watching the movement of water, no matter how dirty it looked, and now he could hear the soft movement of the wind. It was almost like it was just Harley and Peter, the other’s hand still gripped in his own; cold but solid.

“Who are you, really?” Harley asked him, looking at the other teenager sitting next to him, far too close. Even so, when the other shifted closer, he didn’t move away as his heart started to pound in his chest.

“I’m the wind... and the trees, and the ground under your feet,” he whispered. Harley couldn’t help lean back and away from him, but the rock was at his back, and Peter was so close that he should feel his breath on his face, but there was nothing. He couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

The came that voice again, like two voice overlapping that he couldn’t distinguish one from the other.

‘It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood...’

Harley reached out with hesitant hands to the other’s face because he seemed to have gotten lost to whatever he was hearing or seeing. “Peter, come back,” he told him.

’And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon.’

He was confused, since he didn’t know where the voice was coming from but the other was lost as he stared straight ahead without really seeing Harley. So, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the other’s cheek, to wake him from his trance and because Harley really wanted to.

Peter blinked and looked at him as his eyes cleared. “Did you just-?” he choked and Harley was a bit amazed as his face flushed scarlet. It was a good look on him, and he found that he wanted to see it more. So, since Peter had leaned close enough already, he closed the last few inches between them and while he could feel his lips, cool and solid, it didn’t really feel like him.

Even so, he heard Peter gasp even if he doubted he needed air, and then he was kissing him back. His hand fumbled for Harley’s and their fingers locked together. Even if he was sure he might have been kissing a shadow or an illusion, it felt nice and he wanted to kiss him for however long he had breath. Harley knew though, that he had to stop, so he broke the kiss.

Peter made a small whimpering sound when Harley pulled away, but he needed Peter to focus; he needed to focus on how to help him.

“Peter, what can I do to help you?” Harley asked, scooting back a bit. Peter leaned forward, probably to keep the kiss going, and damn if he didn’t want to. So, he grabbed him by the shoulders and stopped him, and once again marveled that he felt solid. “Focus, Peter!”

The smaller boy’s face changed to that vaguely distant look, and he was in time to only say his name again before he disappeared like the mist. Only when he was gone did he realize it was dark, the sunlight had gone when before it had been shining through the tree branches, and he hadn’t realized how long he’d been there. Harley realized he had lost time.

Harley suddenly heard the crunch of footsteps and he tensed and moved further under the boulder, eyes darting toward the water, wondering if he could get away through there even if it meant getting his shoes wet. Then he relaxed, because it was likely just park security, and only had a moment longer to wonder what they were doing off the path when he realized it wasn’t park security.

“Hey, what’re you doing there kid?” a rough voice asked. He couldn’t make out much of the man’s face, dark as it was, but he felt one of his hands close around his leg and drag him out. “Spying on us, are you?” he snarled, and Harley saw there were two of them.

“Lemme go!” Harley growled, kicking at him as the man yelped when his foot connected with his face as he cursed. Harley darted around him, barely avoided the other man’s grabbing hand as his sneakers made a scraping sound on the stones as he threw himself up the stairway. The men were shouting after him, but he refused to stop, managing to jump over the fence and took off running, aware that he was being followed.

“Harley,” he heard someone call and his head snapped up, seeing Peter motioning through the trees off the path. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the path and crashing through the woods, but he also wasn’t going to get caught. So, he hopped over the fence, following Peter as he seemed to shine, reminding him of stories that told of lights that would lead travelers stray and to their deaths.

Harley certainly hoped the ghost boy wasn’t leading him to get lost and die.-

- - - -

[kingcriccket]

Impulse Variability, Chapter 1

Read it on Ao3!

Stiles comes back from the station in a cloud of smoke and sulfur-- properly Biblical stuff, he thinks, very dramatic- and then his feet hit the pavement and his knees fold up like accordions, all those complex bones and tendons and muscles going awry all at once, the lazy jerks.

Stiles goes palm-down on the sidewalk and pukes his guts up. There is still the sound of horse in his ears, tack and hoof. (he remembers that running gag with Umbridge, in the Harry Potter movies, where the centaurs scared her so bad she freaked at hoofbeats forever, and Stiles's brain follows that thread for a moment, so the first thing he says to his best friends, after being pulled back into reality, is

"Man I hope I don't get like, horse trauma after this."

His voice is (ha ha) all hoarse from the puking. His face is a mess of snot and tears. Stiles looks up, slowly, from the sets sneakers all arranged around him, to the concerned faces peering down.

"Stiles?" Scott says. Not like he will, sometimes, when he isn't sure what Stiles is talking about but like.

Like a question. Like, " are you Stiles?"

"Hi," Stiles says. Tries to straighten up and just ends up on his haunches-- further away from the puke, at least.

The streets are rain-wet, all silver with it, and between that and the smoke still boiling away from wherever they pulled Stiles out of, it feels very properly horror movie.

But it's hard to feel too scared, with the pack all there around him. Their tired, dirty faces, the smile breaking across Scott's whole fucking body, and-- Lydia .

Lydia, who drops Malia's hand to step forward and help him up. Lydia who he lists into when she gets him standing.

She smells nice. She always smells nice, like perfume or something. Like girls smell.

And her cheek is all torn bloody and her hair's in tangles but her shoulder is strong, when she drapes his arm across it.

"Scott," Lydia says, "help me with him?"

And then Scott's taking Stiles's other arm, and Stiles barely has time to feel the warm fuzzies before he's passing out again.

He will remember, later, Lydia dropping Malia's hand.

Which meant she had been holding Malia's hand.

Which meant: ??

Mark that one red, for now.

Later, when Lydia saves him from the gun pressed up to his forehead in the locker room (deja vu, by the way, and so not the good kind), she will say--

She will say "I didn't say it back," her throat all raw from banshee scream.

"You didn't have to," Stiles says. Means it. He knows she loves him-- doesn't know when he realized it, only now it feels like something he's known forever, something fundamental. Right there in the marrow of him, producing blood cells and shit. Which-- okay, this metaphor’s gotten away from him, maybe, but the point is Lydia loves him. And she kisses him there, in the locker room, and this time Stiles isn't shocked and fish-lipped under her, and it feels good , and they love each other, and so that's how these things work out, isn't it?

Everything according to plan.

"I'm not saying it," Malia says. Peter is sitting on a train-station bench in front of her, reading the paper all peaceful. It's alien, really, seeing him do something so.... benign.

"Malia," Lydia says. Toes a book out of the way to step forward, put a hand on Malia's shoulder.

"I'm not!" Malia turns, this coyote-blue gleam waydeep down in her eyes. All around them, people sit and stare into middle distance and wait, as if Beacon Hills isn't collapsing in all around them.

This past month Lydia's felt like that, a little. Like she's been-- waiting for something, without quite knowing what. Waiting while the crucial infrastructure of her life all falls apart.

Stiles, she's sure. It has to be him. He loves her. And she loves him back-- of course she does. Memory or no memory. He must be what's missing. What she's waiting for.

"Malia," Lydia says, and the library/train-station shimmers all around them, the unreality of it.

Except-- she's real, isn't she?

And Malia is real. Her shoulder is warm under Lydia's hand, all her rangy coyote muscle, and she frowns at Lydia, brow creasing up the way it will when she's not quite sure how to be human. Her jaw tightens. And she puts her hand over Lydia's, for just a moment. Turns around.

"Dad." She says. Unconvincing.

"Like you mean it."

Malia turns back, again, and bares her teeth at Lydia, but Lydia knows when to be afraid of her, and this isn't one of those times. She bares her teeth back (it feels very silly, without those pointed canines). Malia rolls her eyes, and Lydia nods at Peter, unnatural calm on his bench.

Malia sighs. Squares her shoulders, like she's facing up to a fight, and Lydia sees the tension in her forearms, sees where claws threaten at her fingertips.

"Dad?" Malia's voice wobbles, in the middle, and Lydia's chest wrings out like an old washcloth.

But she has no time for the weird, tender feeling rising up in her, because Peter blinks, and stirs, and Malia says," Dad ?"

And Peter stands up and says, "Malia?" Incredulous, and then there is work, to be done.

But anyway the point is that they're friends, right, and friends feel things for each other. Right? They feel for each other.

Lydia remembers, before Alison had--

Well.

Lydia remembers Alison's little bedroom, her perfect white-washed windows and her charmingly out-of-date wallpaper. Remembers one day, in particular:

Lydia's sitting criss-cross-applesauce against Allison's headboard, absently tracing her fingers over the white-on-whiter pattern of the bedspread. Florals, she thinks. Can't identify the specifics.

She's trying her level best not to burst into the bathroom, where Allison has been barricaded for too long.

"Let me freshen up," she'd said, like a woman in an old movie. Lydia can picture the smell of perfume, heady, see the pearls tight around her throat.

She's always been good at that. At picturing people as they might be, might look-- it’s a type of problem solving. So: Allison, 'freshening up' in some smokey old restaurant. Not Allison, breaking down over the death of her mother.

It's as easy as that.

The bathroom door creaks open-- Lydia turns like her head's on a pull string. Like she'll always turn to look, for Allison, until one day--

Well. Until one day she won't.

Alison's red around the eyes, but she's put concealer over the blotchy way her cheeks get when she cries. Lydia can see a little swipe of slightly-darker peach where Allison hasn't blended, properly.

She thinks about the bedspread, white-on-white, a pattern she can't quite make out, and something goes funny in her stomach.

She holds out her hand, and Alison staggers across the space between them-- staggers . The bed dents under her weight, and Allison's face dents, too. Crumples up in the effort not to keep crying.

"Oh," Lydia says, soft, and reaches out slow as anything. Allison lets her. Leans into Lydia's hand, even, when Lydia blends the foundation in, with her fingertips.

" Lydia ," she says, voice all watery "It's just--"

"I know," Lydia says. Alison collapses forward against her chest. Collapses , and later Lydia will find black marks on her blouse, from Allison's mascara gone wet and runny on her shoulder.

"It's fucked ," Allison says.

There's not much to say, to that.

It is. It's fucked.

So Lydia just brings her arm up, and hugs Allison across her shoulders, tight as she can.

That's what she feels, looking at Malia saying the word "Dad" like it's hurting her, like the concept's scarier even than her mother, filicidal literal-monster that she is.

This weird, tender, mushy feeling, like all the vital insides Lydia knows the precise names for have stopped working like they should. Like her heart has impossibly skipped a beat, like her stomach has an impossible knot all tied up in it.

Her friends are in danger. It's how she should feel.

Lydia's had reasons enough to feel crazy, in her life, but surely this isn't one.

And this is what teenage friendships are like , she’s seen movies. She has braided hair and told secrets and this is what it is supposed to be like. She feels how she is supposed to feel.

Surely, surely.

And, anyway, it all works out, doesn't it? They save everyone, for once. Lydia is not left-behind-forgotten in a ghost town. No one dies. Not even the bad guy dies, and so they're getting better at this, apparently.

And that's good news.

Kind of unequivocally.

"Can I take you out for coffee?" Stiles says, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

Lydia startles.

She never used to startle-- could always kind of tell when Stiles was around, but maybe un-forgetting someone isn't the same as not having forgotten them in the first place.

She closes her locker, turns. The school's last-day empty, deserted, and she has this horrible vision of it empty when the riders came through,  of the lights all hanging down from the ceiling, the creeping feeling they'd failed, and she's the last one left after all, until Malia comes out of the library and prods Lydia in the back and goes, "what are you looking at?" And the fear goes down like cough syrup. Leaves a bad taste in her mouth, but here, here's Malia helping her choke it down all the same.

"Lydia?" Stiles says, and Lydia snaps her eyes to him. Realizes she's been staring into the hallway, vacant, and she smiles as bright as she knows how (which is fucking thousand-watt, by the way).

"Yes?" She says.

"Is there-- I mean are you having like. A moment."

When he says 'a moment' he wiggles his fingers at her, like there should be spooky music alongside, and it makes Lydia laugh.

"No," she says. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

Stiles bobs his head. Tugs his backpack on all the way. "Great. No corpse to retrieve. Good news." He's gripping the straps, white-knuckled, & it makes his elbows stick out. Akimbo , Lydia thinks. It was a word on her vocabulary list in grade 6, but she never really knew what it meant until she got to know Stiles.

"So." He says.

Lydia gives him an expectant look.

"Coffee?" Stiles clears his throat. "Uh, us. Can we get coffee-- can I get a coffee, uh, for you?"

"Oh," Lydia says, and there is this weird, queasy flip in her gut. She smiles. "Sure. Saturday?"

Stiles blinks. "Uh, yeah. Yes! I can definitely-- do Saturday."

He's smiling. He has this awkward smile that makes Lydia smile, too, reflex, and she remembers kissing him and she thinks-- well, of course.

Impulse variability is when a person means to do one thing- in fact, believes that they are doing one thing- and end up doing another.

It's the cause of car crashes, sometimes. People hit the accelerator, and think they're hitting the brake, and so they go when they mean to stop. Panicking, they will press harder on what they believe to be the brake, and accelerate even faster, until-- well. They stop accelerating.

It's not negligence. These people really think- are really convinced- that their foot is on the brake, not the throttle.

Lydia Martin had never once in her life done something without meaning to, and then Peter used her to haul himself up from the grave, and everything went so fucking sideways she almost didn’t notice at first. Like something can go so completely wrong it nearly reaches ‘round to normal, again.

Lydia would go to bed and wake up the woods. She would think she was driving straight and end up making turns, circling the block till she ran out of gas.

Ever since, there's been this nagging-- well. She knows it doesn't make any sense. But ever since Peter, Lydia's had this nagging feeling like she's just being pulled along on a string.

Since before Peter, maybe, actually.

She is a pretty girl. She dates a handsome Lacrosse player. She excels in school but she isn't cocky about it. She applies to and gets into a prestigious college. And life's easy like that, isn't it? Like, lay out the track, and there she goes along it. Lydia Marten, the world's most complicated wind-up toy.

Stiles has always felt a little like that.

Inevitable.

Like no matter how things went, there they would be, together, at the end of it.

But, back when Stiles was gone, there is this:

Lydia sees the flash of Malia's long, long legs disappear around a corner, barely covered by some alarming bad-idea of an outfit. (Lydia admires that, and not in a passive aggressive, housewife-stereotype way. How she just wears whatever).

Lydia follows-- Malia's been unstable lately and Lydia wouldn't tell her this, of course, for knowledge of the bared teeth that would be her answer, but she's--

Well. She's worried.

She follows Malia down through the school, the halls bright-fluorescent, mismatched linoleum and that nagging sense of missing something.

They end up in the boiler room which-- like, okay, Lydia's watched Buffy, she knows what happens to people who end up in the boiler room.

But instead, there is Malia with one arm chained to a pipe, and she is holding the loose end of a second chain in the other hand.

"Someone used to do this for me," she says, and rattles the chained hand, and she looks at Lydia with just this complete, this absolute helplessness.

Lydia unsticks from where she's been hanging in the doorway. Crosses the room halfway and Malia growls , and then her face crumples entirely.

" Fuck ," she says. "Sorry. I don't--"

Lydia waits for Malia's teeth to pull back into their gums.

"It's okay," she says. Takes another step, and when that seems OK, she closes the distance between them.

"Here," she says, and reaches out her hand. Malia gives her the loose end of the chain.

"No-- Malia."

Malia tugs her chained hand as close to her chest as she can. Her eyes are huge-- are enormous, they are impossible not to see. They are welling up, wet, with tears. Such a pretty colour , Lydia thinks. Thanks god Malia doesn’t wear makeup, because with mascara Lydia wouldn’t- no one would- be able to look away from those eyes of hers.

"You can't," Malia says, and yanks at the chain. Lydia startles out of her tangent. "You can't . I don't want to--"

"You won't." Lydia means to reach for the chain but she sort of gets Malia's hand, instead, ends up with her fingers over Malia's fingers over Malia's heart, the manacle pressing up cold against her skin. "Malia, you won't hurt anyone."

And Malia takes this deep breath, shaky, and she says, "I was going to say you."

Lydia frowns.

"I don't want to hurt you ."

And-- well, what is there to do, with that? Lydia slams shut the door that opens up in her, stems whatever soppiness might've come leaking out.

“You won’t,” Lydia says. “Let me undo this.”

Malia looks at her a long time-- takes a deep breath, and the tension goes out of her forearm. Lydia feels it, the unflexing of muscle. Malia lets Lydia coax her hand away from her chest. Lets her unlock the manacle.

And then her legs kind of fold up under her, and Lydia goes down with her, so they’re both crouching there, on the cold and gritty concrete, some basement-dampness soaking through the knees of Lydia’s leggings.

Malia’s hand is still in Lydia’s, and her wrist is all ringed in blood, a bracelet carved in by the manacle.

“I hate this,” Malia says. Her voice has the edge, just the very edge, of a growl, and Lydia’s legs are bracketing hers, and Malia’s head is hanging forward, hair tickling Lydia’s collarbones, and it is all--

It’s very strange.

They never used to hang out, Lydia thinks. Just the two of them. She knows there was someone else, but when she tries to grab that thought it skates out of reach. It’s-- h mm. she’s not really used to not knowing things, to be honest. Or, rather, not really used to not being able to find something out, when she needs to.

“Me too,” she says to Malia. The concrete is digging divots into Lydia’s one hand, where she’s leaning on it, and it makes clear to her only how warm Malia’s skin is, in comparison.

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 3: Ch 4

Ch 3

Summary: Sending the Earth to its doom, an unnamed Space Explorer must now try to prevent the demise of millions of humans by risking her life.

Five chapters, 10k works, and in one week.

Part 1: ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

Part 2: ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

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

Behind us sat the void that is outer space. Sitting in front of us, blocking me from my homeworld, is the infamous spaceship. The distance between me and either side is immense, but I felt trapped. They enclosed me. They suffocated me. On the inside, I find myself failing to breathe. On the inside, I find myself wanting to scream, but on the outside, I didn’t budge. I stared straight at the ship. Even as they pulled us towards them my facial expression was blank. It’s as if I became numb. Maybe I already accepted my fate, but I have yet to accept theirs. 

We were escorted off our ship. To say it’s strange to step foot in this spaceship again and so willingly is putting it lightly. It’s weird to think I was here not too long ago, struggling to break free from their hold as they dragged me forcefully towards The Commander. I imagine my past self crying, covered in blood, and calling my late crew members to wake up. Those thoughts disappear once the sounds of cheering hit my ears, but once it does that’s when they separate us. While Skeema accepts his fate the other two try fighting free. This gets one of their escorts to throw his fist into Mikrovos’ stomach, causing him to clutch it and fall to his knees. I reach out to him but quickly lower my hand. I hold it above my chest. It’s because of me he’s hurt, so I tell them, “Please, don’t worry about me.”

As Ashley helps him back up, they look at me. I look at them, but quickly turn away. The last thing I see is her muttering something under her breath, “Please, come back safe and sound.”

I promised her I would, but I’m not so sure I can keep that promise. I’m sure she knows that too, but sometimes we have to lie to forget the painful truth. 

After putting on the helmet, I am once again placed between the things that have brought me nothing but pain. Above stood darkness and below is the cold, hard surface of the spaceship’s exterior. As I made myself known, I could feel their eyes on me. Not only the eyes of my opponents but the audience I’m about to entertain as well. I gulp, feeling so small compared to it all. Then, before I knew it, it began. 

Everywhere I looked Tauvoxes fought. Some collided their horns into each other and others rammed their horns through one another. Most are at a standstill as they throw punches and kicks at their opponents. It’s a war and I’m standing in the middle of it, but that doesn’t mean I’m excused. As blood spilled and drifted into the black sky, I stepped back as a group of Tauvoxes gained on me. With every step they took forward I took a step backward and pushed out a long exhale onto my helmet’s glass, causing it to fog with every other step. Once I hit a wall they cracked their knuckles and neck and whipped out a devilish grin. 

They each had a go at me. They suppressed most of their strength, but their attacks still hurt. My blood splattered across the glass as bruises formed one by one. When I’m no longer able to stand up, the one in the middle lifts me by my arm. Slowly, as his grip begins to break my wrist, “It is because of you The Commander is dead and it is because of you, you bear this pain.”

Bone beginning to snap, I hear someone banging on the window sitting high above me. My eyes move towards it. I see Ashley throwing her fists at it. All I can think of is I deserved this, but she didn’t deserve to witness this. I wished she didn’t have to see this.

Snap. 

It finally broke. Still, he held onto me. One of them digs his hoof into the floor. Then, he runs forward with his horns directly pointed at me. I close my eyes, hoping it’s painless. 

To my surprise, he lets go of me. My back hits the floor. I witness a familiar Tauvox grabbing the one that was about to stab me. He pulls at his arms until they pop out of their sockets. When they do, his horns go right through his chest. 

“What are you idiots doing? Get him.” All of them, but their leader dash towards him. One by one they’re slaughtered and once it’s just the leader my supposed savior wastes no time in brutality ending his life as well even when he begged for mercy. 

Bent down and hand placed in front of me, I flinch because of our shared, but short history. He was the Tauvox that greeted me after I woke up from his late commander’s cruelty. Well, it wasn’t really a welcomed one. “What are you doing,” I demanded. 

“Did I not just save your life?

“And why did you?”

“I know the last time we saw each other it was rough.”

“Rough,” I scoffed. 

“We both don’t have time for this and you know it.” I still hesitate to take it. “Look, I understand you don’t trust me, but you’re going to have to. If I wanted you to die I would’ve let them continue and if I wanted to do it myself I would’ve done so already.”

I don’t take his hand, but I get myself up. I watch one of the Tauvoxes slam his knee into the helmet of another Tauvox. It shatters and scatters across his face. As he gasps for air and bleeds out, my eyes catch Syco making his way towards them. Before I’m able to blink the one that just claimed victory has now fallen to the ground. Syco didn’t kill him, but because of how he’s able to move so fast leaves me both surprised and scared. 

“Syco can’t be the next commander.”

Turning back to the brute, “And you can’t be the next one either.”

“If you couldn’t handle yourself back there then you have no chance of stopping me, but that should be for later. For now, Syco is our shared enemy.”

“As much as I’d rather keep my homeworld intact, you expect me to work with you?”

“You’re able to see as much as I am. Syco will get the title at this rate because these idiots keep focusing on their petty, personal fights.”

“And you actually think I’d be of any help after what you just said? Even with your help, I’ll just slow you down.”

He slams his hoof into one of the Tauvoxes he killed. As he holds their body down, he snaps off one of their horns. He then hands it to me. “That may be so, but we’re each other’s best option. You’re not as stupid as the others. You, a human, had gotten the upper hand on me not too long ago. If you care about your homeworld then you’d not only trust in me but in yourself as well.”

My thumb brushes against the horn. As messed up as it is, this isn’t about Earth. I’m not standing here and risking my life for the millions of people down below. At least, not entirely. On the horn, I see flashbacks of their sacrifices. They risked their lives too many times for me, so I can’t let those actions go in vain. I especially can’t let her death go in vain. Even if this fails I won’t give up so easily. I can’t. The brute is at least right about one thing. I let them do the fighting for me because I didn’t believe I was a fighter. That I wasn’t enough. It was because of me Mikrovos didn’t die from this brute or that giant, humanlike beetle. Two species that were much bigger and stronger than me, yet I fought against my insecurities. I did it because I am and always have been a fighter. I did it because I am enough. Besides, I’m tired of getting my wife to cry. I made a promise to her, after all, and I’m going to keep it. When I lift my head, I look at Syco. My grip tightens. 

“Please, do not make the same mistake Mikrovos did.”

“I don’t plan to.”

The brute became my shield. He either killed, knocked out, or threw anyone that came in our way. I let him focus on getting us to Syco as I focused on not tripping on any of the bodies that laid on the floor. When we’re finally in front of Syco, the brute wastes no time in attacking him head-on, which Syco gets a kick out of both emotionally and literally. Their hands collide and fight for dominance, but it doesn’t last long because Syco smashes his knee into the brute’s helmet. This causes him to stumble back, but not for long. He dodges Syco’s next attack, but he isn’t so lucky with the next one after. Because of this, he falls on his footing. This allows Syco to lift him, but the brute isn’t going to let Syco take the upper hand so easily. He tries fighting free. 

“Khavas, it surprises me that you’d be so direct.”

“I’ll never let you take command.” 

“Oh? You think that just because you’re now able to take on some of the upper classes that you can to take me down.”

“Not exactly.”

Syco doesn’t get the time to understand what Khavas meant because I pierced the horn into his back and through his chest, causing Khavas to fall to the ground. As he’s hunched over as his blood spills, Khavas gets up and begins laughing. He mocks him and kicks him. He goes for a second round, but Syco grabs his leg and throws him. 

As Khavas tries to get up, Syco pulls the horn out of his chest and throws it at him. It stabs Khavas, nearly puncturing his heart. Still, it knocks him out nonetheless. 

Because of the short-lived fight between the two Tauvoxes but more importantly my part in it, he then turns his attention to me. “Ah, human, I was wondering whether we’d face one another again or if someone else would take that opportunity away from me. I am fortunate that the latter didn’t come true.”

Blood is still around his chest, but no longer was it open. No longer was he wounded. “W-What are you?”

“I’m a Tauvox.”

“No, you’re not. Tauvoxes can’t do that. They can’t just heal from something that should’ve killed them. That horn went right through your heart.”

“You’re right. They can’t and that horn certainly should’ve killed me. I know many questions are now circling your head, human. In due time you will get the answers you are looking for but until then…” His fist collided with my chest, hitting the bruises, and knocking me out instantly. 

Outer space is infinite. It’s dark. It’s cold. I see my fingers twitch. Slowly, I’m able to regain control of my hand. I watch it close and open. When I’m able to move the rest of my body, I look up. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing anywhere. It’s just me and it’s only going to be me for a while. No, for eternity. Because of that, I cry as I hug myself. As I drift further nowhere, I let myself sink into the thoughts deep in my mind. I let the bad thoughts reign because even though they were cold before they’re the only thing keeping me warm. 

“Hey. Wake up.”

Jumping awake, I see a familiar set of straight lines past the random Tauvox. I see bars. I then rest my hands onto the cold, familiar floor. Seeing if I’m still stuck in my nightmare, I pinch myself. It hurts, which means this isn’t a lie. This isn’t a figment of my imagination. Being so, I panic when he grabs a hold of my arm. 

I look around to see if I can spot Ashley, Mikrovos, or at least Skeema. 

He ignores my pleas. He ignores my thrashing as well. It felt like forever, but he eventually lets me go and throws me into a familiar dark room. “Thank goodness, human, I was worried you’d miss it.”

“Whatever you’re talking about I don’t care. Where are my friends?”

“Now. Now. I have told you once already all in due time you will get your answers.”

“If you did something to any of them I swear I’m going to make you pay.”

“You may be a human, but I know you won’t do anything to me. If you were actually going to you would’ve done it already. However, there’s no need to get so worked up. Mikrovos and the rest of your friends are perfectly fine. Now just enjoy the show because you’re about to become the first and last human to witness this.” He then snaps his fingers. 

The room brightens as the windows’ coverings slide down. Earth’s blue and green colors shine on me, but as quickly as it lights up the dark atmosphere it vanishes with another snap of his fingers.

[estro-gem]

Black and White in Grey: Chapter 15

Author’s note: I don’t much to say here. I just love me some spicy Luna

Please enjoy!

CHAPTER 15: THE NEXT STEP

“You want me to do what now?”

Luna scoffed, almost dropping the whole idea entirely, but she knew that this was Discord. Of course he’d make most things silly. Most things…

“You heard me, you silly spirit, you!” the princess scolded with no real bite, “Teleport us to the Dragon Lands.”

The lord, pouted like a little foul, “You didn’t even say the magic words, Lulu!”

“Abbra cadabra.”

The draconiquus had no chance at restraining the bark of laughter that erupted from his chest. This mare would be the death of him. His laughter died down when he saw Luna’s hopeless, little smile. He knew she wanted to be serious. He knew how serious the little request actually was – to Luna at least.

She wanted to show that she was trying to trust him. She was reaching out to him and was giving him a fair chance to prove himself again – even after that one night he messed up by telleporting them to the balcony without her permission. This was serious.

But he was serious enough for today. He doesn’t really do serious. With Luna it was occasionally an exception, but barely so… and it was only because he knew that she wouldn’t make a big deal out of it or even bring it up unless he wanted her to.

The look on her face though… he couldn’t help but sigh in defeat, making the dark pony look at him, now in anticipation.

Just this once – this once more, he’ll be serious for her. His animated exterior dimmed into a calmer state and his aura notably shifted, as Luna shuddered slightly at Discord’s glowing gaze. He pretended not to notice.

“Fine, I’ll do it, but only if you’re sure about this. You know how teleportation work, so surely, you know that once I start, I can’t stop.”

Luna’s eyes never left Discord’s. She made up her mind a while ago, before she even mentioned it to him. She gave him a determined smile, think back to a while ago when he hugged her in her bedroom. It was so honest to show his emotions to her, even if it was a little scary. She wanted someone like him to be closer to her. To be involved.

“Do it, Discord,” Luna said softly, before adding, “Just warn me, you know? I trust you.”

That hit the Lord. It hit him hard. The fact that the pony stated it so certainly and so openly, as if it was a known fact. The only evidence that her words affected him, was how subtly his breath hitched. The princess’s eyes bore into his like two blue flames. The sight alone had him resist pulling out a camera and forever capture it. A wave of… something he couldn’t really place, rushed over him, almost making him think how he could recreate the look in her eyes with his own actions. Almost.

By the invisible stars in the sky, this mare was attractive.

“Very well, your Highness.” He lifted his front limbs, wiggling his digits, as if he was preparing to do an amazing magic trick, “Brace yourself – “

“Wait!” Luna cleared her throat awkwardly, her strong stance now crumbling beneath the draconiquus’s gaze, making him marvel at how comfortable she was to expose herself like that, “I know this is weird, but… could you please hold my hoof? I know, I know it’s childish, but I think it will help me not feel like I’m… all alone.”

Discord blinked. How could he judge? It made sense, considering her experience with her banishment and all. He could tell she was clearly embarrassed, so he took it upon himself to lift the mood a little.

He wordlessly held out his lion paw, coaxing her to take it. When she did, he gracefully bowed down and placed a feather-light kiss atop of it. It was very flamboyant and almost silly, but it was enough to make the blood rush to Luna’s cheeks and her held hoof tingle where he kissed her.

“Ready?” the Lord peaked from under his eyebrows. His breath tickled her hoof due to the proximity of his lips.

“Y-yes.” Luna said in her daze, barely noticing anything but the male in front of her. It had been an eternity the last time she stuttered. Discord couldn’t help but find it cute. His smirk lit a flame in Luna’s core.

The world that surrounded them, slowly tore away, piece by piece. The ground was no longer present and reality disappeared in reaps of fabrications. All was replaced by a pitch black void. If Luna could tear her eyes away from how close Discord’s lips were to her hoof, she would have panicked by now, during her least favorite part of teleportation.

But she couldn’t bring herself to brake her gaze. Neither could Discord, it seemed.

Before she could blink, everything was over. Her hooves were planted on rocky earth, with patches of grass. Discord stood upright as the princess looked at her surroundings. Her hoof lingered in his paw and he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet.

They were in the Dragon Lands.

Luna was calm. She felt fine. There was no anxiousness, no loneliness, no stress. She was in control of herself and the feeling brought a smile to her face. She beamed at the Lord. He gently squeezed in return.

“Well, isn’t this a sight…”

The seemingly foreign voice pulled the nobles back to reality. Discord and Luna whipped their extremities away from each other, before looking behind them. Luna looked like a startled deer, while Discord looked visibly annoyed at whoever ruined his moment.

Upon seeing who interrupted them, Discord felt the chaotic beast within him snarl.

There stood his old nemesis, mocking him.

Tirek.

Next: Chapter 16

Previous: Chapter 14

Masterlist

[wellamarke]

staying put

humans challenge, week 1, day 3: in between

Sophie spends a lot of time at the window these days.

Behind her, the rooms get emptier and emptier, as everyone packs their lives into boxes, preparing for the move. Sophie has not yet packed her toys and books. Whenever she’s sent up to do so, she spends her time staring out at the back garden. Toby knows, because he’s seen her doing it. Perfectly still, like Mia used to stand, arms in straight lines down her side and feet neatly parallel.

It’s the Saturday before the moving vans are due, and Toby has been dispatched to help his little sister pack. “Do it for her, if she refuses,” said his mother, pressing a weary hand to her forehead. She’s been sorting through stuff from the loft since 6 this morning, throwing away as much as she can bear to. There’s a pile she’s set aside for Toby, and she presses it in his arms as he leaves to find Sophie. “See what you want out of that lot,” she tells him.

Toby goes up and dumps the pile on his bed, then heads for Sophie’s room, and sure enough she’s standing by the window when he gets there, watching the empty garden as though it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. “Soph,” he says. “It’s time to pack your stuff. Mum’s getting fed up of waiting.”

She doesn’t flinch at the sound of his voice, doesn’t turn or speak to him. Toby comes further into the room. “Come on, titch. We can make it into a game,” he offers.

He pulls one of the toy boxes out from under her little desk. He’s expecting to see a jumble of mixed-up objects from different sets, but instead all the toys are neatly lined up. Dinosaurs with dinosaurs, farm animals in a row, dolls stacked along one side. “Oh,” says Toby, baffled. “You’ve already done this one. Nice. That makes it easier. Why didn’t you just tell Mum you’ve already packed?”

“I haven’t packed,” says Sophie, bluntly. “I just keep them tidy.”

This is news to Toby, who has spent the last seven years tripping over Sophie’s toys in the weirdest of places, but he lets it go. “Alright,” he says. “Are all the toy boxes like this?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. They can just go straight in like that, then. So we’ll just put the rest of the stuff in the cardboard ones.”

He turns to pull over the pile of packing boxes that have been sitting in the corner of her room for a week and a half, untouched. He sets one in front of Sophie’s bookshelf, and begins transferring her books. Even the shelf is much neater now. All the books with numbers on their spines are lined up in their sets, in the correct order. The ones without numbers seem to be in order of size, with the tallest on the left. At least she hasn’t ordered them by author surname, like at the library, Toby thinks. That would be weird.

But then, all of this is a bit weird.

“Are you sure you don’t want to help me?” he asks. “I might be doing it wrong. I might forget about something you need to take with you.”

She doesn’t answer. He finishes with the books, and adds some of the toys that are on her dresser, to fill up the extra space. Then he starts a new box. Sophie is immune to all the shuffling around. Toby gets the feeling she’s just waiting for him to leave, so she can put everything back the way it was.

He winds up her music box, just for something to fill the silence. It plays a twinkly little tune as he fills the next packing box, and he sings along with it, ‘How much is that Sophie in the window…’

He can’t think of a line to go with that, so he just hums along with the rest.

He’s not sure what to do with the dolls’ house, which is sort of a box of its own, so he puts it with the filled boxes and starts another one. He finds a plastic box of toy cars that were his before Sophie was born, and remembers vividly the day he’d bestowed them upon her, feeling like the kindest and most noble big brother in the world. She hadn’t been very interested at first, but they’d built a little town together one rainy afternoon, with roads and crossings and railway tracks, and even though she was only two and a half, Sophie had been so careful with it, stepping over the lines, pausing traffic to allow her Sylvanian families to cross safely. They’d all had to look left and right, picked up one by one with chubby little hands and forced to check both directions. Sophie had always quite liked rules. But at least she’d still wanted to play.

Toby puts the cars in a packing box. She’ll play with them again, he tells himself. Once we're all settled in the new house and things get back to normal, Sophie will too.

He works in silence for a little while longer. Then, suddenly, Sophie says, “We can’t move. They’ll won’t be able to find us if we move.”

Toby doesn’t have to ask who.

“They’ll find us if they need to,” he says. “They can look it up.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “But they’re clever.”

“They might think we moved on purpose and we don’t want to be friends.”

“No, they won’t.”

He senses that she isn't convinced. Toby tries a different tactic. “If we don’t move, Mattie will have to go on her own,” he says. “Do you want that to happen? She has to live near her university. Most people her age go and live with other students, not with their family. We’re moving so we can all stay together.”

This has been explained to Sophie already, of course, lots of times, but Toby wonders if she’s ever really listened.

“It’s not fair,” she says, and finally her voice has some kind of feeling in it. Even though he doesn’t like hearing his little sister upset, Toby’s kind of relieved that she’s reacting properly to something.

He picks up one of the toys that’s still on the dresser, and steps towards her. It’s her toy giraffe, soft and cuddly, and Toby holds it from behind, making its arm waggle up and down. He pokes Sophie with the giraffe’s hoof. “Hey. Mr Patches wants a hug, I think.”

Dutifully Sophie takes the toy and hugs it to her.

“The new house is really nice,” Toby says. “Mia and Niska will need you to show them around.”

His dad has already asked him not to talk that way around Sophie, as if the synths coming back is a certainty, or even something they’d want. But it seems to Toby that Sophie needs a bit of hope, or she’s just going to stand in front of that window, watching for Niska to come through the bushes again and in through the back door.

“And I’ll have to say, 'Oh, sorry Mia, Sophie doesn’t live with us anymore. She wanted to stay at the old house in case you came back to there.’ And she’ll say, 'Oh, Toby, didn’t you tell her I would find your new address when I came to visit?’ And I’ll say, 'I did try to tell her that, Mia, but she thought you were too silly to do that.’ And she’ll say, 'Oh, Toby, how could—’”

He stops suddenly, caught off-guard by Sophie dropping her toy to the floor and slamming herself into him, hugging him around his waist. “Stop,” she says, muffled into his t-shirt. “I’ll come to the new house, then. I don’t think Mia’s silly.”

“I know you don’t,” Toby says, patting her hair a bit awkwardly. It’s a bit hard to hug someone back when they’re so much littler. He wonders if he did this to Mattie when he was small, if she had felt the same funny mixture of pleased and sad. No, not sad, exactly. Just a bit nostalgic, about the age of toy car traffic control, when Sophie was attached to him like a fifth limb, and always chattering on about what she was thinking about. Now it’s like she has this whole world of worries going on inside her head that he hardly knows anything about. She shouldn’t do, yet. She’s still so little.

“It’ll be okay once we get there,” he says, as much to himself as to Sophie. “Everything will go back to normal.”

He doesn’t add that they don’t have a 'normal’ any more - that knowing the Elsters precludes all of that.

He doesn’t add “I promise”, either.

[estro-gem]

Black and White in Grey: Chapter 8

Author’s note: I was on a roll and thought I might post the next chapter as well!

I’ll have to warn you about STRONG-ISH LANGUAGE in here. I couldn’t bring myself to keep it all clean. I did attempt to warn you, even though I know that most people skip the author’s notes... oh well...

This was a fun chapter to write, so I hope it is just as fun to read! Things get steamy, but not in the way most would think - fellow gutter minds, hahaha!

Lets go! Enjoy!

CHAPTER 8: IT’S NOT FUN AND GAMES, UNTIL IT IS

This was not happening. This was not happening.

It’s hard to explain, but Discord wasn’t joking when he said he wanted to catch up with her. Or rather, for her to catch up with him… in the Dream Realm…

She lost Discord in the Dream Realm.

She wasn’t prepared for him to suddenly jump in head first – when he said that he wanted to ‘get the ball rolling’ – as he put it. He left her with a poke the her muzzle and a cute ‘You’re it’ before teleporting away. Since she felt the foreign presence calling from the far-away Dream Realm, the pony knew it was Discord.

It wasn’t really her fault, but Luna scolded herself for not taking it as a given that the Lord of Chaos would pull a stunt like this. What an ass. He was roaming the minds of her subject freely now, and probably driving them to madness as he went. Well, not without driving her to madness in the process.

He just knew how to get under her skin.

As she chased his presence dream throughout dream, he only left her a single glance at him before he jumped into someone else’s dream. It was infuriating how he seemed to run circles around her. The princess was scrambling around in her own realm like a headless chicken, with the intention to find Discord and prevent him from doing anything dumb, all while checking the subjects’ dream for nightmares.

She actually stopped her chase with the crazed spirit just to take care of a few distressed subjects that were, in fact, terrorized by nightmares. It took 3 subjects with nightmares, for her to notice that Discords movements in the realm had frozen during those times along with her.

It confused her, but it mostly fueled the fire within her even more. The blasted, petty, irrational, competitive side of her felt almost offended that he felt the need to wait for her to finish her duty as princess, before continuing their ridiculous chase. The subject was left almost confused.

She was the Princess of the Night and this was her realm.

No rival ever had to wait on her in her own realm. She didn’t care how messed up that sounded. She was determined to catch that menacing draconiquus – and scold him for wasting her time. She was angry… but when Discord started taunting her in the brief moments she caught up to him, she was pissed. Fueled with a goal and furious for a reason.

She loved it.

Discord would leave comments, like, “Get with it, sleepy head!” or, “You can’t even catch me in your dreams!”

For the longest time, the pony stayed silent, only focusing on trying to hit him with a non-fatal energy blast – at least enough to just startle him – but soon gave in to the burning need to snap something back at him, “Maybe I’d be more eager to stop you if your insults weren’t so predictable!”

Oh, that struck a nerve and Luna saw it. She knew that would get to him.

The Lord stood frozen in an open meadow with clear skies, his fingers in mid-snap – about to jump to another subject’s mind, when he heard the insult the princess spat at him. He looked positively startled and, much to Luna’s satisfaction, deliciously insulted.

He gasped, “What a nerve you have! Calling me, the Lord – the embodiment of Chaos itself – predicta…” Discord couldn’t bring himself to even finish the word. He was too caught up in the smug smiled of the dark princess. If Discord was faking this, he was a damn good actor.

“Oh, but it was only the first word that came to mind, Lord Discord!” she said in a mocking concern. In her mind, she was just a relieved as she was smug that the chase was over, but she milked what she could from his stupor, “There are many other adjectives suitable for my name-calling towards you! Like… boring! Dull. Bland. Shall I continue?”

The look on his face was priceless. He seemed so out of his element – wordplay intended! Luna soaked in the shift in his expression, from surprised to determined. She gotten to him, she already won. Everything about to follow, was just an added bonus. If Discord wanted to extend their banter by trying to pull his ego out of the hole it dove into, she would accept any comeback he threw at her.

“Princess, your fire is a sight for sore eyes.”

Maybe, except that comeback.

What the hell did that even mean? That was so random, coming from him. His expression was one she wouldn’t be able to imagine any day before now. It was odd, but so intriguing. She wanted more of this… whatever she had brought out of him.

It almost threw her off her game, but she tried matching his stance with one step forward, “Well, little cults that toy with fire get their fingers burned.”

“Oh? But I can’t resist – can’t keep my claws at bay.” Discord said lowly, taking a step of his own towards Luna, hungry eyes boring into hers, accompanied with a smirk, almost making her flustered for a reason she couldn’t comprehend. Her expression wouldn’t falter though.

“What else is there to expect from someone with no self-restraint?” Luna smugly said, stepping towards him once more. Closer. She needed him closer. No matter how much this sudden change of pace made her wonder about the funny tension in the air.

“You are one to tell me I have no self-restraint… after hunting me down like a predator?” Discord questioned, his voice still lowered and quiet. Stalking towards her, making her almost blush. Why?

“As any predator…” Luna paused, noticing how close they were, standing but a two feet apart, “…I have an acquired taste.”

She was almost certain that she didn’t control her own tongue anymore. She didn’t know what came over her, but she couldn’t stop. This whole situation was pulling her into something that just didn’t seem to ever be satisfied.

“Is that so, princess?” Discord practically purred, bending down just above her level, making Luna internally quiver in anticipation.

This was getting… very… interesting.

“What the hell, guys?!”

An unknown voice suddenly broke the noble’s intense gaze they held, only to look at the mare that interrupted them.

Cadence. This was the mind of Cadence. They were in Cadence’s dream, the princess of love. Her comment fell on an odd place of Luna’s insides, feeling embarrassed that they were caught, even though, in her mind, it was just aggressive banter.

It was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Anyway…” Cadence spoke up again, seeing that neither of the two culprits were going to, “Discord, I wanted to talk to you? You know, in private… about that thing…?”

“Oh, right! That thing! We can talk all you want once you’ve escaped Dreamland!” Discord said, his playful, normal tone ripping what had Luna lulled moments ago, out under her hooves like a blanket. She was also confused by Cadence’s request. She couldn’t ponder too long about it, as there was a shift in Cadence mind.

“This is a dream?” the Princess of Love questioned, earning a nod from both of them. She spaced out for a moment, “Wow… can I do stuff, like shape-shifting and change the grass into a pit of dry beans?”

“You can try, yes…?” Luna said with a cringe. This was all weird!

“Changing things and manipulating common laws of nature is my shtick! You darn lucid dreamers…” Discord mumbled, crossing his upper limbs like a stubborn child, “Why would you go with dried beans, anyway?”

Cadence scoffed with no real bite, “Are you kidding? Have you ever put you hoof into a sack of dried beans? It feels so good.”

“It’s said to be therapeutic.” Luna added in agreement, before shaking her head, to focus, “Discord, we should probably go.”

“What? But I wanted to teach Cadence the fundamentals of chaos!” Discord whined, causing Luna to roll her eyes. Her horn glowed as she prepared to teleport herself to the waking realm.

Before they knew it, the deities, were in the throne room once again. Discord’s arrival was delayed, as they each teleported themselves. The princess check the clock and found that her shift was as good as done. Her eyes widened. Her subjects… she had neglected them!

“Well as fun as this was, Lulu, I’m beat.” Discord said, yawning, “You sure put up with a lot more than I remember.”

“I didn’t put up with anything!” she said worried, “I didn’t attend to my subjects tonight! I let myself get distracted by you – and it’s not like I can just go back and fix it, because everyone is waking up soon! I need to –”

“Oh, Lulu, you are such a character!” Discord laughed, Luna too panicked to be mad at his careless attitude. He calmed down, still smiling, “We tore through everypony’s mind tonight! We were on fire! You covered every nightmare like a pro and nothing stood in your way.”

“Everypony?”

That’s right, the chase! She chased Discord through every dream of everypony sleeping that night. In a normal shift, she could cover half the kingdom and cover the other half the following day.

But this time, she managed everpony. It was huge! She didn’t even feel as if she was working, it all just flew by… because of the Lord of Chaos, Discord. He made it happen. He made her forget about almost everything that was bothering her for a whole night.

She just took about 12 hours to realize it.

She looked up at Discord and smiled – there was no use containing it. Discord’s smug expression faltered as the dark princess lit up. Smiling at him – for him. He couldn’t help but give his own genuine smile back.

That fire. It captivated him.

“Thank you, Discord. That was… something else, wasn’t it?”

“Do you expect anything else from me?”

They shared a short laugh, before falling into a definite, awkward silence, which Luna felt obligated to brake, “Let’s not do that again any time soon.”

“Agreed. See you next week.”

“What?”

Discord didn’t reply. He was already gone.

Next: Chapter 9

Previous: Chapter 7

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