#but HELL if I had an eight year old child that wandered off six blocks alone without telling me in NYC.

[platypusisnotonfire]

The post i recently reblogged about the Romeo and Juliet with heelys in reminded me of the way I got my first heelys.

It was when we lived in the states (NYC area) and my mother had a drs appointment that was going to take at least an hour. I was 8, and allowed to either stay in the waiting room or go to the rooftop garden, but that was all.

At the age of eight I had gotten my first job that paid like, appreciable money (I worked for the family business for five dollars an hour prior to this but got a job with a friend of the family pulling 100 dollars a week doing two nights of office cleaning with them. Yea, child labor. Not the point of my funny story tho. I liked my money. I’m honestly not mad about it.)

So I had cash.

And damn I wanted heelys.

So I illicitly left the building and walked six blocks to the closest Modell’s (gotta go to mo’s) and bought my gorgeous heelys for 30 big bucks.

At this age I had taken to carting around a huge messenger bag for all my books and I had premeditated this excursion and packed an empty box in the bag to make it look full, chucked that in a crosswalk garbage bin and carried the shoebox back.

Not questioned by the mother. None the wiser I had left.

No one was awake to see me leave for school wearing them and no one was home to see me come home wearing them and I got away with this for literal years (I had had a fairly large growth spurt at 8 and bought two sizes too big so they fit for ages)

[lyssismagical]

string along my soul, dear, ‘til my breath feels useless

Whumptober Day Eight - Stab Wound 

Read on AO3

Tony had been having a relatively good day, all things considered.

Morgan had slept in more than she usually does. It’s the weekend, so they don’t have any responsibilities beyond the weekly tea party and swimming. (Tony doesn’t know how he’ll break it to Morgan that by the end of September, it’ll be too cold to go swimming in the lake. For now, he’ll let her swim to her heart’s desire, though.)

The only thing that really burdens him a little bit on this fine Saturday, is how much he misses two of the most important people in his life. Peter’s off at MIT, having the time of his life according to their call last night, and Pepper’s been busy upstate with the company for the past few days. Some big emergency they needed her for.

Tony’s more than capable of taking care of Morgan by himself, despite what lots of people believe. He doesn’t need Pepper or Peter to help him, he just enjoys it a little bit more when he doesn’t constantly have to be the responsible adult.

“Daddy?” Morgan says. She’s lying flat on her back on the carpet in the living room, coffee table pushed to the side so she can see through the skylight he added when building the house. (Mostly he was thinking about Peter’s love of space.)

“Yes?” Tony replies, turning his full attention on Morgan.

She turns to him, eyes big and sparkling in the sunlight. “Why is the sky blue?”

Tony smiles. “Because I said so.”

“That’s a lie,” Morgan replies, rolling her eyes. “Why is it actually?”

“Because Mom said so?” Tony tries. He could try to explain, and he’ll probably tell her for bedtime stories tonight, but she’s had too much energy this morning to really hear his explanations.

Morgan thinks about it for a long few moments, eyes squinted in concentration before she nods decisively. “Okay.”

“Why does Mom get to make the rules, but I don’t?” It’s meant to be a rhetorical question, but Morgan stares at him perplexed.

“Because Mommy is… She’s mommy. She makes all the rules.”

“And what? I’m just her servant? I don’t get to do anything?”

Morgan nods. “Obviously. Mommy’s the Queen, I’m the princess, Petey’s the prince, and you’re the horsey.”

“I’m the horse. Oh my god, child, why are you so mean to me?” Tony gasps, pretending to be offended by his daughter’s words.

Morgan sits up, rolling her eyes again. It makes her look so much like Pepper. “Can we go swimming?”

“It’s barely nine in the morning, piccola. You wanna help me make pancakes for breakfast?”

“Only if there’s chocola’e chips!”

*

It’s not surprising when he gets a call from Peter around noon that day.

He’s sitting out on the back deck, a glass of lemonade on the table beside him, a pair of sunglasses, for once being used for their purpose. Morgan’s playing by her tent, following all the rules of playing outside, Tony hasn’t had to remind her once.

“Hey, Pete. Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for another couple hours. Thought you had that project you were working on with that new friend of yours,” Tony says peacefully.

But his peace is almost instantly broken.

“Tony?” Peter’s voice is too quiet, fear filling the short syllable to the very brim. He coughs, crackling in the phone.

“Pete?” Tony echoes, worry very suddenly coloring his voice. He sits up in his chair, keeping his eyes trained on Morgan. “Everything okay?”

“I- I-” There’s an awful choking noise and then static fills the phone.

“Fuck, jesus fuck- FRI, get it- fix the connection. Get Peter back on the line,” Tony demands. With the hand not holding the phone, he waves Morgan over urgently. He needs to get to Peter.

A parental instinct has filled his chest and all he knows is that he needs Peter. Now. And there’s no way in hell he’s letting Morgan be anywhere but at his side.

Morgan doesn’t say anything as she warily wanders over, somehow understanding her father’s fear and seriousness.

“Grab a backpack, honey. We’re going on a little trip, okay?” Tony tells his daughter, waiting anxiously for the phone call to reconnect. “Put your shoes on and wait at the front door for me, okay, piccola?”

“Wha’s wrong?” Morgan asks, eyes wide and scared. Tony hates it and he hates that he doesn’t even have the mind to fix the fear, he’s too busy focusing on his other kid. “Okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay, little miss. Go get a backpack and your shoes on.”

This time, Morgan doesn’t try to ask any more questions, just races into the house. Almost as soon as she’s gone, the call finally reconnects.

“Peter? C’mon, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony begs, following his kid into the house on shaky legs. He needs to find car keys. One step at a time.

“M’ster S’ark?” Peter slurs through the phone, crackly and thick.

“Yeah, kid. I’m right here. I need you to talk to me. What’s going on?”

Peter makes a noise, somewhere between pleased and pained, if that’s even possible. “’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, Pete? What’s going on? Please, kid, I need to work with something here.” He pulls the phone away enough to speak to FRIDAY without Peter hearing. “FRI, hack into Peter’s watch or his phone or something and get me his vitals. And his location. Just because I live in a cabin does not mean I’m not Tony fucking Stark.”

“He is located in Massachusetts. A block away from his dorm building on campus,” FRIDAY informs. “I am unable to reach his watch or any accurate vitals from his phone.”

“Fuck, shit, jesus christ, Peter, what the fuck happened?” Tony knows he shouldn’t be swearing this much in front of both his kids, but he can’t help it. His stress levels are through the roof and he’s scared one of his children are dying, he thinks that warrants a little bit of cussing.

“Hurts, please,” Peter cries, sounding more like Morgan than himself with how whiny his voice has gotten. “Please, m’s’er s’ark, please.”

Tony finally finds his keys and shoves on a pair of shoes, keeping up a litany of reassurances and soothing words, getting to the car at the same time Morgan comes racing out of the house, an Elmo backpack bouncing on her back.

“Peter, I need you to listen to me, okay?” Tony says, starting up the car, and barely having the mind to check and make sure Morgan’s strapped into her seat, before he takes off down the street.

Peter makes a noise of affirmation.

“You know how long it takes to get to Massachusetts? We timed it, remember?”

“Mm,” Peter says, probably not coherent enough to remember any specific numbers. Three hours and forty-seven minutes, remember?” Tony says. He continues without waiting for a response. “Be honest with me, bambino, can you wait nearly four hours for me?”

Peter sobs in response, broken and hopeless. “Hurts, T’ny. Can’t- I can’t-”

“Okay, kiddie, okay,” Tony says, nearly crying himself, but he can’t afford to cry. If he cries, Morgan might freak, and that’ll make Peter feel worse, and Tony can’t possibly to deal with both of his kids at the same time.

“Petey okay?” Morgan says. She has her tablet in her hands, playing a game already, but the worry is still marring her innocent face.

“Yeah, it’s okay, honey,” Tony says quickly. He’s already on the verge of panicking, he needs to focus and drive. “Pete, kiddo, I love you, okay? But I have to get off the phone for just a second, okay? I have an idea. I’ll call you back in just a second.”

“Mmkay,” Peter slurs.

“Don’t fall asleep, kid, please. I’ll call you right back.”

He hangs up the phone as he merges onto the highway, speeding the car up to at least 1.5x the speed limit, trying his best to keep his eyes on the road as he dials a new number.

“Hey, Tony, I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for at least-”

“Fuck, Steve, where are you?” Tony demands, jerking the wheel to stay in his lane. His kid sounds like he’s dying and he’s four hours away. Fuck everything. “Please tell me you’re near Massachusetts.”

Steve doesn’t respond for too long and Tony worries he’s going to need to pull over, tears blurring his vision.

“Sam and Bucky are in New Hampshire, Dover, if that helps,” Steve finally says, “I’m in Brooklyn. They had to go on Shield business.”

“Tell them to drop everything. And I mean everything and get their asses to MIT. Peter called me and he’s hurt and fuck- I’m too far and he needs help, Steve. Please.”

Morgan gasps in the back of the car. “You lied? Petey hurt?”

“Yeah, of course, Tony. They can be there in like half an hour if they take the bike. Text me the coordinates.”

Tony hangs up and drops his phone into the passenger seat, knowing FRIDAY will take over with everything else. He focuses his attention on the road, steadily climbing in speed. He doesn’t care if Sam and Bucky can be there for his kid, he needs to be there for his kid.

Finally, the call reconnects.

Tony slips the Bluetooth piece into his ear to make sure Morgan doesn’t have to hear Peter’s end of the conversation.

“Pete, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony begs, glad he’s got FRIDAY on his side. A car honks at him as he swerves into another lane to avoid having to slow down. He’s putting Morgan in danger by driving so recklessly, but he can’t stop-

Peter doesn’t respond, only sobs in response, an awful gut-wrenching noise that makes Tony want to explode.

“Daddy?” Morgan pipes up from the backseat. She looks too old all of a sudden, no longer with the six-year-old bright innocence, but more like Pepper, face drawn in worry and fear. “You’re going too fast.”

“It’s like a rollercoaster, Morguna,” Tony replies half-heartedly, too focused on Peter and his cries of pain.

Morgan’s face crumples. “I don’t like ro’ercoas’ers.”

His knuckles are white from how tight he’s gripping the steering wheel and the cars are honking and Morgan’s starting to cry and Peter’s choking on his sobs and Tony can’t breathe-

He swerves too suddenly, slamming on the brakes, his heart aches when he hears Morgan let out a whine of surprise at the sudden movement. As soon as the car is stopped, he mutes his end of the earpiece and falls onto the gravel on the side of the road.

His body won’t stop shaking, he can’t stop thinking that his kid is dead or at least will be if he doesn’t make it there to him and he’s going to kill his other kid with his reckless driving or he’ll get arrested and he’ll never make it to Peter.

And then, like a beacon of hope, a second car pulls up behind them, and Rhodey’s running towards him.

“You need to breathe, Tony. C’mon,” Rhodey says, dropping to the ground beside Tony. “What the hell is going on?”

“Peter- he-”

“Breathe first, Tones. I know you can do it.” Hands are on his shoulder and chest and then the earpiece is gone, taking Peter’s cries away with it. “Breathe.”

It takes a few panicked minutes before Tony finally has his breathing under control, but when he does, he’s immediately reaching for the little white piece again.

“Tell me what’s going on first,” Rhodey demands.

“Pete- the kid, he’s hurt. He’s- I don’t know. I have to get him. I have to- I-”

“Barnes sent a message,” FRIDAY interrupts. “We’re on our way. ETA twenty minutes. Stay calm. I’ll fill you in as soon as I can.”

Rhodey offers a reassuring smile. “Barnes is getting him. It’s okay, Tony. It’s all fine. You just need to breathe and apologizing for scaring the little one.”

“He’s my kid!” Tony’s hands flail with his sudden anger, nearly hitting Rhodey. “I should be- I should- He could be dead, and I- I’m not there for him.”

Rhodey’s hands are grounding and strong on his shoulders. “He’s okay. He’s Peter Parker. He’s made it through a shitload so far, this won’t be the end, Tones. He’s going to be okay. He always is.”

And even if his words might make sense, Tony can’t comprehend much more than the idea that Peter’s hurt and alone.

Eventually, Rhodey convinces Tony up off the gravel and into the backseat of the car, pushing the earpiece into his best friend’s hand.

“I’ll drive. You take care of your kids,” Rhodey instructs and the car takes off again, nowhere near as fast as Tony was going, but still fast enough, Tony hopes.

“Peter?” he calls out gently when he gets the earpiece in again. “Pete, you with me?”

Peter’s making a scary gurgling noise, breaths few and far between. “T’ny- T’ny- Please-”

“I’m right here, bambino,” Tony reassures, keeping one of his hands holding onto Morgan’s. “I’m right here, I promise. You’re going to be just fine.”

Peter coughs wetly and when he gets control again, he sounds hopeless. “’m sorry. I- I love you. I need- I don’t-”

“You’re okay, kid. I promise. Everything’s going to be okay. Just hang on for another few minutes, okay? Bucky and Sam are going to get to you and I’m coming too, okay? I just-”

Tony’s voice is cut off by a blood-curdling, desperate cry from Peter’s end.

“Fuck, you were supposed to die. You’ve seen my face. You- you know things you shouldn’t,” a new voice is saying, far away from Peter’s phone. “You were supposed to stay quiet.”

“Please,” Peter begs, voice wavering. “I don’t- I don’t wanna die. Please.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that sooner.”

“Please-”

The line turns to static.

*

It takes too long. Much, much too long to arrive to the hospital near the campus.

Tony and Rhodey have been to this hospital one too many times, not for Peter but for Tony’s drunken nights taken too far back when they were in MIT.

Morgan clings onto Tony, arms and legs wrapped around him like a koala, as they rush into the hospital together. Her face stays hidden in the crook of his neck and he vaguely worries what kind of emotional toll this is going to take on her in the future.

“Stark, thank god you’re here,” Sam says, standing from one of the waiting room chairs.

"Where’s Peter? Where’s my kid?” Tony says, voice falling into a plead. “Please, is he okay?”

Bucky stands, bloodshot eyes finding Tony’s. “We don’t know yet. They took him into the ER, and we haven’t heard anything since. It was- It wasn’t great, if I’m being honest. But I think, I hope, he’ll be okay.”

Tony almost drops Morgan when he sees the blood caked under their nails and staining their hands, nearly up to their elbows in blood. Peter’s blood. Their clothing is bloodstained too, covering them from head to toe in blood. So much fucking blood.

Rhodey quickly takes Morgan from Tony, and Sam and Bucky gently help him sit in a chair.

“He’s going to be okay,” Sam says. “He’ll be just fine.”

Tony wants to argue, but there’s no fight left in him. He doesn’t even want to think about the possibilities. He has to be okay. There’s no other option.

*

“C’mon, Tony. Up and at ‘em,” Rhodey says, shaking Tony’s shoulder.

The billionaire shoots awake, rubbing his eyes. “Is he okay? Do we know-”

“Before you have an aneurysm, yes, Peter’s okay. They’re letting us go see him,” he says.

“Where’s Morgan?” Tony demands, finally feeling a little bit of relief loosen his chest.

Rhodey helps Tony to his feet. “Pepper came and took her home. Said you were absolutely insane for taking her all the way down here, but she’s not mad. Sam and Bucky are staying at a nearby hotel for the night. C’mon, room one eighteen.”

The door pushes open with a soft creak, revealing a hospital room not too different from the ones Tony remembers waking up in all the time after binge-drinking or OD-ing. He walks into the room, wincing at the stained blue tiles under his shoes. He only now realizes he’s wearing a pair of Peter’s high tops.

Peter looks much, much worse for wear. An oxygen mask covers the majority of his face, strapped in place and pushing his hair down in weird places. His eyes are closed, but there’re dark shadows underneath them and visible, recent tear-streaks down his cheeks.

His shirt is gone, revealing a thick wad of bandages in the center of his chest. There are some leftover streaks of dried blood over his stomach. A hospital gown is pushed down to his waist, away from the wound on his chest and his legs are covered by a thick heating blanket.

The worst, though, is the thick bandages encircling Peter’s throat, blood dotting through the white gauze.

“What happened to him?” Tony asks slowly, refusing to move any closer.

Rhodey’s face is drawn, forehead creasing. “Police checked the security tapes. Peter was walking home when he was stopped in an alleyway. A mugging. His wallet and watch were taken. Peter tried to fight back, you know, with his training, but he didn’t realize the man had a knife. Stabbed him right in the middle. Punctured one of his lungs and narrowly missed the other. The mugger came back for whatever reason and when he saw Peter was still alive…”

“He- fuck, Rhodey, his throat?” Tony exclaims, voice breaking. “How is he not-”

“Bucky and Sam got there right when it happened. They fought the mugger, nearly killed him with how angry they were. They helped stop the bleeding and got Peter here in just enough time.”

Tony’s knees are shaking and the last thing he needs is to collapse right now, so he forces himself to take the few extra steps to get to Peter’s bedside and sit in the chair.

Peter’s eyes blink open almost instantly like he could sense Tony’s presence. His eyes widen, panic glazing over him. He tries to push himself up, a hand fumbling for his oxygen mask and for his neck, but the movement obviously pulls at something because he cries out quietly in pain behind the oxygen mask.

“Hey, hey, hey, woah there, Pete. You’re okay,” Tony murmurs, gently pushing on Peter’s shoulders to get him lying down. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital, but I’m here now, okay?”

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t from behind the mask. His eyes are welling with tears and it hurts Tony so badly to see him hurting, but at least he’s safe. At least he’s alive.

“You’re okay, bambino. You’re okay,” Tony repeats, gently pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead and taking his hand. “It’s alright now, you can breathe, kid. Relax.”

The fight and tension leaves Peter’s body on command, slumping into the bed. His fingers fumble with Tony’s until he can tap on Tony’s palm.

H.U.R.T.S

“I know it hurts, kiddo. Your spidey-metabolism probably isn’t very good for these drugs, huh. But I planned for that, don’t you worry,” Tony says, digging through his pockets until he finds a hand-sized needle. “Bruce whipped this up for you a few months ago. Rhodey, you wanna do the honors?”

Rhodey doesn’t want to, but he will. And once the drugs have been injected into Peter’s arms, he excuses himself, saying he should probably call everyone and let them know the kid’s okay.

T.O.N.Y

“Yeah, bambino, I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe now.”

S.C.A.R.E.D

D.O.N.T W.A.N.T. D.I.E

“You’re not going to die, kid. Not on my watch. I told you I’d protect you, and I will. Even if I have to do it through the other avengers. How would you feel about in impromptu vacation once you’re healed? Maybe Italy? May, Morgan, me, you, and Pepper. Italy for a few weeks. That sounds nice. Didn’t think my heart could deal with that kinda stress anymore, but I guess we’re all full of surprises, huh?”

There are a few seconds of nothing from Peter before he taps three times on Tony’s palm. It’s his way of saying I love you. They’ve been doing it since after the snap and Tony was the bedridden one. Peter would tap three times against Tony’s real hand.

Tony taps three times in response eliciting a little smile from behind the oxygen mask.

T.H.A.N.K.S

“You never have to thank me for helping you, kid. I wish it would be about crushes or homework, but I’m here for you, Pete. Always.”

Peter taps three times again.

“I love you too, kid. Get some rest.”

N.I.G.H.T

Followed by three more taps.

“I get it, kid, we’re sappy and lovey, but seriously, Goodnight. I love you too.”

Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying it.

[unpack-my-heart]

IT Fandom Prompt Week - Day 4 - Medieval AU

This is the first chapter of my alchemy AU that i’ve written for IT Fandom Prompt week day 4 - Medieval AU.

Read it under the cut or on AO3 HERE

@constantreaderfool @tinyarmedtrex @xandertheundead @violetreddie

IGNIS AURUM PROBAT

The earth yawned open, and out lurched Chaos.

Chaos looked around, flexed its muscles, before immediately giving birth.

Out of the womb of darkness came Gaia, Tartatus, Eros, Erebus and Nyx. Five wriggling, squishy things. The five wriggling, squishy things collectively blinked, and Chaos retreated.

From Gaia came the Titans, and from Cronus and his sister-wife Rhea came Zeus. Zeus, King of Gods, who reigned with an iron fist and wandering eyes, relished the power he held over humanity. Enraged with Prometheus for giving them the gift of fire, Zeus’ fondness for humanity waxed and waned, before ultimately decreasing to such a pitiful degree that the God’s who sat on Mount Olympus looked upon Earth with kindness in their eyes no more.

When Christianity swept over Greece in the fourth-century, and the God who were sat upon Mount Olympus were eschewed by humanity for good, Zeus’ temper grew foul. Sparks of lightning scarred the Earth in the tenth-century, Atlas adjusted his grip on the Earth, and profane things rose from the wounds.

The God’s who sat on Mount Olympus, bored and ignored, were resigned to myth and legend.

But they remained, and they watched.

Edward Kaspbrak had been plucked from the bosom of his mother at the age of two, and whisked away to the dingy alchemical workshop of one Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim (or, to Edward and his closest friends, Paracelsus) to serve as his ward and apprentice. Edward quickly forgot about his mother, who presumably also forgot about him.

The reliable constants in Edward’s early life were glass bottles, bitter smelling herbs and the lingering metallic scent in the air. His childhood was fundamentally unlike other children his age, who worked on their parents farms by day and slept, exhausted and filthy, at night. Instead, Edward practiced the transmutatory art by day, and meticulously copied out complicated spagyric formulas by candle light at night. Paracelsus’ workshop was somewhat small, and it was endlessly untidy with stacks of leather-bound books balanced precariously upon every surface. There was one small window that provided daylight and helped the poisonous vapours emitted by the various burning metals to escape the room. Other than this, however, the workshop was claustrophobic. Russet coloured clay vases littered the floor, and more than once Edward found himself tripping over them, sending the herbs he’d spent all morning carefully collecting up into the air, only to rain down like green snowflakes.

First and foremost, Paracelsus’ workshop served as the first port of call for those infected with various diseases. Whether they believed they were being punished by a vengeful God, or had a constitution that made them prone to ill-health, they would come, pay whatever Paracelsus deemed appropriate, and then spend between four and eight hours screaming in agony whilst the alchemist rubbed a slightly silvery ointment into the infected flesh, followed by a hot press of guaiacum over the infected area. Edward had grown accustomed to the howls of the infected, as they lay on the straw mattress in the corner of the workshop. Sometimes they pleaded with him to rub the ointment off with a wet cloth, or to put them out of their misery in increasingly creative, but gruesome ways. Edward never said anything to them, ignoring them in favour of mixing a new batch of quicksilver to be spread onto the skin of the next unfortunate who stumbled through the door.

The first time Edward watched Paracelsus cure the pox with the ointment made from liquid mercury he’d been amazed – half convinced his eyes had deceived him, and half convinced Paracelsus was, in fact, some sort of demonic druid belched from the underbelly of Hell.

“Edward, the body works not according to the four humours, but according to the tria prima. The three principles of life. The spagyric art should not just be applied to the transmutation of metals, but also to the great microcosm – the human body, made in His image. We can use the same principles we use to purify metals to purify the human body – to separate the pure from the impure,” is what Paracelsus had told Edward one night, whilst they were both elbow deep in a watery stew that tasted more like turnip than it did beef. Edward was not a fan of turnip.

Paracelsus must have sensed Edward’s confusion wafting over the table, because he continued.

“See, you saw how the quicksilver burnt the pox straight off Mary Croft’s arms?”

“Is that why she screamed loud enough to startle the chickens in the croft?” Edward asked.

“Yes, child,” Paracelsus laughed, “It is a rather… painful … procedure. Disease is the infection of the body by bad seeds, and we use the spagyric art to refine the spiritual essence of these seeds, so that we might expel the poison from the body and from the soul. Of course, it is all the more painful when drank as an elixir but the risk of death is too great. An ointment, though painful, is a much safer way of administering the cure”

“Does it cure them?” Edward queried, a little too quickly.

Paracelsus visibly bristled.

“Did Mary Croft walk out of here alive?”

“Yes”

“Were her blisters gone?”

“I suppose so, Sir”

“Then, as far as I’m concerned, she’s cured. Not another word”

– X –

As time passed, and he became older, one thing became startlingly clear.

Edward Kaspbrak was, by all accounts, a terrible alchemist.

On his eighth birthday – a day that did not mark the day he actually turned eight years of age, but rather, a date that marked six years since Edward had become Paracelsus’ ward – Paracelsus decided that it was time to begin teaching Edward the most basic alchemical concepts. Fortunately, his decision coincided with catching  Edward with his nose in a copy of Galen’s De Facultatibus Naturalibus.

“There is more learning in my shoe buckles than in all Galen!” Paracelsus roared, smacking the book from Edward’s hand. The book fell to the floor, spine cracked down the centre.

“What have I told you about the humours, child! They are the misguided theories of irreligious heathens ignorant of true knowledge. Today we will begin your education in the spagyric art, and I will chase the Aristotelian knowledge from your head with a spear”

True to his word, Paracelsus began teaching Edward the art of alchemy.

– X –

“Try again, child. You must learn by doing, experience by the fire is the only way that you may become a true healer”

“The fire bites me, Sir” Edward lamented, rubbing the small red welt that was rapidly appearing on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

“That is because you don’t treat it with respect, Edward. The fire is the master of all things, and you must treat it as such. Now, try again,” Paracelsus instructed, wiping muddy brown sediment from the bottom of a swan-necked glass bottle.

The guaiacum in the metal pan simmered, and when Edward added the liquid quicksilver after bringing the pan off the heat, it spat at Edward’s hand, before solidifying into an unusable mass.

Paracelsus sighed.

“I have never seen somebody coagulate mercury before. Either you are a genius, or a fool. Again!”

Several days later, Edward found himself with nothing to do. Paracelsus was consumed by a large leather-bound book, not paying any attention to what Edward was doing, who took it upon himself to undertake some independent study.

Earnest as ever, Edward stood over the burning fire, wincing slightly from the heat, trying to turn a block of wood he had found in the workshop into … something. He was trying to simultaneously anoint the wood with the right amount of solution and heat it to the right temperature when, slowly but surely, the wood began to blacken, and pieces started to fall away in large flakes.

“Sir! Sir! I think, I think I may have done it!” Edward cried out, hopping from foot to foot in excitement, trying desperately not to let the rapidly blackening wood fall into the flames.

“Done what?” Paracelsus called out from his place at the table.

“Done… something! I have made coal!”

“From what?!” Paracelsus called out again, sounding vaguely more interested. Edward heard the scrape of the chair, and the characteristic thump of his mentors feet.

“Look!”

Paracelsus was silent.

“Sir?”

“Edward, what you have done is burnt some wood. That is not transmutation, that is not any form of alchemy, you have turned yourself into a conduit for the stove.”

“…Oh” Edward faltered, dropping the wood and watching the fire consume it hungrily.

Paracelsus must immediately sense his student’s disappointment, because he immediately steps forward to console him.

“The spagyric art is a fickle one. She will not be mastered by anyone who, on a whim, decides to try and tame her. You must practice. You must feel the force of all the great men who have stood before you, and channel that energy into your studies. I have faith in you, Eddie.”

– X –

Ten summers later, and Edward was eighteen years old and no better at the spagyric art than he was when Paracelsus had begun his education. Edward had been resigned to the position of aid, a status normally reserved for women. He prepared the ingredients, scrubbed the vomit and blood from the floors, and mostly, just stayed out of the way. When his education had stagnated, he had expected Paracelsus to turn him out of the workshop, and condemn him to a life of poverty. But that hadn’t happened. Over the past fourteen summers, Paracelsus had grown rather fond of the rather useless, but sincere boy. He’d watched Edward mature into a kind-hearted earnest young man, and despite his failure to turn base metals into gold, his heart appeared to made of the stuff. Besides, turning Edward away would require training up a new aid which was, quite frankly, too taxing. So Edward remained under the tutelage of Paracelsus, despite never actually applying his theoretical knowledge beyond mixing up the ointments.

Until Richard Tozier walked into the workshop.

– X –

Richard Tozier had the pox.

He assumed he’d caught the pox from one of the women he’d met at the tavern. This is what he told his parents. In reality, Richard knew he’d caught it from the young man he’d been secretly lying with for half a year. Announcing to your mother and father that he’d caught the pox from the local sodomite wouldn’t endear him to his parents any more than his alternative story, so he stuck to that. They wailed and lamented about divine retribution and how his mortal sins were manifesting on his skin. They, of course, send him off to the nearest healers as quick as his pock-marked feet would carry him.

That’s how he found himself standing outside the alchemists workshop, hesitating briefly before landing three swift, sharp knocks on the rickety door.

It opened almost instantly.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

The owner of the voice was small, male and inextricably beautiful. Richard knew that he wasn’t supposed to find men beautiful, and that God must have made a catastrophic error when creating him, but he didn’t much care for convention.

“Uh – Yes. Yes, I’m looking for the healer? The – the alchemist? My body is entirely covered with–”

Richard gestured to his skin, the angry red welts on his skin practically pulsing on his otherwise unblemished skin.

The young man’s eyes widened, before he schooled his face into something Richard assumed was supposed to be apathy, but still looked more like panic than anything else.

“The alchemist is not here presently. You will have to come back another day, when he’s here, which he is not right now, I mean – he isn’t here to help you, you will have to come back”

The young man tried to wedge the door shut in Richard’s face, but Richard managed to stick his leather-clad foot out in time, so that the door could not completely shut.

“Excuse me, but I really must insist that you help me. I cannot go home before I am cured, for I fear that my father would beat me with a rather large stick if I did. Can you not help me? Who are you? Are you the apprentice?” Richard practically begged, nudging the door open slightly by wiggling his foot.

“I suppose I am, technically, but I really cannot – I have never – I have never successfully cured anyone, not on my own. I don’t think I can do this on my own, you really must wait for Paracelsus to return”

“I fear that I might drop down dead on your doorstep. Is that what you want? To have to step over my melancholy, rotting corpse to leave your house? To drag it to a shallow grave, to have to cover my body with–“

“Enough!”

Richard smiled wolfishly, watching the young man’s face contort into a picture of disgust.

“So you’ll help me?”

“I suppose I must”

“There really is no risk, I’m practically dead already.”

– X –

The concoction of herbs and water in the small metal pan bubbled furiously, and Edward’s forehead glistened with a panicked sheen of sweat. He had scrabbled around the workshop hunting for the vial of liquid quicksilver, before finding one lodged in the centre of an old book that Edward had watched Paracelsus pour over night by night, etching complicated alchemical symbols that Edward didn’t recognise into it with a quill. Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he looked up at the stranger who was currently sat on the straw mattress. The room was full of thick grey smoke, and the bitter-sweet aroma of burning plant matter. Pouring the solution into a glass bottle, Edward closed his eyes prayed that the cure would work. He had seen Paracelsus anoint hundreds of people with the solution, and he was confident that he could brew the solution with his eyes closed. However, his hands still shook as he carefully brought the small glass bottle over to where the stranger sat.

“My name is Edward, what is your name, Sir?” Edward asked, trying to maintain a strong steadiness in his voice, and only just succeeding.

“Richard Tozier, but my friends call me Rich. You can call me that, if you like”

“So, Richard, have you ever had a quicksilver ointment applied to your body before?” Edward pressed, collecting pieces of somewhat dirty rag that he would use to press the ointment into Richard’s bleeding skin.

“I have not. Why? Am I in for a pleasant surprise?” Richard asked, tone too light-hearted to suggest that he knew what he was about to experience. Edward wordlessly tugged at Richard’s tunic, and Richard tugged it over his head, exposing his torso that was also littered with red welts.

“Not entirely” Edward hummed, pouring some of the foul smelling ointment onto the rag, hesitating for a second, before bringing it to Richard’s skin with an audible gulp.

As predicted, Richard howled like a struck cat.

“Keep still! Sorry – You must keep still, the application process is precarious and it’ll hurt even more if I wipe this on your uninfected skin” Edward snapped, but smoothed the hand that wasn’t holding the quicksilver over Richie’s trembling arm.

“Sorry, sorry. This hurts like nothing I have ever experienced before, and my father dropped me on my head when I was a child” Richard replied, wincing, causing Edward to laugh, loud and bright.

“Ah, that explains why you are … the way you are”

Edward continued to dab the quicksilver ointment onto Richie’s welts, concentrating hard enough that he feared his eyes might pop in their sockets. Richard was almost entirely silent, save for the occasional hiss and whimper. At one point, when Eddie rubbed the ointment on a particularly painful looking welt on Richard’s inner thigh, Richard grabbed Edward’s arm.

“Is this … okay?” Richard asked tentatively, flexing his grip on Edward’s bicep. Edward considered removing the man’s hand, wary of the fact that Paracelsus could walk back in and see his apprentice sat on the floor, between the legs of a pock-marked man, and throw him onto the street in a heap.

Edward didn’t move his hand.

Slowly, and with painstaking precision, Edward continued to apply the ointment to every scab on Richard’s body.

“You’re very quiet, little mouse”

“Mouse?! I am no mouse” Edward cried, sitting back on his heels.

“Well, you have tawny hair and a small nose and I’m sure if I poked you here,” Richard reached over to Edward’s side, giving it an almighty poke and causing Edward to shriek, “Ah yes. You squeak, Sir, exactly like a mouse”.

“I am not a mouse” Edward replied indignantly, but try as he might, his lips twitched at the sides, threatening to bloom.

“Well, what are you then?”

“I am,” Edward paused, before replying, “I am a fox”

“A fox?! Are you cunning, then? Wily and tricksy?”

“I suppose so. I have a vicious bite, so you better be careful or I’ll –“ Edward announced, and gnashed his teeth together, simultaneously a threat and something … different. Something entirely more.

“A vicious bite? Is that a promise?” Richie queried, but the wink he tried to aim at Edward mutated into a scowl as the quicksilver was applied to a scab on his shoulder.

A blanket of quiet settled over them. Edward continued to apply the ointment, and Richard watched him work. After a while, Richard grew tense.

“Edward, can I tell you something?”

“Um, I suppose. What is it?”

“It’s something that you might find repulsive”

“By God’s name, if you ask me to apply this ointment to your …,” Edward gestured vaguely at Richard’s crotch, “I shall force it down your throat”

“…Oh”

“So you were going to ask me to do that?”

“No, well, no I wasn’t but it was … somewhat related”

“Somewhat related to your…,” Edward gestured at Richard’s crotch again, feeling his cheek grow hot with embarrassment.

“No it’s related to me asking you to. It’s – oh, to hell with it, I do not only lie with women”

“Pardon?”

Richard sighed, shifting slightly on the mattress.

“I do not only lie with women”

Edward didn’t say anything, just let Richard’s words hang in the air like low flying birds.

“I lie with men. I like lying with men. It’s … different. In some ways, much better, it’s –“

“Why are you telling me this?” Edward interrupted.

“Because I am probably going to die, and this secret has been consuming me for weeks and … if I didn’t share it with someone I fear I might go mad”

“But why me?”

“Let’s just call it intuition, little mouse”

– X –

“How long have you been an alchemist?”  

“I’m not … I’m not technically an alchemist, for I – It’s complicated, Sir”

“Sir?” Richard quoted, eyebrow raised comically high on his forehead.

“Sorry, force of habit. Paracelsus instructs me to call the patients ‘Sir’”

“Hmmm” Richard hummed, his eyes glinting mischievously, looking ever the trickster.

“What now?”

“I rather like it when you call me Sir”

Edward spluttered then, almost dropping the bottle of ointment. Richard reached out to steady his arm, causing Edward to flinch even more.

“Are you feeling okay, Edward?”

“You are a nightmare, Richard” Edward cursed, but the smile that had fully bloomed on his face suggested otherwise.

– X –

The first time Edward had realised he was different he’d been sitting outside the workshop. The summer sun tingled on his skin, when Robert Greatrakes, the mason’s apprentice, had walked past without a shirt on. He was tugging a small wheeled cart loaded with stones, and Edward’s eyes remained glued to the young man’s body the entire length of the street. The way the muscles of his arms were taut under the strain of the cart. The glossy sheen of sweat covering his back. The way his hair, cropped close to his skull, glistened like molasses.

Something bubbled in Edward’s lower stomach.

He knew what this was. What he was.

– X –

With the ointment applied to every inch of Richie’s inflamed, oozing skin, all they could do was wait. Eddie busied himself cleaning the tools he had used to brew the ointment, as well as carefully replacing the vial of quicksilver into the book where he found it. He hoped that Paracelsus would not notice that it was missing several inches of glittering liquid. Richard is snoring loudly in the corner of the room, body entirely covered in a thin white sheet, with the intention of insulating his body to stimulate the ointment. Still staring at the snoring stranger, Edward absently picked up the glass bottle that had previously contained the quicksilver ointment.

He dropped it.

The bottle splintered into hundreds of tiny glass shards, and Edward flinched, expecting the ointment to have oozed all over the wooden floor.

It hadn’t.

What lay on the floor was a smooth, smallish round lump of what appeared to be solid gold.

Breath clogging his throat like wool, Edward bent down and picked up the small round object. It was entirely solid, and when he tried to crush it in his fist, it didn’t change shape.

Gold.

Edward had created gold.

He hadn’t meant to, of course. It had been a fortunate accident, and should Paracelsus, or indeed anyone, have asked him to re-create this feat he’d be unable. Nevertheless, he had done it. Gold from quicksilver. The ultimate aim of the spagyric art. He had done it.

Richard coughed, and Edward dropped the ball of gold. It rolls under the table.

Suddenly remembering how the gold had come into existence, Edward scrabbled over the vases and pots on the floor until he was standing directly over Richard, who, thankfully, looked normal. He was breathing, the steady, rhythmic puffs of air providing the only sound in the room. His face was somewhat dirty, but otherwise exactly the same as it had been when he’d first come into the workshop.

With shaking fingers, and shaking breath, Edward picked up the corner of the white sheet between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it back gingerly.

The shriek that clawed its way out of Edward’s mouth practically shook the walls of the workshop.

Richard’s body was entirely covered in small crescent shaped gold marks. Where there had been angry red welts, there were now perfectly even, perfectly repeated gold crescents and  Richard’s body was absolutely littered with them. Richard sat up with a start, pressing both hands onto the straw mattress, and suddenly, without warning, Richard was sitting on a solid block of … Gold. It was as if the mattress had always been gold. There was no evidence to suggest that this obscenely large golden cube had ever been made of cloth and straw.

“What – What on Earth … Edward? Edward, what is going on?” Richie demanded, voice quivering as he stood up gingerly.

Edward couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t claw his eyes away from the solid gold mass on the floor and the young man stood in front of it, body shining like an angel.

Richard didn’t appear to notice that he was covered in small golden marks, and Edward couldn’t open his mouth to tell him.

“How … How did you do this? Turn the bed into … gold? The bed is … solid gold? Mercy God, Edward, who are you?”

“Your – your arm, Richard, look at your arm”

“My arm? Never mind my damn arm, look at the – by God’s blood, what has happened to me? What have you done to me?”

Richard was now staring at the gold marks on his arm, face stricken with horror. Edward immediately decided that he’d have to delay Richard, just long enough that so he’d still be here when Paracelsus returned. Paracelsus would know what to do, he’d be able to fix this … whatever this was.

“Richard, you must – you must wait until the alchemist gets back. He will not be long, he is just in the next town. He’ll know what to do, what has happened to – to you. Please sit, please, Richard, I do not want you to panic, I –“

“Hell’s breath! You don’t want me to panic? Pray tell, how am I not to panic when I am covered in these … marks? What have you done? Cursed me? Is this a curse, for – for being a sodomite? You did not have to curse me, vile witch, just refuse to treat me and let me die in a heap like I should have done”

“No!” Edward cried, a hoarse, harsh sound that echoed around the room angrily, “That could not be further from the truth, Richard – Rich, please. Wait, sit. The alchemist will be back soon and he can help you”

Richard grabbed the broom that was lying against the wall of the workshop, and attempted to wield it like a weapon – to protect himself from whatever he assumed Edward was going to do to him. What actually happened, though, was as soon as Richard picked up the broom, it immediately turned to solid gold. Wooden handle, horse hair bristles and all. Completely, and perfectly, rendered in solid gold.

Richard screamed, and dropped the golden broom on the floor, where it landed with a loud clatter.

“By God’s bones, what have you done! You have turned me into some sort of … demon! Stay back, stay back or I’ll send you crawling back to hell, I’ll – I’ll … !”

Before he could finish his sentence, Richard Tozier, cradling his hands against his chest, ran out of the workshop.

– X –

Midas.

The name shot into Eddie’s head like a cannon ball, fast and painful and … Oh.

Midas.

Edward was scrabbling for the copy of pagan mythology on the top shelf of Paracelsus’ bookshelf when he alchemist walked back in.

“Edward? What in God’s name are you doing?”

“HELL!” Edward cried, toppling to the ground from where he was perched on the edge of a bench, the book of pagan mythology clasped tight in his hands.

Paracelsus rolled his eyes fondly, before striding over to where his apprentice was sprawled on the floor. Edward gratefully accepted his extended hand, and Paracelsus hauled him to his feet.

“Care to tell me what required this book so urgently, Eddie?”

Edward had no idea where to start.

Luckily, before he had a chance to speak, Paracelsus noticed the rather inconspicuous golden bed in the corner of the room. The mattress that had once been straw and thread-bear cloth.

“Edward,” Paracelsus said reverently, “Did you … Did you do this?”

“Yes” Edward replied, miserably.

“How?”

“Someone came in while you were out and they – they had the pox and they were so desperate for me to cure them and – and I … I did”

“That doesn’t tell me how the mattress became golden, Edward”

“I couldn’t find any quicksilver at first, but then I remembered the vial you were keeping in the manuscript you’ve been working on, so I … I took that and I … “

“You used … the quicksilver I’ve been keeping in this book?” Paracelsus exclaimed, holding up the leather-bound manuscript. The little vial of quicksilver that Eddie had used rolled out, landing on the table below. It stared up at him.

“Yes”

“Oh, Child… do you know what this is?”

“Quicksilver?”

“This,” Paracelsus held up the vial and shook it slightly in Edward’s face, “This is not just quicksilver. This is the most potent, most volatile form of mercury possible. It will turn almost any base metal to gold. And now, it appears, even materials that are not metal to gold. What happened to the patient, I assume they died? What did you do with the body?”

“Well –”

“And you really must be more careful, Edward. You must have spilt a very large amount of the ointment for the mattress to entirely turn to gold like this”

“Sir!”

“Yes?”

“They didn’t die”

“They didn’t?”

“No and I … I didn’t spill any of the ointment”

“You must have, for how else would …. Oh. Oh, Edward. What have you done?”

Paracelsus ripped the pagan mythology book out of Edward’s trembling hands, and thumped it down on the table. The alchemist flicked to the relevant page, and began scanning the Latin.

Midas, King of Phygia, was unsatisfied. He had riches untold, a great castle, and a beautiful daughter. Despite all this, he still wanted more. More wealth, more gold, more jewels. Midas would spend his days counting his gold, ensuring it was all still there. His greatest love, his greatest passion, his reason for living, all gold.

One day, Dionysus, God of revelry, was travelling through Midas’ kingdom. One of his fellows, Silenus, took a nap in Midas’ rose gardens, unaware that the King took early morning walks in the garden. Sure enough, the King found Silenus, and invited him in to feast at the castle. After the feast, Midas took Silenus back to Dionysus, who was so grateful for the safe return of his friend, he promised to fulfil Midas’ greatest wish. Immediately, Midas decided that he desired everything he touched to become gold. Dionysus pleased with the King to think about the consequences of his wish, but the King demanded that his wish be fulfilled. Dionysus resigned, and promised that from the next day, everything that Midas touched would turn to gold.

“So?” Edward fretted, “What does it say?”

“I think, my dear boy, you gave this patient the Midas touch”

“I swear on my own life that it was an accident”

“I know, I know. Without being needlessly cruel, Edward, you are not skilled enough to have done this on purpose”

“What happened then?”

“I fear that … I fear that someone, or something … intervened”

Edward started to panic.

“What do you mean, something?”

Paracelsus clicked his tongue, a well-practiced indication that Edward was not to push his mentor.

“Do not let that concern you, child. You let that concern me. Now, who was this patient?”

“His name was Richard”

“Richard? It wasn’t the Tozier’s boy, was it?”

“I’m not sure sir. He had wild curly hair and squinted a lot, if that sounds familiar? He also had a rather … peculiar sense of humour”

“Ah. Has to have been the Tozier lad. Now, Edward, what I need you to do is go and pay a visit to the Tozier’s and ask Richard to come back to visit me. I’ll have to – I’ll have to try and cure him, I suppose”

“Only try?”

“Well, as much as I am the greatest alchemist this side of Europe, I cannot perform miracles. Now, go and get the boy and I’ll try and correct your mistake.”

“But –”

“Go! Before I chase you out with –“ Paracelsus reached for the broom that was stood behind the door, “This rather magnificent golden broom. Shoo!”

Edward ran.

[thelastspeecher]

Okay okay, deaged Sally and Mearl spending an afternoon with Danny and Daisy while Ford desperately tries to find a solution (Angie would insist on watching over them and Sally would be like 'do you really think your own mother wouldn't be able to control herself for one afternoon?)

👶 - De-Aging

Bro.  What a prompt!  What a prompt!

Hope I managed to do this gem of a prompt justice.  Enjoy.

Send an emoji and one or more characters!

              “I’llwait to do my field work ‘til tomorrow,” Angie said.  Her mother frowned at her.

              “Do yathink yer mother can’t behave fer an afternoon?”

              “No, it’snot that, it’s just-”  Angie staredhelplessly at her mother.  This morning,both her parents were graying and wrinkled, excited to spend their visit spoilingtheir grandchildren.  But after anincident in Ford’s lab this morning, both had been reverted to eight yearsold.  “In yer current state-”

              “Sweetheart,we can take care of ourselves,” Mearl said calmly.  Angie anxiously tugged on a loose strand ofhair.  “Don’t do that.  Do ya want to go bald?”

              “Pa…”  Angie grimaced.  “Look, under normal circumstances I wouldn’tthink twice ‘bout leavin’, but Stan’s at work all day, and Fidds and Ford willbe workin’ in the basement on a cure, and the girls and Tate are here.”

              “Honey,we raised six children.  We can handlethree,” Sally said.

              “But youweren’t a child yourself then!” Angie burst out.  Sally raised an eyebrow at her.  “…Ma’am.”

              “Go towork,” Mearl said.  “We’ll be fine.  Even if somethin’ goes wrong, we can findFidds fer some help.”

              “But-”

              “Thisain’t up fer debate, Banjolina,” Mearl said firmly.  Angie glanced over at the play pen, wheretwo-year-old Danny and Daisy were happily playing with blocks.  “Go to work.”

              “Fine,”Angie sighed.  She picked her keys offthe table and left.  Once the front doorhad closed behind her, Mearl shook his head.

              “Goodness,that girl is stubborn.”  He glared at Sallyplayfully.  “I wonder where she pickedthat up.”  Sally laughed.

              “And thathusband of hers is just as bullheaded.  I’dwager good money that Danny and Daisy will be right terrors to deal with.”

              “In someways, they already are terrors,” Mearl replied. “Did ya hear Daisy kickin’ up that fuss this mornin’?  Took Stan upwards of half an hour to calm herdown.”

              “True.  But right now, they’re-”  Sally looked at the play pen.  She paled. “They’re gone.”

              “What?”  Mearl spun around.  He gaped at the empty play pen.  “They’re- how did they do that?!  It- it ain’t even knocked over or anything!  We didn’t hear ‘em make any noise.”  He began to tug at his hair.  “It’s like they just vanished!”

              “Calm down,love,” Sally said, pulling his hands away from his hair.  “They’re two. They can’t have gotten far.  We’vebeen in this rodeo ‘fore, ‘member?”

              “Right.  Right.” Mearl took a steadying breath.  “We’lljust look through the house, find ‘em, and bring ‘em back.  Easy peasy.”

              “Exactly.”  Sally set off for the kitchen, Mearl closebehind her.  “I can handle this room, if’nya want to check elsewhere,” she said as she opened a few cupboards.

              “All right,lambchop,” Mearl replied.  Sally hadfinished checking everything easily within her reach and was wondering if sheshould try climbing the counter for a better vantage when she heard a shout.  “Sally!” Sally immediately raced out of the kitchen towards the sound of herhusband’s voice.  She found him standinghelplessly by the back door, which was open. “The door was open.”

              “It-  Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Sally whispered. She closed her eyes.  “D’ya think-”

              “Youremember how Angie was as a lil one.  Sheslipped outside every chance she could. There’s no way at least one of her daughters isn’t the same way.”  Mearl swallowed.  “And if one of ‘em left, the other one had tofollow.”

              “So wedon’t have any other choice, then,” Sally said. Mearl looked at her.  “We have togo after ‘em.”  Mearl’s eyes widened.

              “Sally.  We can’t just leave without tellin’.”

              “Do yawant to let slip that we lost our granddaughters within five minutes of watchin’‘em?”

              “…No.”  Mearl grimaced.  “But I don’t know that it’s the wisest thingto do, lovely.  And we don’t have properclothes yet.”

              “Hmm.  Yer right, we can’t wander ‘round in oversizedshirts.”  Sally sat down on the floor,her chin in her hands.  Her gaze fellupon a plastic bag by the door.  “Mearl, what’sin there?”

              “I cancheck.”  Mearl looked in the plastic bag.  His eyes widened.  “Clothes. Clothes our size.”

              “It’s asign, then.  Providence!”

              “Uh, notreally,” a voice said from behind them. Sally and Mearl spun around.  Stanstood there, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  “More like, I dropped the bag tryin’ to catchDanny when she made a break for it,” Stan said.

              “Ithought you were workin’ today,” Sally said, cocking her head.

              “I wassupposed to, but I decided to just call in sick at the last minute.  I figured you guys would insist on Angie goin’into the forest to look for lizards-”

              “Salamanders,”Sally and Mearl corrected.

              “Yeahthat.  I figured you’d make her do that,and the nerds are downstairs whippin’ up a cure, and I know you guys can handleyourselves and the girls, but-”  Stanshrugged.  “Better safe than sorry.  They’ve figured out how to sneak out of theplay pen, after all.”

              “Where’dthey learn that?” Mearl asked.  Stansighed wearily.

              “Hell ifI know.”

              “None ofour kids could do that.”

              “Yeah.  All the more reason for me to help out a bit.”  Stan grinned weakly.  “And the nerds have a tendency to work throughmeals, so it’d probably be a good idea for someone tall to be around to grabthings outta reach in the kitchen.”

              “Fairenough,” Sally said after a moment.  Shestood up and placed her hands on her hips, glaring at Stan.  “Now, this whole incident wherein we thought welost our granddaughters-”

              “You didactually lose them,” Stan corrected.  “I justcaught ‘em before they could get far.” Sally’s glare hardened.  “…Ma’am.”

              “Like Isaid, the incident wherein we thought we lost our granddaughters stays betweenus.  Got it?”

              “Yes ma’am,”Stan mumbled.  He crossed his arms.  “How can you still do the stern mom thingwhen you’re a kid?”

              “It’s askill ya learn to cultivate once you’ve raised six children,” Mearlreplied.  He picked up the bag ofclothes.  “Now, if you’ll excuse us, weneed to change.”

              “Right.”  Stan turned to go back into the living roomand caught sight of Danny sneaking past him. “No you don’t, you sucker!”  Stanpicked her up.  Danny let out a loudwail.  “Close the door, will ya?  Otherwise, they’ll get out fer real.”

----- 

              “Green!”Daisy shouted, holding her hand out.  Mearllooked at the crayon he was holding.

              “Sweetie,this is red.”

              “Red,”Daisy corrected.  She opened and closedher hand.

              “If yawant it, ya have to ask fer it.  Ya knowhow to use yer words.  Use ‘em,” Mearlsaid.  Daisy pouted.

              “I wantit.”

              “Then ask,”Mearl replied patiently.  Daisy scrunchedup her face.  “I won’t hand it over ifyer rude ‘bout it.”

              “Can Ihave red, please?” Daisy asked finally, with an expression like she was suckingon a lemon.  Mearl beamed.

              “Ofcourse, dear.”  He handed the crayonover.  Daisy immediately began to scrawl inher coloring book.

              “Geez,that was slick,” Stan said.  He wasplaying cards with Tate at the table, within sight of where Sally and Mearlwere supervising Danny and Daisy coloring.

              “Well,when you’ve-”

              “-raisedsix kids, I know, I know,” Stan said.  “Still.”

              “If yawant, we could give ya some lessons,” Sally said.  Stan shook his head.

              “Nah, I’mfine just sorta stumbling my way through things.  Even if I don’t figure stuff out this time, I’llfigure it out in time for the next one.” Sally and Mearl’s heads whipped up.

              “Nextone?” Sally asked.  Stan quickly turnedhis attention back to his cards.  “Angie’snot-”

              “No, she’snot,” Stan said, still avoiding eye contact. “Just- uh, we’ve talked about it, that’s all.”  He grimaced. “And I wasn’t s’pposed to blab that we were talkin’ about it, so keep itbetween us, okay?”

              “But-”Sally started.

              “Sally,don’t pester ‘em.  You ‘member how bad myfolks got when we were havin’ kids,” Mearl said.  “Do ya want to put our daughter and son-in-lawthrough the same thing?”

              “…No.”  Sally turned her attention back toDanny.  “This is very nice, sweetie.”  Danny grinned at her.  “I know I’ve said it ‘fore, but she’s got yersmile, Stanley.”  Stan beamed.

              “Yeah.  Looks better on her, though.”

              “Whatexactly are ya playin’ with Tate, by the by?” Mearl piped up.  “Go fish?”

              “Texashold ‘em,” Stan replied.  “But we haven’treally gotten to playin’ yet.  Still workin’on teachin’ him the rules.”

              “Isteachin’ a child poker really a smart move?” Sally asked.  “I mean, Violynn and Harper insisted on doin’that with Angie, and she turned into quite the cardsharp.”

              “Exactly!”Stan enthused.  “Ya gotta start ‘emyoung.”  The front door opened.  Angie walked into the living room.  She did a double-take at the two extrachildren.

              “Who- oh.”  Angie grinned sheepishly.  “…Right. There was that thing this mornin’. The girls didn’t give ya any trouble, did they?”

              “Not onewhit,” Mearl said cheerfully.  “Absolutedarlin’s the whole time.”

              “Theydidn’t pull their disappearin’ act, did they? I forgot to tell ya ‘fore I left, but they figured out how to get out ofthe play pen.”  Angie pursed herlips.  “Don’t know why we bother keepin’it ‘round.”

              “We didn’thave any issues, junebug, don’t you worry,” Mearl said.  Angie sighed in relief.

              “Good.”  She looked over at Stan and Tate at the cardtable.  “Looks like Stan spent the daywith ya, so that would’ve helped, too.”

              “Any excuseto spend time with the girls,” Stan said. Angie propped one hand on her hip.

              “Are yatryin’ to teach Tate poker again?”

              “Yeah.”

              “Fidds won’tlike that.”

              “Like Icare,” Stan scoffed.  Daisy abandoned herpost by Mearl and toddled over to Angie. She grabbed Angie’s leg.

              “Cookie,Mama?” she chirped.  Angie looked at herwristwatch.

              “Well, itis snacktime.  Anyone else want a cookie?”she asked.  All heads in the room shotup.  Angie blinked.  “You too, Ma and Pa?”

              “Yerquite the cook, dear.  Can ya blame usfer wantin’ to partake of yer excellent food?” Sally asked.  Angie’s mouth quirked in a small smile.

              “‘Speciallywhen ya look like this,” she said.  Sallyand Mearl shrugged.  “Okay, cookies allaround.”

[yeolsmuffin]

Married to a Monster - Two

Paring: kaiXreader, minseokXreader

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: Angst&Fluff || husband!Jongin, best friend!Jongdae, best friend!Minseok

Summary: Being forced into a marriage with your first love/childhood best friend is messy - especially when he was the sole reason you attempted to kill yourself and the reason your body is riddled with scars. Old wounds were opened but you pushed yourself to figure things out, if not for yourself, then for your deceased sister whose death seemed to keep haunting you and Jongin.

Notes: This series will contain talk of suicide, self-harm, abuse, death and possibly more. Smut will be rated [M].

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen [M] | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty [M] | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two |

Finally, Kai was to kiss his lovely bride and you pressed your eyes as tightly shut as you could. The kiss wasn’t long, but you sure it was long enough for Kai to taste your tears – and you hoped he tasted your years of pain as well.

Your eyes were blurred when Kai pulled away and lifted your interlocked hands in the air as he walked you back down the aisle. Halfway there, you shook so hard, you almost collapsed but Kai steadied you with a hand on your lower back making you want to cringe away. But you held it in. After all, you were your parents only daughter and even though you wanted another wedding – you knew this would be your only one.

Bitterly, you sat at the bride and grooms table with Kai. You sat as far at the small table would allow you too as you stared off into the distance as Kai made small talk with the various family members and friends that were coming up to talk to the two of you.

You had stopped your crying at the reception as you didn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary. Instead, you sat silently as you let Kai do all the talking. He had a commanding voice and led the conversations well, talking about things you weren’t interested in hearing about.

While you waited for the night to be over, you just kept your mind occupying by making up songs in your head. ‘I can’t wait to go home so I can lock myself in my bedroom’ and ‘I hate Kai so much maybe I’ll poison his breakfast’. You knew that in fact, you wouldn’t be returning to your home but instead of a new large home for you and Kai to stay in. You hoped it would be big enough that you didn’t even have to see his face. You couldn’t even bear to think of the ‘honeymoon’ that you two would have to embark on. Inwardly you groaned.

Kai was occupied talking to a business partner when your eyes were met with a smiling face in front of you and long fingers poking you on your side to your left. You gave them the best smile you could as the pulled chairs from another table to over by you. Minseok sat closest to you and you couldn’t help but eye him in his suit, noting how extravagant he looked. Once you pulled your eyes from him, you acknowledged Jongdae who looked just as enticing. You screamed at the Gods, wondering why you got the dick out of the group and why you couldn’t have gotten one of these two.

“I don’t think married women are supposed to have wandering eyes,” Jongdae joked earning a smack from you.

Minseok rolled his eyes, ignoring Jongdae. “How are you feeling?” His voice was no more than a whisper.

“Like my whole life has been snatched out from under me,” you said glumly, not bothering to lower your voice much and feeling Kai’s heated gaze on your back as you were turned speaking to his friends.

They both dropped their smiles. “It will all be okay,” Jongdae tried to comfort you, reaching across Minseok and brushing his warm fingers over your hand.

“What have you two been up to?” you asked changing the conversation. There was no point in continuing with what Jongdae said because it would not be okay. You were curious, though, wondering if they were still up to no good seeing as how you had blocked them out of your life for two years.

“Nothing really,” Minseok quickly said.

You nodded slowly, “Same old stuff, huh?”

You assumed they were still into drugs and doing whatever they hell else they do. They weren’t good guys the way they portrayed themselves around you and you knew better. You were sure that in two years that their hands had just gotten filthier, leaving you not wanting anything to do with them but also knowing that you didn’t have a choice. When was anything ever your choice?

You couldn’t help but love the pair. It was bittersweet after how they had cared and looked after you for several years. Sometimes you wondered why you could love them more than you could love Kai, but they never did to you what Kai had done.

Jongdae bit his lip, “We shouldn’t get into this here.”

You glared at him, “Get into what, Jongdae? I don’t care anymore. Look at me,” you pointed to yourself. “This is just an empty shell. Do what you guys do, I never bothered you about it much before and now I really won’t. There is no soul left inside me to give a damn,” you lifted your hands in the air gesturing to the large ballroom. “Shit, look where we are.”

Minseok brushed his fingers across your jaw, “Don’t say that. You’re not a shell. I know you are still in there.”

You cringed away from his hand, “After what he put me through, it’s true. I hope you guys will learn one day and turn your lives around. Not for me but for yourselves. I know that I was never enough for anyone to turn themselves around.”

Definitely, Kai was glaring harshly at you, but you didn’t care.

“Y/N,” Minseok softly said.

“It’s your big day, we should be talking about happy things,” Jongdae said.

Minseok nodded. “Aren’t you going on a trip?”

You looked past them and stared out one of the many floor length windows the ballroom had. “Unfortunately.”

“Where?” Jongdae pressed.

“Cancun,” you still didn’t look back at them, though. The last thing you wanted to think about was the godforsaken honeymoon. It wouldn’t be like a typical married couples honeymoon, as you were certain you would be booking a separate room once you were there. You wouldn’t be consummating your marriage then or ever. You had no interest in Kai anymore, the love you had felt for Jongin was gone.

Minseok tried once again to touch you gently but this time you let him, his warm fingers grazing your shoulder. “You’ll love it. It’s beautiful, I’ve heard.” He said quietly, reluctantly taking his fingers from your skin.

When you looked back to Minseok, his eyes were filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite pin and you found yourself boring into his dark eyes with your own. Again, for the second time, you wished it was him you were arranged to marry because even if he was into shit you knew nothing about, he treated you better than Kai had treated you. He treated you like a piece of glass, touching you delicate and with fear of dropping you, whereas Kai dropped you whenever he could lay his gross hands on you.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Kim. Thank you for staying with us,” The employee at the desk said with a thick accent and a beautiful smile. He looked over your clothing, grinning wider at the ‘bride’ and ‘groom’ shirts that your mother had given to you.

You choked out a small scoff at the mention of your new surname as you felt the ‘bride’ shirt burning at your skin. You couldn’t wait to rip it off and get your own room. You couldn’t even imagine sharing a room with Kai for the next week. It would kill you, for sure.

Kai gripped his arm tighter around your waist at your scoff and you finally looked up at him for the first time in a long time. You hadn’t paid him any mind through the whole wedding and the events that followed up to him so it had been two years since you saw his face. He was just as handsome as he had been in the past. His striking jawline, large lips, and bright eyes. He was smiling but you knew it was fake, it was all a part of the show. You once loved Jongin’s face, but Kai’s even though it was the same, was not a face you could love anymore.

It was tempting to yank his hand off your wrist, runway, and drown yourself in the ocean, but you knew you couldn’t do that to your parents – although, if your sister was around, you don’t know if you could stop yourself. They would have her to fall back on so they wouldn’t need you… but maybe if she hadn’t died, she would be the one married to Kai, after all, she was his age which was two years older than you. She was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong and while you loved her, you knew your parents looked at her proudly more than you.

It made you wonder if maybe Kai wouldn’t have been a monster to her.

Kai didn’t release his hand as you walked to your room, clutching so tightly onto your suitcase that you thought you may break your fingers.

The both of you reached the large suite which was equipped with a living area, large bathroom, kitchen and bedroom with a king-sized bed. To your delight, in the living area, there was a more than large enough couch that you would make your bed.

As you unpacked, Kai broke the silence, “You can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch.” His voice was just the same as it had always been and it sent shivers through your body – and not the good kind.

You scoffed. “You don’t need to pretend to be a gentleman, I’m perfectly happy sleeping on the couch.” You shrugged and added, “At least until I get my own room, which I will do tomorrow or the soonest I can.”

Kai stopped unpacking and stared at you, “That’s not necessary. This room is big enough for the both of us.”

Trying not to roll your eyes, you left most of your stuff packed because you very well intended on getting another room. “There’s no reason for us to share a room,” you simply stated.

“We are newlyweds.” His voice held no emotion and it made you wonder why he even said those words in the first place.

“No need to worry, I’m not putting any meaning behind this marriage,” you were surprised that you could talk to him so well and evenly without breaking. You knew you weren’t that strong of a person but here you were, talking to the monster in your closet so-to-speak.

“I-“ Kai started but you cut him off.

You smiled bitterly and flicked your eyes in his direction, “You trained me over the past years to know my place. I’m sure you're aware of your place as well. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation isn’t even necessary.” You slammed your bag closed shut and pushed in under the couch where you would be staying temporarily.

There was nobody in particular you had to text since you didn’t really have friends, so you just scrolled through social media as Kai slowly unpacked around you, not saying anything to what you had said. You laughed to yourself as Kai knew your words were true. Your phone dinged and to your delight, it was a message from Minseok, giving you a smile you didn’t want to show.

‘How is it? Is it beautiful?’

You texted back quickly. ‘As beautiful as it can be.’

After a few minutes, and no text back from Minseok, you leaned against the couch, wondering how to spend your week here. Glancing over at the window and the bright early morning sun, you thought maybe you could find a shop that sold paint supplies or at least some drawing supplies and you could use creativity as your escape.

“Hey,” Kai stood in front of you, wearing all black and scratching the back of his neck, “I have some business to attend to. I assume you’ll be okay?” It was more of a statement than a question but you nodded in response anyway.

Dressed in all black the way Kai had been, you knew he was up to no good but you didn’t care. You were his wife on paper and no more than that.

“If you need anything-“You cut him off once again.

“I won’t,” you snapped.

He sighed and grabbed his cell phone, leaving the room with heavy feet.

With him gone, you grabbed your purse so you could go find some drawing supplies as you wondered who you killed in your past life to get stuck married to this monster.

--->three<---

masterlist

[inkyardpress]

Excerpt: When It’s Real by Erin Watt

1

HIM

“Please tell me every girl in there is of legal age.”

“Every girl in there is of legal age,” I dutifully repeat to my manager, Jim Tolson.

Truth is, I have no clue if everyone’s legal. When I came home last night from the studio, the party was already raging. I didn’t take the time to card anyone before grabbing a beer and chatting up some eager girls who proclaimed that they were so in love with my music that they sang it in their sleep. It sounded vaguely like an invitation, but I wasn’t interested. My buddy Luke took them off my hands and then I wandered around trying to figure out if I knew even a quarter of the people in my house.

I ended up counting seven, tops, that I actually recognized.

Jim presses his already thin lips together before taking a seat in the lounger across from me. There’s a girl passed out on it, so he’s forced to perch on the end. Jim once told me that the biggest hazard of working with a young rock star is the age of his groupies. Sitting this close to a bikini-clad teenager makes him visibly edgy.

“Keep that line in mind in case TMI asks you about it on the street today,” Jim warns.

“Noted.” Also noted? Avoid any celeb hot spots today. I have zero desire to be papped.

“How was the studio last night?”

I roll my eyes. As if Jim didn’t have the studio tech on the phone immediately after I left, replaying the track. “You know exactly how it was. Crappy. Worse than crappy. I think a barking Chihuahua could lay down better vocals than me right now.”

I lean back and stroke my throat. Nothing’s wrong with my vocal cords. Jim and I got that checked out with a doctor a few months ago. But the notes that were coming out yesterday lacked...something. All my music seems flat these days.

I haven’t recorded anything decent since my last album. I can’t pinpoint the problem. It could be the lyrics or the rhythm or the melody. It’s everything and nothing, and no amount of tweaking has helped me.

I run my fingers over the six strings of my Gibson, knowing my frustration must show on my face.

“Come on, let’s walk a little.” Jim dips his head toward the girl. She looks passed out, but she could be faking it.

With a sigh, I set the guitar on the cushion and rise to my feet.

“Didn’t know you liked walks on the beach, Jim. Should we start quoting poetry to each other before you propose?” I joke. But he’s probably right about putting some distance between us and the groupie. We don’t need some yappy fan talking about my music block to the tabloids. I give them enough to talk about already.

“Did you see the latest social media numbers?” He holds his phone up.

“Is that an actual question?”

We stop at the railing on my wraparound deck. I wish we could walk down to the beach, but it’s public, and the last time I tried setting foot on the sand in the back of my house, I came away with my swim trunks torn off and a bloody nose. That was three years ago. The tabloids turned it into a story about me getting into a fight with my ex and terrorizing young children.

“You’re losing followers at a rate of a thousand a week.”

“Sounds dire.” Sounds awesome, actually. Maybe I’ll finally be able take advantage of my beachfront property.

His perfectly unlined face, courtesy of some of the best Swiss knives money can buy, is marred by irritation. “This is serious, Oakley.”

“So what? Who cares if I lose followers?”

“Do you want to be taken seriously as an artist?”

This lecture again? I’ve heard it from Jim a million frickin’ times since he signed me when I was fourteen. “You know I do.”

“Then you have to shape up,” he huffs.

“Why?” What does shaping up have to do with making great music? If anything, maybe I need to be wilder, really stretch the limits of everything in life.

But...haven’t I done that already? I feel like I’ve drunk, smoked, ingested and experienced nearly everything the world has to offer in the past five years. Am I already the washed-up pop star before I hit my twenties?

A tinge of fear scrapes down my spine at the thought.

“Because your label is on the verge of dropping you,” Jim warns.

I practically clap like a child at this news. We’ve been at odds for months. “So let them.”

“How do you think you’re going to have your next album made? The studio’s already rejected your last two attempts. You want to experiment with your sound? Use poetry as lyrics? Write about things other than heartache and pretty girls who don’t love you back?”

I stare sullenly at the water.

He grabs my arm. “Pay attention, Oak.”

I give him a what the hell are you doing look, and he lets go of my arm. We both know I don’t like being touched.

“They aren’t going to let you cut the record you want if you keep alienating your audience.”

“Exactly,” I say smugly. “So why do I care if the label drops me?”

“Because labels exist to make money, and they won’t produce your next album unless it’s one they can actually market. If you want to win another Grammy, if you want to be taken seriously by your peers, then your only chance is to rehabilitate your image. You haven’t had a record out since you were seventeen. That was two years ago. It’s like a decade in the music business.”

“Adele released at nineteen and twenty-five.”

“You aren’t fuckin’ Adele.”

“I’m bigger,” I say, and it’s not a boast. We both know it’s true.

Since I released my first album at fourteen, I’ve had unreal success. Every album has gone double platinum, with my self-titled Ford reaching the rare Diamond. That year I did thirty international tour stops, all stadium tours, all sellouts. There are fewer than ten artists in the world who do stadium tours. Everyone else is relegated to arenas, auditoriums, halls and clubs.

“Were bigger,” Jim says bluntly. “In fact, you’re on the verge of being a has-been at nineteen.”

I tense up as he voices my earlier fear.

“Congratulations, kid. Twenty years from now, you’ll be sitting in a chair on Hollywood Squares and some kid will ask their mother, ‘who’s Oakley Ford?’ and the mom will say—”

“I get it,” I say tightly.

“No. You don’t get it. Your existence will have been so fleeting that even that parent will turn to her kid and say, ‘I have no idea who that is.’” Jim’s tone turns pleading. “Look, Oak, I want you to be successful with the music you want to make, but you have to work with me. The industry is run by a bunch of old white men who are high on coke and power. They love knocking you artists around. They get off on it. Don’t give them any more reason to decide that you’re the fall guy. You’re better than that. I believe in you, but you gotta start believing in yourself, too.”

“I do believe in myself.”

Does it sound as fake to Jim’s ears as it does to mine?

“Then act like it.”

Translation? Grow up.

I reach over and take the phone from his hand. The social media number beside my name is still in the eight digits. Millions of people follow me and eat up all the ridiculous things my PR team posts daily. My shoes. My hands. Man, the hands post got over a million likes and launched an equal number of fictional stories. Those girls have very vivid imaginations. Vivid, dirty imaginations.

“So what’s your suggestion?” I mutter.

Jim sighs with relief. “I have a plan. I want you to date someone.”

“No way. We already tried the girlfriend thing.”

During the launch of Ford, management hooked me up with April Showers. Yup, that’s her real name—I saw it on her driver’s license. April was an up-and-coming reality television star and we all thought she’d know the score. A fake relationship to keep both our names on magazine covers and headlining every gossip site on the web. Yes, there’d be hate from certain corners, but the nonstop media attention and speculation would drive our visibility through the roof. Our names would be on everyone’s lips from here to China and back again.

The press strategy worked like a charm. We couldn’t sneeze without someone taking our picture. We dominated celebrity gossip for six months, and the Ford tour was a smashing success. April sat in the front row of more fashion shows than I knew actually existed and went on to sign a huge two-year modeling contract with a major agency.

Everything was great until the end of the tour. What everyone, including me, had failed to recognize was that if they threw two teenagers together and told them to act like they were in love, stuff was going to happen. Stuff did happen. The only problem? April thought stuff would continue to happen after the tour was over. When I told her it wouldn’t, she wasn’t happy—and she had a big enough platform to tell the world exactly how unhappy she was.

“This won’t be another April thing,” Jim assures me. “We want to appeal to all the girls out there who dream of walking down the red carpet but think it’s out of reach. We don’t want a model or a star. We want your fans to think you’re attainable.”

Against my better judgment, I ask, “And how do we do that?”

“We conjure up a normal. She starts posting to you on your social media accounts. Flirting with you online. People see you interact. Then you invite her to a concert. You meet, fall in love and boom. Serious heartthrob status again.”

“My fans hated April,” I remind him.

“Some did, but millions loved her. Millions more will love you if you fall for an ordinary girl, because each and every one of those girls is going to think that she’s their stand-in.”

I clench my teeth. “No.”

If Jim was trying to think up a way to torture me, this is absolutely it, because I hate social media. I grew up having my baby steps photographed and sold to the highest bidder. For charity, my mom later claimed. The public gets a ton of me. I want to keep some parts of my life private, which is why I pay a couple of people a fortune so I don’t have to touch that stuff.

“If you do this...” Jim pauses enticingly. “King will produce your album.”

My head swivels around so fast that Jim jumps back in surprise. “You serious?”

Donovan King is the best producer in the country. He’s worked on everything from rap to country to rock albums, turning artists into legends. I once read an interview where he said he’d never work with a pop star and their soulless commercial music, no matter how much anyone paid him. Working with King is a dream of mine, but he’s turned down every overture I’ve ever made.

If he wasn’t interested in producing Ford, then why this latest album? Why now?

Jim grins. Well, as much as his plastic face allows him to smile. “Yes. He said if you were serious, then he’d be interested, but he needs a show of faith.”

“And a girlfriend is that show of faith?” I ask incredulously.

“Not a girlfriend. It’s what dating a nonfamous, ordinary girl signifies. That you’re down-to-earth, making music for the sake of music, not for the sake of money and fame.”

“I am down-to-earth,” I protest.

Jim responds with a snort. He jerks his thumb at the French doors behind us. “Tell me something—what’s the name of that girl who’s passed out in there?”

I try not to cringe. “I...don’t know,” I mumble.

“That’s what I thought.” He frowns now. “Do you want to know what Nicky Novak was photographed doing last night?”

My head is starting to spin. “What the hell does Novak have to do with anything?” Nicky Novak is a sixteen-year-old pop star I’ve never even met. His boy band just released their debut album, and apparently it’s topping the charts. The group is giving 1D a run for their money.

“Ask me what Novak was doing,” Jim prompts.

“Fine. Whatever. What was Novak doing?”

“Bowling.” My manager crosses his arms over his chest. “He got papped on a bowling date with his girlfriend—some girl he’s been dating since middle school.”

“Well, good for him.” I give another eye roll. “You want me to go bowling, is that it? You think that will convince King to work with me? Seeing me roll some gutter balls?” It’s hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I just told you what I want,” Jim grumbles. “If you want King to produce your album, you need to show him you’re serious, that you’re ready to stop partying with girls whose names you don’t know and settle down with someone who will ground you.”

“I can tell him that.”

“He needs proof.”

My gaze shifts back to the ocean, and I stand there for a moment, watching the surf crash against the beach. This album I’ve been working on these past two years—no, the one I’m trying to work on and failing—suddenly feels as if it’s actually within my reach. A producer like King could help me move past this creative block and make the kind of music I’ve always wanted.

And all I have to do in return is date a normal? I guess I can do that. I mean, every artist has to make sacrifices for his art at one point in his life.

Right?

 2

HER

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I want,” my sister objects.

“I don’t need to. You have that look in your eye.” I pull the bacon out of the microwave and dump four slices on each plate.

“What look?” Paisley checks her reflection on the back of the spoon I used to stir the eggs.

“The one that says I’m not going to like what you have to say.” I pause as I dish up the rest of the twins’ breakfast. “Or that I’m too young to understand.”

“Ha. Everyone knows you’re more together than most adults. I wish you were more impulsive, actually. It’d make this easier.”

“Breakfast is ready!” I shout.

The clatter of shoes on the staircase makes Paisley sigh. Our little brothers are incredibly loud, eat an incredible amount of food and are getting incredibly expensive. All I can say is, thank goodness for Paisley’s new job. We’re barely keeping our heads above water, even though Paisley has performed miracles with what little insurance money our parents left us. I’m adding to the family account with my waitressing job at Sharkey’s, but we don’t have much extra left over. Spencer and Shane insist that we don’t need to worry about college tuition for them because they plan on full-ride athletic scholarships. But unless it’s for competitive eating, I’m not going to count on it.

As the twins practically fall face-first into their breakfast, Paisley pours their milk and shoves a paper towel next to their plates. Hopefully they’ll use it instead of the kitchen towel. Again, I’m not holding my breath.

I drink my coffee-infused milk, watching my twelve-year-old brothers inhale the first of what will likely be their six meals of the day. As they grumble about the shortness of Christmas break, I think about how glorious it is that I haven’t had one class this year, unlike them.

“Vaughn,” Paisley says urgently. “I still need to talk to you.”

“I already told you no.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, fine. Talk.”

“Outside.” She jerks her head toward the back door.

“We’re not listening,” says Spencer.

Shane nods in agreement because that’s their shtick. Spencer talks and Shane backs up everything his brother says, even if he disagrees.

“Outside.” Paisley’s head jerk looks painful this time, so I take pity on her.

“Lead the way.”

The screen door slams shut behind us. I take another sip of my rapidly cooling drink as I watch Paisley search for words, which is worrisome because Paisley is never at a loss for words.

“Okay, so I want you to hear me out. Don’t say anything until the very end.”

“Did you drink one too many Red Bulls this morning?” I ask. We both know Paisley kind of has a caffeine addiction.

“Vaughn!”

“Okay. Okay.” I zip my lips shut. “Not another word.”

She rolls her eyes. “You do the lip-zipping after the last word, not before.”

“Details, shmetails. Now talk. I promise not to interrupt.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you know how they finally gave me my own cubicle, so I don’t have to share with that other assistant anymore?”

I nod. “They” are her bosses at Diamond Talent Management. Paisley’s official job title is Brand Coverage Assistant, but technically she’s a glorified gofer—she goes on coffee runs, makes a zillion photocopies and spends an insane amount of time scheduling meetings. I swear, the people she works for hold more meetings than the UN.

“Well, my cube has this little bulletin board on the wall. I’m allowed to put up pictures, so yesterday I brought in a few photos. You know, like the one of Mom and Dad that we love, where they’re kissing on the boardwalk? And one of the twins at baseball camp. And then I put up the one I took of you at the beach bonfire we had for your birthday last month.”

I have to fight the urge not to make a waving motion with my hand to tell her to speed up. Paisley takes forever to get to the point.

“Anyway, so get this! Jim Tolson is walking by my cube—”

“Who’s Jim Tolson?” I ask, breaking my vow of silence.

“He’s my boss’s brother. He manages some of the biggest musicians in the world.” Paisley is so excited her cheeks are flushed. “So he’s walking by, and he sees the picture of you on my bulletin board and asks if he could borrow it for a minute—”

“Ew! I do not like where this story is going.”

She shoots me a dirty look. “I’m not done. You promised to be quiet until I was done.”

I swallow a sigh. “Sorry.”

“So I’m, like, sure, go ahead, but just make sure to bring it back because that’s my favorite picture of my little sister. So he takes the photo and disappears into his brother’s office for a while. He’s got all these assistants in there and they’re all talking about your picture—”

Okay, now I really don’t like where this is heading.

“Something major is going down at the agency,” Paisley adds. “I have no idea what, because I’m a lowly assistant, but Mr. Tolson has been in and out, arguing with his brother all week, and they keep having these secret meetings in the conference room.”

I swear, if she doesn’t get to the point soon, I’m going to lose my mind.

“So at the end of the day, my boss—Leo—calls me into Jim’s office and they start asking me all these questions about you.” She must see my worried look, because she’s quick to reassure me. “Nothing too personal. Jim wanted to know how old you are, what your interests are, if you’ve ever been in trouble with the law—”

“Um, what?”

Paisley huffs in annoyance. “He just wants to make sure you’re not a criminal.”

Forget this vow of silence. I’m too confused to stick to it. “Why does this agent—”

“Manager,” she corrects.

“Manager...” I roll my eyes. “Why does this manager care so much about me? And you said he manages musicians—is he trying to sign me as a client or something? You told him I can’t carry a tune, right?”

“Oh, totally. That was one of his questions, if you had any ‘musical aspirations.’” She air-quotes that. “He was pretty happy when I told him you’re (a) not musical and (b) interested in becoming a teacher.”

“Is it a matchmaking thing then? Because, gross. How old is this dude?” I ask skeptically.

She waves a hand. “In his thirties, I think. And that’s not it.”

“Is there an it? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”

Paisley pauses for a beat. Then she blurts out her next words in one breath. “They want you to pretend to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend this year.”

I spray the concrete steps with lukewarm coffee mixed with spit. “What?”

“I promise you it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

She runs a hand through her ordinarily perfectly styled black bob, and I notice for the first time that her hair is sticking up on the sides. Paisley’s usually so polished, from the top of her shiny head to the tips of the flats that she buffs every night.

“Mr. Tolson thinks you’re perfect for the job,” she tells me. “He said you’re pretty but not in an over-the-top way. More like a natural, girl-next-door type. I described you as down-to-earth, and he thinks that will complement Oakley, because Oakley can be really intense sometimes—”

“Okay, let’s back up,” I cut in. “Are you talking about Oakley Ford, pop icon? Oakley Ford, the guy with so many girls’ names tattooed on his body he’s like a phone directory of former Victoria’s Secret models? Oakley Ford, who tried to depants a monk in Angkor Wat and nearly caused an international incident? That Oakley Ford?”

“Yeah, him.” She scrunches up her nose. “And he’s only got one tattoo of a woman’s name and it’s his mom’s.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that or did you make a personal inspection?”

Oakley’s nineteen and Paisley’s twenty-three, so I guess it could happen, but that’s kinda disgusting. Not because he’s younger, but because Paisley’s too awesome to be some celebrejerk’s castoff.

“Ew, Vaughn.”

“Look, if you’re serious, the answer is still no. In fact, there are so many reasons for me to say no that I don’t know if we have time for me to list them all. But here’s one—I don’t even like Oakley Ford.”

“You played his album on repeat for, like, three months.”

“When I was fifteen!” Oakley Ford was a phase. Like BFF necklaces and Hannah Montana. Plus, his antics got really unappealing. After the tenth or so picture of him making out with some random girl at a club, he got kind of slimy in my eyes.

Paisley runs her hand through her hair again. “I know this is your year off. And I want you to have that, I swear. But this thing isn’t going to take up very much of your time. An hour or two maybe every other day. A couple nights. A couple weekends. It’s the same as if you were waiting tables at Sharkey’s.”

“Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

She blinks. “What?”

“I have a boyfriend!”

“W?”

“Yes, W.” For some reason, Paisley hates W. She says his name is stupid and that he’s stupid, but I love him anyway. William Wilkerson isn’t the greatest name to be saddled with, but that’s not his fault. It’s also why we call him W. “There have to be dozens of girls who want to pretend-date Oakley Ford. And why does he need a fake girlfriend anyway? He could probably walk down to the Four Seasons on Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”

“That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the whole fake girlfriend thing with him before, but she fell for him and he broke her heart. I think half of the bad publicity the guy gets is because of her.”

“Are you talking about April Showers?” I gasp. “That was fake? Oh, man, I believed in ShOak. My childhood dreams are crushed.” I’m only half-kidding. Fifteen was a tough year for me, and not just because it was the year my parents died.

Paisley punches me in the shoulder. “You just said you didn’t like him.”

“Well, not after he cheated on April with that Brazilian swimsuit model.” I chew on the corner of my lip. “Fake, really?”

“Really.”

Hmmm. I might have to rethink my opinion of Oakley. Still, doesn’t mean I want to be the next fake girlfriend to be fake dumped and fake cheated on.

“So you’ll do it?”

I stare at her. “I make a couple hundred a night at Sharkey’s. You said before Christmas we were doing fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Last year I found Paisley crying at the dinner table at two in the morning. She admitted that Mom and Dad didn’t leave us in the greatest financial position. The insurance money kept us afloat at the beginning, but last summer she’d had to get a second mortgage to cover all the bills, and she was thinking of leaving college to get a job. Appalled, I sat down and made her go over everything with me, because she was a year away from graduating. I got my diploma early by taking summer courses, online ones to supplement my high school studies, and special permission from the school to take advanced classes. And then I found a job. Serving steak and iceberg lettuce wedges isn’t fancy, but it pays the bills.

Or so I thought.

“No. We’re fine. I mean...” She trails off.

“Then my answer is no.” I’ve never been interested in the other side of LA. It seems so artificial, and I do enough pretending as it is.

I have my hand on the screen door when Paisley drops her next bomb. “They’ll pay you twenty thousand a month.”

I spin around slowly, my mouth hanging open. “Are you effing kidding me?”

“Don’t swear,” she says automatically, but her eyes are bright with excitement. “And that’s for a full year of commitment.”

“That would...”

“Put the boys through college? Pay off both our mortgages? Make everything easier for us? Yes.”

I blow my overgrown bangs out of my face. This proposition is insane. I mean, who pays such an obscene amount of money to some random girl to pretend to be a pop star’s girlfriend for a year? Maybe that’s normal in the entertainment industry, but I grew up with parents who were elementary school teachers.

I suddenly wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive to hear this crazy offer. Would they encourage me to do it, or tell me to run, run for my life? I honestly don’t know. They were all about exploring new opportunities, taking the road less traveled. It was one of my favorite things about them, and I miss my fun-loving, impulsive parents. I miss them a lot.

That said, their love of spontaneity is part of the reason why we’re hurting for money.

“An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day, but you don’t have to say yes,” Paisley assures me. Her words say one thing; her strained tone says another.

“How long do I have to think about it?”

“Jim Tolson wants an answer tomorrow morning. And if it’s a yes, he wants you to come to the agency to meet with him and Oakley.”

Oakley. Oakley frickin’ Ford.

This is...nuts.

“Fine, I’ll think about it.” I let out a breath. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.”

Twenty thousand dollars a month, Vaughn...

Yeah. I’m pretty sure we both know what my answer is going to be.

3

HER

I said yes.

Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.

Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.

Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.

The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.

Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.

“You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.

“I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”

“Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.

We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.

I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.

A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”

“Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”

As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.

“This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”

Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.

“And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.

Jeez. His assistant has assistants?

Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”

“Um. Okay. Hit me.” My voice sounds unusually loud in this massive conference room. The echo feels endless.

“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?” he suggests.

I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he expect me to recite my life story? Well, I was born in California. I live in El Segundo. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen.

Or maybe he wants trivia-type stuff? My favorite color is green. I’m scared of butterflies. I hate cats.

My confusion must show on my face, because Jim gives me a few prompts. “What are your interests? What do you aspire to do after high school?”

“Oh, I’m done with high school already,” I admit.

I don’t miss the way Paisley’s lips curl slightly at the reminder of W. Ugh. One of these days she’s going to have to suck it up and accept that I’m in love with the guy.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” I reply awkwardly. “And actually, my Twitter and Instagram have lots of pictures of the two of us.”

Jim turns to Claudia, who falls silent. I can see the wheels in her bouncy head turning and turning.

“You’ll announce a breakup on your social media,” she decides. “We’ll spend two—no, three, weeks focusing on the split. First will be your despondent post announcing the end of the relationship, then we’ll document your grieving process, how you’re so upset and—”

“Listening to Oakley Ford’s albums on repeat,” one of the assistants finishes animatedly.

Claudia’s eyes light up. “Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Oakley’s music pulls you from the dark abyss of heartache.”

I almost gag.

“And that’s what inspires you to draw his face, which leads to our social media meet-cute.” She glances at Jim. “It still works.”

He looks pleased. “All right. What about Vaughn’s appearance? How do we feel about that?”

Everyone at the table swings their heads toward me. Their gazes pierce me, assessing me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. My cheeks heat up, and Paisley squeezes my hand again.

All of a sudden, the critiques start pouring in.

“The bangs are too long,” Claudia chirps. “We’ll trim them.”

“Hair itself needs a trim, too. And that shade of brown looks too fake.”

“It’s my real hair color!” I protest, but nobody’s listening to me.

“The honey-brown eyes are nice. I like the gold flecks. We’ll forgo colored contacts.”

“Shirt’s a little too baggy. Are your shirts always this baggy, Vaughn?”

“Isn’t normal what we are going for?” someone disagrees. “If we make her pretty, then the fans won’t be able to relate.”

I have never been more humiliated in my life.

“Oh, one last thing,” Claudia says suddenly. “Are you a virgin?”

Scratch that—it’s possible to be more embarrassed. There are a few coughs from other people at the table. Jim pretends the traffic in the hallway outside the room is fascinating, while the lawyers all stare stone-faced down the length of the table.

“Do I have to answer that?” I cast a dark look at my sister, who shakes her head.

“That can’t be important,” Paisley says to the man who’s more or less her boss.

Jim ignores her. Clearly this question is one he wants the answer to, as well.

I want to hug her for standing up for me. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are officially as red as Claudia’s hair.

“If you’re worried there’s some sort of sex scandal in Vaughn’s past, don’t be,” my sister assures the table. “Vaughn is the definition of good girl.”

I don’t know why, but Paisley’s view of me kind of stings. I mean, I know I’m not Miss Badass, but I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, either.

Claudia shrugs. “We’ll do a thorough background check, nonetheless.”

Background check? My sex status shows up in someone’s report? I’m about to burst in outrage when Jim steps in.

“All right, I think we can all agree that this arrangement shows promise.” He clasps both hands together and glances at the lawyer section of the table. “Nigel, why don’t you and the boys draft a rough contract and jot down any negotiation points you anticipate? Oakley will be here in an hour, so we can get into the finer details then.”

I frown. We’re all just supposed to wait around for an hour until His Majesty gets here? And now that I think about it, do I need a lawyer? I whisper the question to Paisley, who voices the question to her boss.

“The contract will be very straightforward,” Jim assures us. “Basically, it will state that you’ve agreed to enter into a service contract and that should you, at any time, no longer be able to perform your duties, the contract can be terminated. Any goods or monies received up to that time are yours to keep.”

I bite my lip. This is starting to feel exceptionally complicated. But I guess when twenty thousand dollars—a month!—is involved, I should have expected complicated.

“How about this?” Jim suggests. “Why don’t we sit down with Oakley and go over the contract details? Then you can read the agreement Nigel’s firm drafts, and then you can decide where we go from there.”

“Okay,” I answer, because that sounds very reasonable despite the ridiculousness of the situation.

Next to me, Paisley winks and gives me a not-very-subtle thumbs-up of encouragement. I shoot her a wan smile in return.

If I just remember why I’m doing this—so my brothers can go to college, so Paisley can stop worrying about how we’re going to pay the bills... If I can just keep focusing on all that, then maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.

4

HER

I’m hungry and my stomach’s been announcing that fact for the last thirty minutes. Still, no one suggests we take a break for lunch, even though it’s close to noon and Oakley Ford still hasn’t appeared. It’s been two hours. Jim and the lawyers have left the room, but everyone else is glued to their chairs.

“Here’s a granola bar. And a Coke.” Paisley sets the snacks on the table in front of me.

“No wonder you like working here,” I joke. “The free lunches are so fancy.”

But since I’m starving, I shove half the bar in my mouth—at the exact same moment that Oakley Ford throws open the door.

Two burly guys with arms like tree trunks follow him inside. One plants himself next to the entrance while the other trails behind the singer. I barely notice Jim and the lawyers entering and closing the door, because I’m too busy staring at Oakley.

He’s taller than I thought he’d be. Everyone in Hollywood is short. Zac Efron is barely taller than my five-six. Same with Daniel Radcliffe. At six-four, Ansel Elgort is a veritable giant. Oakley looks to be Elgort-size, but with way more muscles.

He’s even hotter in person. It’s not the sandy-blond hair spiked up in the front and cut short in the back. Or his moss-green eyes. Or his chiseled jaw. He actually has an aura. You hear of things like that, but until you’ve experienced it in person, you don’t believe it exists.

But he has it.

Everyone in the room is responding. People are sitting up and straightening their clothes. I dimly register Paisley smoothing her perfect hair into place.

And I can’t look away.

Oakley’s jeans are low enough that the brand of underwear he’s wearing is visible as he reaches across the sideboard to grab a bottle of water. His arm muscles are defined enough to be noticeable, and I watch in fascination as the right biceps flexes when he twists the bottle cap off. Those muscles remind me of the shirtless spread he did for Vogue a couple of months ago. It was all over the web because the editorial spread had one shot of him in underwear only, and the size of his crotch got everyone speculating whether he stuffed a sock down his shorts.

I forget I’m eating my granola bar. I forget that I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of lawyers. I forget my own name.

“Sorry. Traffic,” he says before settling in the seat at the very end of the table. The bodyguard stands at his shoulder.

I find myself nodding, because LA does have horrible traffic. Of course this beautiful god wouldn’t make us mere mortals wait for him because he was doing something—is his hair wet? Did he just shower? Is it getting hot in the conference room?

This is Oakley Ford and I did listen to his album on repeat when I was fifteen. And fine, I might have harbored a teeny-tiny crush on him, which was why I was so upset when he cheated on his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend.

Which I’m going to be.

Fake.

I don’t like fake, but I’m good at it. Faking things, that is.

Paisley nudges me.

“What?” Then I realize I still have the stupid granola bar hanging out of my mouth.

A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has noticed this. Claudia wears a worried expression. Jim is resigned. I don’t want to look at Oakley, but I do anyway. His face shows a cross between horror and fascination. The glance he throws his manager definitely says You’ve got to be kidding.

The only thing to do is act like I don’t care. I bite off the bar and start chewing. The health bar, never an appealing item to begin with, tastes like cardboard. Everyone watches me, and I chew even slower. Then I take a big swallow of Coke before wiping my mouth with the napkin that Paisley miraculously produces. I’m certain I’m redder than the receptionist’s lipstick, but I pretend that it’s no big deal. See how good I am at acting like everything is perfect?

“So this is her?” Oakley waves a hand in my general direction. I’ve heard him speak in interviews before, but his voice sounds even better in person. Deep and raspy and hypnotizing.

Jim hesitates and then looks down at his phone. Whatever he sees there stiffens his resolve. He sets the phone down. “Oakley Ford, this is Vaughn Bennett. Vaughn, Oakley.”

I start to rise and hold out my hand, but stop halfway out of my seat when Oakley leans back and clasps his hands behind his head.

Okay then.

Suddenly all my nervousness and embarrassment drain away. Relief settles in their place. I take another sip of my Coke. Surprise, surprise—Mr. Famous is a total jerk.

For a moment there, I felt like I was in danger of being sucked in by his magnetism. That I’d forget W, the money, April Showers, Brazilian supermodels and become caught up in his force field. But a guy who mocks me because I had the nerve to eat a granola bar while we all waited on his late ass? Who doesn’t have the courtesy to shake my hand?

There’s no way I’d ever fall for a guy like that.

I sneak a look at Paisley, who’s smiling slightly. She must have had the same concerns.

“So are we going to talk about terms? Like, what are my work hours?” I ask coolly, cradling the pop can between my hands.

“Work hours?” Claudia echoes, a tiny furrow appearing on her forehead.

“Yeah, since this is my job.”

She titters. “Not a job, more like a...”

“Role?” one of her assistants offers.

“Yes. A role in a long, romantic movie. And you’re the two leads.”

I feel actual bile rise up in my throat.

Oakley grumbles with impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”

Quickly, Claudia outlines our meet-cute with the drawing and the Twitter stuff. When she’s finished, Oakley yawns.

“Sure. Whatever. You’re going to handle it, right?”

“Well, not me, but Amy here will.” Claudia tips her head to the raven-haired woman on her right.

Amy holds up her phone in acknowledgment.

“Great.” He slaps his hands down on the table. “Then we’re done?”

Seriously? I waited over two hours and got only a granola bar and an extra serving of humiliation for this five-minute demonstration of how Oakley Ford isn’t even going to participate in this charade? Instead, I’ll be fake flirting with the assistant of one of his media people.

I turn to Paisley, who gives me a small, rueful shrug.

“No. We’re not done,” Jim barks from the other end of the table. The two of them exchange glares, but whatever power Jim holds over Oakley, it’s enough to get the young star to resettle into his chair.

“Let’s hear the rest of it.” He makes a tired gesture toward Claudia.

She picks up her notepad. “We’ll need the first date. We don’t think you should have any physical contact until after the third—” she looks at her assistants and then at Jim “—fourth date? I mean, we’re trying to sell this as a wholesome romance.”

Everyone starts throwing ideas out about when and how the touching will happen. Someone says he should kiss me on the forehead. Another suggests a hand on the small of my back. There’s another vote for hand-holding.

I’m still struggling with the concept of any touching when Paisley, the traitor, asks, “When did you and W start holding hands?”

Before I can answer, Oakley jumps in, snickering softly. “You dated a guy named W?”

“So what?” Wow. His first words to me are to make fun of my boyfriend’s name? It’s like Oakley’s trying to get me to dislike him.

“Sounds like a pretentious asshat.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. The action makes his biceps flex again.

I drag my eyes away. “Okay, Mr. I-Name-All-My-Albums-After-Me Ford.”

Someone at the end of the table gasps at my audacity, but Oakley’s unfazed by my insult. “Even Madonna has a full collection of letters in her name.”

“W is not pretentious.”

“If you say so.” He smirks.

“I do. He’s awesome. And sweet.”

“So why’d you break up with him?”

“I didn’t,” I say indignantly.

His brow creases. “So he broke up with you?” He sounds...confused. Like that doesn’t make sense to him.

“He hasn’t!”

Oakley shifts to Claudia. “So my down-to-earth, wholesome, normal girlfriend is a cheater?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s gonna go over well.”

“Oh, you mean the fake breakup,” I say. For a minute there, I’d forgotten.

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.

“He’ll break up with her tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’ll give it approximately two weeks after the breakup, and then she’ll Tweet you the drawing. Then there’ll be a series of dates, but no touching.” Claudia turns to me. “When did you have your first kiss?”

“Ever?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but my mind is stuck on the breaking up with W bit. I haven’t thought this whole thing through. I’ve been so focused on the money and how we’d be able to pay off the mortgage, pay for the twins’ college, allow Paisley to sleep better at night, that I hadn’t given any thought to the actual details of how this whole thing was going to work.

“Yeah, ever,” Oakley says, and this time he does roll his eyes.

These personal questions suck. “When was yours?” I counter, still focused on the W issue. Lately, he’s been pulling away. He says it’s my fault that I don’t act like an adult about our relationship because I’m still refusing to have sex with him.

“With tongue? I think I was eleven. It was with Donna Foster, the daughter of my dad’s side chick.”

My eyes grow wide. He French-kissed at eleven? I still thought boys had cooties at that age. Oakley would probably pee with laughter if he knew I was a virgin.

“You?” he prompts.

“Um...” Jeez, now I’m even more embarrassed, but for another reason. “Sixteen,” I mumble.

“How sweet. Just like the saying.”

I curl my fingers into fists. If Claudia’s team wasn’t sitting between the two of us, I might’ve reached over and smacked his smug smile off his smug face.

Paisley grips my hand, an unspoken gesture for me to get it together.

Even Claudia must sense that my patience is coming to an end. Hurriedly, she says, “Let’s do hand-holding on the third date and then a kiss on the fourth date. We’ll keep the first couple of dates under wraps, but leak the later ones to the paps.”

“Hold up, we’re going to kiss? I have a boyfriend,” I remind the room. “No one said there’d be kissing.”

“We’re gonna have a year-long relationship and we don’t kiss? Why don’t we just announce that it’s fake from the beginning?” Oakley mocks.

“But...but...” Yeah, I definitely didn’t think this through. I quickly turn to Paisley for help.

She grimaces. “They’re right. No one is going to believe that you and Oakley haven’t kissed. Not if you’re serious.” Her tone is apologetic, but her words don’t provide me any relief.

“You don’t expect me to...” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say the words out loud.

“Of course not,” Jim interjects briskly. “We’re not that kind of agency.”

He tries to play it off as a joke, but, um, they kind of are. They’re hiring this guy a girlfriend and they expect us to kiss.

How am I going to explain this to W? Sorry, babe, not willing to have sex with you yet, but I’m going to kiss another guy. In public.

That will go over well.

Claudia leans forward. “This is no different than if you were acting on a television show. Remember, you’re playing a part in a big love story.”

Her assurance doesn’t help, either. I may not know what I want in life. I may just be telling everyone I want to be a teacher because that’s easier than admitting I’m clueless about my future and that I’d rather hide as a waitress for the next five years. But I do know that the entertainment industry doesn’t interest me.

Paisley squeezes my hand again, probably to remind me why I’m doing this. By playing the role of a girlfriend, I get to lift the burden off my big sister’s shoulders and provide for my brothers. It’s not like I’m signing my entire life over. It’s just one year.

“What do I need to do?” I ask, feeling resigned.

“Just a few kisses, some hand-holding. It’s nothing, really.” Claudia waves her hand airily. “And it doesn’t need to be in the contract other than some general terms about physical contact when necessary.”

“Does any of this need to be in the contract?” Oakley sounds annoyed.

“I agree. If this ever got out, it would be terrible for Oak’s image,” Jim points out.

“The terms need to be specific so that the girl can be held to them,” one of the suits replies. Then he and Jim engage in some furious whispering until the lawyer presses his lips together in unhappy surrender. “Fine, it can be general, then. A general contract of employment.”

Once that’s decided, Claudia returns to her list. I wonder how long it is. I glance at the big white clock on the wall. It’s going on three hours and I’m exhausted.

“Let’s talk about her look again.”

                                                                “I’m not changing my look,” I mutter. “I like my look.”

                                                                I like my comfy skinny jeans, assortment of colorful T-shirts and the Vans that W and I doodled on during morning advisory last spring. The sneakers are filled with details marking our favorite dates. There’s a wizard’s wand along the left sole because we’re both Harry Potter fans. Then there’s the light post to signify the Urban Light display on Wilshire, where W kissed me for the first time. Where there was definitely tongue. His initials are on the back of one shoe and mine are on the other. He has a pair of them, too, but he doesn’t wear his. He says he doesn’t want to ruin them.

“You have a look?” Oakley raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and it’s better than yours,” I retort, tired of his attitude. “Would it kill you to wear pants that actually fit around your waist? No one wants to see your underwear.”

“Baby, everyone wants to see my underwear. I get paid a hundred grand per pap pic.”

“Baby?” I scoff.

He leans forward, threading his surprisingly elegant fingers together. “Don’t like that one? Pick another, then. You’re my girlfriend,” he reminds me mockingly.

“So you’re into infants?”

“What?” He rears back. “No. Fine. How about—” he pretends to think and then snaps his fingers “—old lady?”

“Great.” I give him my fakest smile. “I’ll call you...dick cheese.”

“Vaughn, gross,” my sister interjects.

Oakley covers his mouth. I swear I see a smile. I wait for his response and I’m not disappointed. “I have no problem with that, crabby patty.”

“All right, that’s enough of that. None of this needs to be in the contract.” Oakley’s lawyer rattles his papers in agitation.

I turn back to Claudia. I’ve given in on the kissing. On the dates. On this made-for-the-media breakup with my boyfriend, but no way am I going to let them change my look. I’ve got to fight for something. “I thought you wanted a normal girl. I’m a normal girl. This is what some normal girls wear.”

When Claudia and Jim exchange a glance, I know I’ve won this one. They agree to keep my look...for now.

“But when we take pictures, at least let us do your makeup. You’ll want us to,” Claudia promises.

Um. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.

The negotiation goes on. When will our first official picture be released? Where will the dates take place? Will I go to an awards show with him? How about fashion week in New York? How often should I be seen with him? Every day? Every other day?

Oh, and I would not get Oakley’s phone number. Like I care.

But I still find it weird, because what nineteen-year-old isn’t allowed to give his number to his own girlfriend? And how does he communicate with his friends? Wait—does he even have friends? Or are they all fake like me?

I peer at him from underneath my lashes and feel a pang of sympathy. Oh, brother. Am I actually starting to feel sorry for him? I think I might be.

But then my stomach growls and reminds me that we’re still mad. And unfed.

“You’ll text Amy or me if you want to get ahold of Oakley,” Claudia says.

“I feel like I need my own people. My people can text your people,” I joke.

No one laughs. Instead, Claudia looks like she’s seriously considering it, but then decides against it. “No, I think two nonteens Tweeting each other and commenting on Instagram would appear too contrived. And your voice, we want to preserve that. Whereas Amy has been running Oak’s page for a couple of years now.”

I have a voice?

“Whatever.” I’m exhausted and hungry. One granola bar wasn’t enough, and my stomach rumbles again to alert everyone to that fact.

“Is the granola bar all you’ve had today?” Oakley asks.

A burst of surprise jolts me. Out of all the people in this room, Oakley’s the one to ask? “I had breakfast, but I like to eat like a normal person.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Jim, we need to eat.”

“Oh, sure.” Jim turns to Paisley. “Run and get us one of everything from the café across the street.”

I see a chance for fresh air and an escape. “I’ll go, too.” Not to mention that I don’t want to be here without Paisley.

“Oh, no, we’ll need you here,” Jim objects.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my sister. She doesn’t need to wait on me.

Paisley laughs. “It’s my job, silly. I’ll be right back.”

She trots out like she’s glad to be out of there, while I watch her exit and wish I could go with her.

On the other side of the table, Oakley leans back, crosses his arms again and looks smug, like he cured world hunger. “Well?” he prompts.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Why? Paisley’s the one getting the food.”

“You wouldn’t be having lunch without me.”

I point to the clock. “I’ve been sitting in this conference room for five hours. Prisoners in maximum security receive better treatment. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lying on the beach rereading The Handmaid’s Tale and I would have eaten something. But sure, thank you for alerting your manager to send my sister to get me food.”

He doesn’t like my smart-ass response. “It’s too cold for the beach.”

“I never said I was going to swim.” I speak in the same tone I use when I tell my little brothers they’re acting like immature idiots.

“Why are you at the beach, then?”

I gape at him. “Why does anyone go to the beach? Because it’s awesome.”

“If you say so,” he responds, but the smugness he’s previously displayed is dialed down a watt as if my reasons for liking the beach are important...or even interesting. Or he might be confused about why I’d choose to go there rather than sit five feet away from his holy presence.

But I’m not going to tell him.

Instead, I drain the rest of my Coke, slam it on the table with more force than necessary and then sit back and refuse to say another word.

Is it childish?

Oh, yeah.

But it feels really, really good.

[rederthere]

Value Pt. 1

Aisha counts the coins carefully, dropping them into her cat shaped purse. The eight year old girl purses her lips in concentration, exerting all of her effort to keep count of her change. “Twenty-five...fifty…” She takes out a nickel, and squints at it. How much is a nickel worth again? She compares it to a dime, the smaller silver coin. “Mmm…” Aisha sticks her tongue out, pondering deeply upon this. What did Ms. Hudson say again?

“‘Just cuz’ it’s bigger, doesn’t mean it’s better!’” Aisha recalls out loud, singing softly. Yeah, that’s what Ms. Hudson taught her in class! So that means… With a new found confidence, Aisha drops the nickel into her purse with the rest of her money. “Fifty-five! Sixty-five!” The dime follows after the nickel, making a pleasant metal sound against the rest of the change. Aisha re-counts her bills once again. “I haaaave...el-even dollars! And sixty-five cents!” She grins to herself, proud of her math work.

Aisha glances back to the sleeping form of her mother. She’s sprawled out messily over the couch. Empty bottles of yucky-smelling juice surround her. Aisha’s mommy always drinks that funny juice. She calls it, ‘grown-up grape juice.’ Aisha can never have a sip of the grown-up juice.

The little girl walks over to her mother, and pokes her cheeks. “Mommy?” She calls out.

A groan is her only reply. Aisha giggles, and quickly kisses her mother on the forehead. “I’ll be back, mommy! I’m gonna get you some headache-pills! And ginger-soda for your aching tummy!” Aisha pauses, thinking for a moment. “And some choco-bars for myself!”

Another groan. Her mom turns over, smashing her face against the pillow. She must’ve drank a lot of grown-up juice. Aisha tiptoes over to the coat racket, and grabs her sweater. She slings her cat-shaped purse over her shoulder. Taking one last look at her mother, Aisha waves a good-bye. “I’ll be back!” She promises, and closes the door behind her.

It’s been a solid six months since The Joker broke out of Arkham, dancing out of the clutches of Gotham’s vigilante, Batman. It’s been some time the boss conjured another one of his insane plans to wreck Gotham, and Jose secretly hopes to himself, it’ll stay like that for a bit longer. Being paid by The Joker is a pretty penny, no lie, but each day Jose works for the supervillain is a matter of life and death.

The fact he survived this long among The Joker’s henchmen, already makes him an unofficial veteran - but Jose never lets himself get comfortable. And it probably meant nothing to the boss - hell, Jose doubts whether if The Joker knows his actual name. At the end of the day, the pay is what matters.

The boss is particularly restless tonight. Maybe it’s because he’s feeling cocky. Maybe he’s restless. Or maybe, Jose suspects, he’s simply just bored. Who can tell with the insane clown? Jose and a few other henchmen have been toiling behind the agitated Joker nearly all night. The Joker just couldn’t decide whether he wanted to rob a bank, or shoot up a club.

“Anything to get on the Bat’s nerves,” Joker chuckles to himself, just loud enough for Jose to over hear. “Should we draw him out tonight? It’s been such awhile since we fooled around - ah, but I don’t want to break my lucky streak! Hmm, choices, choices, what to choose, what to choose?”

“Say,” The Joker says, fiddling with his pocket knife. “You boys up for some donuts?” He asks offhandedly, gazing at a 7-11. It’s a lonely little place, built beside a vast parking lot. Jose and the others don’t answer. It’s not like their boss actually wants to hear their opinion, or valued them at all. The parking lot is practically empty, Jose notes. Good thing. That means there aren’t a lot of civilians running around inside the convenience store. Tough luck to the poor bastard who’s working the graveyard shift.

Jose adjusts the strap of his clown mask, and double-checks if his back-up pistol is in its holster. Everything is in its place. He signals the other men to follow the lead of The Joker, who is already sauntering towards the 7-11.

The Joker kicks open the doors with the usual dramatic flourish. His henchmen are close behind. The teenager at the counter jumps, tearing his gaze away from his phone screen.

“What the -” The moment the cashier caught sight of The Joker and his clown posse, he freezes up. “Shit.”

Jose twists his mouth in slight sympathy. Poor young bastard indeed. He can only hope the Joker will at least let him or one of the other guys kill the cashier. That’d be the best outcome for the guy. Jose would finish him off with a gunshot to the head. Clean and quick. Merciful. He certainly can’t say the same for the boss, who prefers to...draw out his kills.

The young man backs away, trembling. He only bumps into a wall of cigarettes and lottery tickets. His name tag glints under the fluorescent lights, reading Wilson. Jose averts his gaze, regretting that he learned the teen’s name. The Joker, on the other hand, takes an unmeasured amount of glee in the cashier’s terror.

“Why hell-o there, Wilson.” The way The Joker said his name was nearly a growl. Wilson quivers, his mouth hanging open.

“Hey!” A female’s voice rings out from the other side of the store. Jose glances to its direction. Another employee around Wilson’s age comes out from the Employees’ Room. She’s rummaging through her purse, not having glanced up yet. “I’m heading out, so you can cover night -” She had the misfortune of bumping into the boss. Jose cringes to himself, slightly looking away. Damn, he hoped way too much when he thought there’d be at least only one person in this sad 7-11.

“Oh, sorry -” She gasps as soon as her eyes lie on The Joker. Jose can imagine his unnatural grin.

“Ah, yes. More help! Get behind the counter, will ya? So sorry to cut off the end of your shift but hey - the customer is always right, eh?” The Joker says in a conversational tone. He sounded so pleasant, anybody not directly looking at him would’ve mistaken him for an average but friendly nobody. Jose knew how his boss worked - he begins all normal and affable, just to freak out the victims. But he’s trigger-happy as hell, though. There’s no telling what sets off the boss, but one wrong slip-up, and anybody can end up on the floor with their intestines strewn out.

Jose saw that happen before, and god, he could only pray future victims of the Joker won’t be as stupid as the one who got gutted.

The woman only stutters helplessly in response. She glances in between the henchmen blocking the exit, and her other helpless co-worker. Jose grimaces. He tried not to think that if the woman just hurried a few minutes earlier, she would’ve been out of the cursed store, out of danger. Just a bunch of bad luck for these folks.

The Joker is a volatile madman, an agent of chaos, but if there’s one guarantee for his unpredictability, somebody’s gonna die.

Jose tunes out Wilson’s hysterical sobs, the woman’s uncontrollable sobbing, and The Joker’s unhinged cackles, and looks around the store some more. Nothing but rows and rows of junk food to see...the back row contains the refrigerated goods...a typical 7-11. On the bright side, maybe after The Joker was done psyching out and slaughtering the employees, they’d actually get donuts…

“Holy shit Jose, I think there’s a kid in here!” One of the guys, Thompson - an old timer like Jose, hisses. Jose snaps out of his thoughts.

“What? The hell d’ya - oh my god.”

Thompson was right - a kid, a little girl, is huddled in the corner, clutching a couple of candy bars and a bottle of ginger-ale. Her wide and dark-brown eyes stare unsure and a little fearful at the group of clown-masked men blocking the exit. She has black curly hair and brown skin, dressed up in a green hoodie and pink skirt. A cat-shaped purse is hanging by her side.

Oh, why does she have to look so much like...

Jose immediately scans the area for any other adults. There’s no sign of another soul hiding or cowering in the aisles. Anger instantly bubbles inside his chest. Okay, who the hell let their, what, seven or eight year old daughter wander into a 7-11 at one o’ clock in the fucking morning?! He would’ve never let Natalia out this late, hell, he never let her walked alone to school -

He takes a deep breath, his gaze sliding back to the boss. The Joker is grasping Wilson’s face, holding a knife to his cheek. Good. He’s distracted.

Glancing side to side, Jose makes a zipping motion across his mouth to the boys. They give subtle nods in reply. They may be good-for-nothing scum bags willing to work for a clown terrorist, but Jose knows all of them generally frowned upon murdering children. Jose looks back to the little girl quivering in the corner, and lifts a finger to his mouth.

The girl’s eyes dart around, unsure. To Jose’s relief, she mimes the action, lifting her hand to her mouth.

This draws a rare smile out of Jose. Thank god nobody can see what’s under his mask. That’s a good kid. Let’s just hope we can get the hell outta here without the boss noticing. Shifting his weight, Jose shambles over to the right. As quietly as he could, he blocks the aisle, trying to hide the kid from the boss’s sight. The others eye Jose doubtfully, the rest of them probably thinking there isn’t a chance in hell The Joker won’t notice. Jose grits his teeth. They should at least try!

He closes his eyes, letting his imagination run away with him. Where are the girls’ parents? Are they frantically looking for her right now? Maybe they rung up the Gotham police force already. Hell, maybe the bat signal is shining bright in the sky, and any minute, Batman’s going to come tumbling through the windows to save the day. Jose mentally kicks himself. Who is he kidding?

No parent - at least, no parent in Gotham city would ever let their child wander the dangerous streets, day or night, by themselves. Jose himself, he should know better.

Impulsively, Jose punches the wall. Damn! How is he gonna get the kid out of this?! Fuck, what sort of parents does she have -

“Mmmsomething the matter?”

He jumps, jerking his head up. Screaming and crying fills the air. Jose looks up, greeted by the sight of Wilson’s bloody face. A large gash is cut deeply across his cheek. Copious amount of blood gushes out of the wound, dripping all over the counter. The female employee sobs, completely out of breath from crying. She is trying to nurse Wilson, despite her unmeasured terror, attempting to stop the bleeding with her scarf as a make-shift bandage. The Joker boredly ignores their distress, strolling over to Jose.

“You just can’t find good service these days!” The Joker flicks the blood off his pocket knife. The madman’s eyes - they look like a pair of deathly pale green under the unnatural white lights - scour Jose up and down. Jose breaks a sweat, guiltily biting the inside of his cheek. Shit! He only drew attention to himself and the kid...He knew better than to glance over to her. He just has to act natural!

“What’s the ruckus over here?” The boss asks, grinning (as always and usual). Casually, he wipes the blood of his knife on one of the goon’s shirts. At this point, all of them were desensitized to The Joker’s sick quirks. “Woah, woah, don’t get too excited now! I’m trying to get us some good old-fashioned donuts but some people -” His eyes momentarily cast over to the hysterical teenagers behind the counters. Wilson is still howling from the pain, and the woman is crying her eyes out. “Can’t co-op-erate!”

Spinning around, The Joker pulls out a handgun, and fires. Jose hardly flinches at the sound of gunfire. It misses the woman by a few inches, and she screams, ducking below the counter. Wilson drops to the floor with her. “PLEASE, do st-o-p your yammering! I’m trying to have a conversation over here!”

The 7-11 employees’ cries subside to a quieter level. Another whimper - one closer - is heard in the background. Jose swallows, his throat dry. He’s been hoping too much tonight - doing nothing but hoping. If a god does exist, he must be laughing his ass off and giving the middle finger at Jose’s general direction, because praying and hoping weren’t doing jackshit.

Along with Jose’s heart sinking, the Joker’s eyes light up at the sound of the distressed child’s cry.

He pushes Jose to the side. Jose stumbles backwards, powerless.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here!”

A/N: Damn, I planned for this to be a one-shot, but I wrote so much! :o I’ve been fascinated by The Joker ever since I watched a Wisecrack Philosophy video about him… (Go search it up, I highly recommend it!) I’m planning on writing a full-fledged multi chapter Joker-centric fic in the future, but I wanted to write a short story about him to test my hand…

So what do you guys think? Is the Joker in character? Any suggestions for me to improve! I’d love to hear from you guys!

[vulcanlsj]

The Psychic Saiyan’s Revenge Chapter 1 (Alternate Timeline DBZ Fanfic)

On a planet far from the prying eyes of Vegeta, a silence echoes throughout it.  Just off the borders of a small town, is a large expanse of dirt and sand. The star for this system is just setting to the east, and as such, creates a deep red lighting effect, and casts long shadows towards the west.  A desert wind picks up speed as it reaches the only inhabitants of an empty plain.  

Three bodies are laying next to each other, just as lifeless as their surroundings. One has short spiky black hair, and has a large muscular body. He would have easily stood seven foot if he were still alive.  Next to him lies what appears to be his mate. She is as small as he is large, measuring in at 5' 2” and yielding a very slender body. Her curves are almost non-existent under the sand that has buried her and her mate.  And just below them, is a small body of a child, no less than eight years old. Her face is positioned towards the ground, and her body is lying just as limp as her parents.  The wind then begins to slow down in speed, until it stops completely.

A lone figure appears next to them, and looks down upon them. Kneeling down to get a better look at them, and perhaps hoping they are not who he thinks they are.  Turning over the small child, he sees her face, and is assured that it is in fact who he thinks they are.  He kneels down further, and reaches over to the large man. He whispers “Father” and takes the necklace he is wearing.  He rolls over his mother, and kisses her on the forehead, and then dusts his family off.  Putting his right hand to his forehead, the man lifts up his family and walks a distance with them.  A ditch suddenly forms after a pink flash of light, and he lowers his family into the hole.  Covering it back up with his psychic powers, he picks up some more dirt, and fashions it into a large headstone.

Burning writing into the headstone, he makes it read “Lying underneath this marker, rests a family that did not deserve to die. Revenge shall be taken upon those that did it, and it shall be in their names, or it will be in vain.”  Standing back up, he looks towards the sunset in the background.  Closing his eyes, he walks off towards the dying light.

***********************************************************************************

Six years later, a space craft, worn from time and from scarring entries into atmospheres, hurtles itself towards Planet Vegeta.  The space craft crashes into a wasteland just outside the capital city of the planet. A door on the side of the ship opens up, and the first one to step out is the man that had found his parents six years ago on that desert planet.  He is wearing Saiyan Armor with yellow straps over the shoulders, white gloves and boots, and dark blue Saiyan pants. Around his neck is the necklace he took from his father. He looks like he is determined to do anything.

Next to step out is a man with black skin, and what appear to be holes in his skin. Though upon closer inspection, they are just markers, and are part of his natural skin.  He wears a loose black jumpsuit, with no sleeves, and black leather like boots.  His hair is cut short, aged gray, and reaches down to his shoulders.  It spikes up in the front, but lays loose in the back.  His face is worn old with age, which is odd for his race, as they live to be well over billions of years old.  He knows not what he is, for he also has amnesia and can't remember any further than back to six years ago.

Behind him, is a very beautiful woman with light blue skin.  Her outfit is torn in many places, and reveals most if not all of her curves.  What is left of her black jumpsuit covers what is necessary.  Her lower jumpsuit cuts of in “shorts”, but the left leg is missing, cutting off at her hips.  Her tense muscles are clearly shown, along with bruises and scratches, though there are no scars.  Her hair falls back to just below her shoulders, and is a bright blond.  She steps aside as the next person steps out of the ship.

The last one stands out the most, and his shredded clothes prove it.  He is a reptilian, with green scales for his skin.  He has a snout, and his feet are long with razor sharp talons. He walks with his legs bent, for support.  His long tail sticks out from his backside, and reaches out six feet.  Spikes come out from the top, and reach all the way up his spine.  He speaks out in a reptilian voice, which is unable to be understood by normal people.

“Yes S'kur, this is my home planet, and it looks as though we have only done more damage since I have been gone.”  The man in Saiyan armor says back, clearly being able to understand the man with his telepathic powers.

“So Duke, where would we go to find information first?” Speaks the man with black skin. “Would it be wise to start in this large city?  I sense that this is the capital, and the king resides here.”

“This is the city we need to start in. I have a feeling that we have little time before something terrible happens.  You and S'kur would do best to wait here while me and Tarah search the city, Vector.”  Duke motions for the two men to go back inside the ship. They do so, and he and Tarah slowly walk towards the city.

“Why are we going so slowly if we need to do what you have come for so quickly?” Tarah asks after they have walked a few miles.

“Because if we exert too much energy, I fear we will show up on their scouters.  I do not know how much they have updated their technology since I have been gone, and would not wish to test it out before I know for sure. Best to be safe.”

“Oh, well, okay, you do know what you are doing.  I trust you.”

“I hope so, or else I have drug you out here all this way for nothing.  All my efforts should not be in vain.”  They continue walking until they reach the city outer wall.  “There should be a small hole around here somewhere that we can use to get inside.  From there, you will need to conceal yourself, and I will gather armorment, and information from the nearest shop or bar.”

“I understand Duke, lead the way.”  Tarah suddenly disappears, but then her voice is heard from where she just was. “I'm ready when you are.”

“Good, follow me, and keep close. I don't want you wandering off to far while you are cloaked.”  They turn right as soon as they are through the hole, and keep walking on. Duke soon blends himself in with the Saiyans as they walk about, tending to their daily business.  As he nears a bar, he sinks inside, and looks around the inside.  “Hmm, also as I remember.  Dark, dirty, and smelly.”  The bar suddenly quiets down though, and Duke starts to worry.

“Come to think of it, you do nothing but fight,” Came a voice next to Duke.  Duke turns to see a tall and brute man standing next to him.  Duke scans his mind quickly, and realizes that the comment is directed towards the bar counter, and not himself.

“Nappa,” says the man at the bar. His face is filled with disgust towards the man he sees next to Duke.  “What do you want to do, boast about your newest mission?”

Nappa, the huge man, is balding and has a black goatee around his mouth. His hair is still wild, even though there is just a small circular patch left.  “Actually,” Nappa answers, “I came to offer you the job that Frieza gave to my team.”  Nappa’s face has a large grin on it.  “Maybe you can do it just as well as we can.”  Nappa practically has a beard of teeth his smile was so big.

Duke considers the situation he has just walked into, and decides he can walk off to the side, and watch safely from there.  “Which planet is it?”  The man at the bar replies as he turns his back on Nappa. “Some planet with people that would rather contaminate their planet before losing it to anybody that will just use it?”  The sarcasm in his voice can be poured into a cup it is so thick.  Duke tries to scan this Saiyan's mind, but finds that he has some sort of mental shield, or has trained himself to block out any attempts on mental reading.

Nappa looks dumbfounded at the Saiyan’s statement.  He catches himself and puts on a smile.  “Well it’s not too far from Planet Vegeta, but I would suggest taking your entire team,”  Nappa snickers with his low voice in a small laugh, “because you couldn’t take this planet with your inferior abilities.  Hell, you couldn’t even take on Bardock’s new kid, Vulcan, and his power level is only five!”  He breaks into a huge laughter that the entire bar picks up on.  Duke even finds himself chuckling out of habit.

Someone off to Vulcan's side catches a glance at Duke, and stares for a second. She can see his concentration on his face as he watches the fight about to break out between her brother and Nappa.  She makes a mental note, and continues watching the other two.

“You don’t know anything about MY skills as a FIGHTER!”  Vulcan leaps from his barstool.  He swings his fist at Nappa’s face.  Duke backs up some more, and pushes Tarah into a corner.  “Stay here, things are about to get hectic, and I don't want our cover blown.  Just watch, and learn.”

The stinging pain comes to Nappa’s cheek as Vulcan’s fist connects with it.  Vulcan shakes his hand with pain from Nappa’s stiff face. Nappa’s face jerks back and blood flows out and landed on the stained floor.  It quickly boils as Nappa’s energy level increases and his energy field can be seen.  Nappa swings his trunk of an arm at Vulcan, who brings up his right arm to easily block it, and kicks Nappa in the stomach.  Nappa falls onto a table and breaks it with his weight.

Duke smiles as he watches the fight, and begins to root for Vulcan.  He once again reaches into Nappa's mind, and pulls any information he can out of it.  He learns that King Vegeta is still in power, and that he is currently spending most of his time in the throne room. Learning that Nappa is the personal assistant to the Royal family, Duke plans on meeting him as soon as the fight is over, if Vulcan doesn't kill him first.

Eventually, the fight takes Vulcan and Nappa a floor below through a hole in the ground that Vulcan causes by tripping Nappa with his tail while Nappa held him in a choke.  The bar erupts into cheers at this point, and hopes for more destruction.  Duke once again chuckles to himself as the fight goes on, feeling his feral Saiyan instincts once again surfacing.

Another Saiyan, apparently one of Vulcan's friends, rushes over to the hole, and jumps down to help him.  “You wouldn't kill an elite Saiyan would you?” Nappa whimpers as Vulcan gets into a position signaling one of his signature moves.

“Not unless he shattered my pride,” Vulcan grits through his clenched teeth.

“Oh, thank Kami,” Nappa sighs with relief, and Duke just lowers his head and shakes it realizing what Nappa is going to try to do. “I'm glad then, so you can put the energy blasts away, okay?”

Vulcan lowers his eyebrows, and Duke just smiles.  “That is EXACTLY what you did, Nappa, you shattered my pride with your belligerent comments.”  Vulcan pulls his arms back, and prepares to end Nappa's life.  Vulcan's friend then steps up to him, and restrains his arms. Duke quickly scans this Saiyan's mind to find his name, and locates it easily: Shade. “Listen Vulcan, Nappa’s not worth the excess energy that you would waste,” Shade says, and looks nervously at his best friend.  He has sweat beading on his forehead.  “Not worth the trouble it would cause.  You already have caused enough trouble.”

Duke could sense sincerity and reason from Shade as he tried to hold Vulcan back.  “Yeah, you’re right, he isn’t,” Vulcan's hands stop glowing, and he puts them on his hips.  Nappa's mouth curls into an evil grin as he charges Vulcan and Shade.  Shade spins around, pulls his sword out of the sheath, and cuts Nappa across the chest, shattering the Saiyan armor.  The sword scrapes his pectorals, and sends him flying backwards.  Nappa's wound appears to be fatal, but with his size, the brute Saiyan will unfortunately be up and walking after a trip to a rejuvenation tank.  Duke smirks and turns to walk out of the bar.  Tarah has to sprint to catch up to him

“Almost tricked us Nappa,” they hear from Shade as they walk out the door. Tarah sighs as they walk into an alley.

“What's the matter?” Duke looks at where he knows Tarah is.

“I just wanted to see the situation come to an end, did you have to leave?”

“Yes, a Saiyan in there is psychic, and she almost found me out.  I can't leave another close call like that.  We'll just wait out here for Nappa, and then we'll get some information from him about the Royal family.  From there, we'll work our way up to the king, and make him pay for what he has brought upon the Saiyan race, as well as making my family go on that mission together, and getting killed by Zarbon.

“Okay, we'll wait. Though I wanted to know what happened next in the bar.”

“Nothing big, Vulcan and Shade flew up out of the hole, gave the bartender a ten piece, and put the house drinks on Nappa's tab. And here come Shade and Vulcan now.”  Just as Duke finishes his words, Vulcan and Shade do come out, followed by a few other Saiyans.  The female Saiyan that had caught Duke's eye earlier looks over towards their direction, but shrugs, and follows her brother.

“Remind me to find out how to see through walls like you do.  It could come in handy at some point.”

“I will, now be quiet, we have already attracted too much attention. We're just gonna wait for Nappa.”

“Alright, but I hope it doesn't take too long.”

[moncrise]

           Fuck.

           Hands trembling, he set down his gun with a click on the pavement—his radio blared on his shoulder. Jones, six block over, was calling for backup.            Bad. This is bad.            “I…can someone get to her, please?” He breathed into his radio—the blood was spreading fast, dripping off the curb and flowing into the sewer.            “Barnes, you’re the closest. Stop playing with yourself and get the hell over there.” Came Yates’ voice.            Guy was such a dick.            “I’ve got a situation.”            “What kind of situation?” Yates asked.            “…I shot a kid…”

           There was a long pause—the long sickening pause that made his stomach turn and his heart pound.            As if it wasn’t pounding already.            “What the fuck do you mean you shot a kid?”            Barnes rubbed his forehead—until just this second his legs had felt like concrete.            Hadn’t moved.            Couldn’t move.            But as if someone unfroze him, he darted toward the boy, dropping to his knees beside him. The white tee-shirt he wore was almost completely crimson.            “Uh…he looks to be…seventeen? Maybe? African American, probably five ten…hundred and fifty pounds?” Barnes quickly patted him down, looking for his ID, but also…mostly…for a weapon.            Please let him have been armed.            Please let there have been a reason…            Extracting his wallet, he flipped it open.            “Travis Greene. Born July 8th, 1999.” He finally said, “He is…he was…unarmed, as far as I could tell.”            “Holy fucking shit, Barnes…” Yates moaned, “…stay right there. I’m calling the captain and sending a squad car your way. Stay. Right. There.”            “Copy…” sighed Bates, sitting back on his heels.            Right then it hit him.            Someone’s child just died—and it was his fault.            His doing.            Mr. and Mrs. Greene were out there somewhere, peeking through the curtains, wondering why their son was late for dinner.            Maybe he had brothers and sisters who had waited all day to tell him what they’d done at school.            Maybe a girlfriend, trying to call him, wondering why he wasn’t texting back.            “Oh God…oh God…”            Barnes felt like he might be sick.            And as the sirens grew louder, he pictured what was coming.            The media shitstorm…the protests…the family would call for his badge…his head.            He was going on paid administrative leave—that was protocol. In a few weeks he’d see a court date, Chief Lafferty would pull some strings and he could go back to work before long.            Relax.            It’s going to be alright.            A cruiser skidded to a halt just behind his own.            “Jesus…Jesus, Barnes…”            Martinez was a young, fit, attractive cop that made all the ladies of the precinct just swoon over him. He flirted enough to make them all wonder if they were the one. In truth, he normally drove Barnes up the damn wall, but somehow Martinez was the most wonderful sight as he got out of his cruiser and slammed the door, “…what happened?!”            Barnes would be asked the same thing probably a hundred more times between the car ride back to the station, and when he was finally sitting in Chief Lafferty’s office…but the only thing he could think to say when Martinez asked was, “…I don’t know.”            “Okay, well that shit isn’t going to fly. Get up…dust off your pants. Was he armed?”            “No.”            “Of course. Get your gun, I’ll get an EMT out here to pronounce him.”            Four years ago, Martinez had accidentally shot a little girl.            She’d been eight years old, living in a meth house on the east side. He’d been a rookie, he’d gotten scared during the raid and pulled the trigger…            …Lafferty, just an officer at the time, had walked him through it.            So Martinez knew what he was doing.            Right?            The rest of the night was a blur.            But cleanup was the worst.            Barnes sat on the hood of Martinez’s cruiser, watching the paramedics wrap Travis up and take him away. Martinez grabbed a two liter of Coke from his trunk and dumped it over the bloodstained sidewalk, washing everything down into the sewers before getting in and starting the car.            “Barnes, come here.”            Barnes slid off the hood and wandered to the driver’s side window, “You’ll just have to give your statement to the chief, and he’ll do the rest. That’s what happened back when I...eh…first started.”            Back when you murdered a child. Thought Barnes…but he just nodded.            “Remember—the victim matched the description of the suspect, and the kid said he had a gun.”            “But he didn’t—”            “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. The kid said he had a gun. Do you understand?”            “You want me to lie.”            “I want you to have a job in three weeks. Now what did the kid say?”            “…he said he had a gun…”            “Good man. Follow me back.”            Martinez put the car in drive and started away; Barnes got in his own car and joined him.            In a window across the street, two eyes watched from behind scratched and faded horn-rimmed glasses. Johnny’s head was cocked to the right, as he considered…watched…weighed the odds.            The first cruiser pulled away, and the second left just after him.            Cruiser number 1205.

***

           Precinct five was in an uproar.            News of Travis Greene’s shooting had already spread like wildfire, even in the late hours. Martinez flipped on his lights and sirens to disperse the sea of protesters blocking the precinct parking lot—from his own car, Barnes watched them scream throw rocks, kick, press their signs against Martinez’s cruiser—and just like a carwash from hell, they did the very same to him as he slowly rolled through the crowd.

           Stop killing us!            We march for Travis!            Am I Next?!            Police reform NOW!            Black lives matter!            SAY HIS NAME! Travis Greene!

           Old words covered those signs…but when it was Barnes whose name and face would be all over the television screen in a matter of hours…they seemed completely new.            One stuck out to him though.            One young man, thin and pallid, with glasses so scratched and old the lenses were perfectly opaque, stood as still as a statue, his head tilted slightly. In his long, bony fingers was a white sign with the word MURDERER written in what looked like dripping blood.            Chills shot down Barnes’ spine.            Escorted into the station by six other officers, Barnes and Martinez marched through the dimly-lit halls. They passed a black family—mother, father and two young daughters—sobbing in the waiting room.            The Greenes, no doubt.            “He’s the one!” The mother screamed as they passed, “He’s the one, isn’t he?! The one who murdered my son!? I’ll get you for this, you fucker! He was a good boy! He didn’t have a gun and you KNEW that! Asshole! I’m going to have your badge, you better fucking believe it! You killed my son!”            “Keep moving.” Martinez said hollowly, taking Barnes’ arm and leading him along. Barnes could feel the tears stinging his eyes.            What had he done…?            “Are you hearing me, son?” Lafferty asked.            Barnes wasn’t.            He found himself sitting in the uncomfortable chair that wobbled ever so slightly across the wide desk from the wide Chief Lafferty.            “…no…Sorry, sir.”            “Our official stance is that Travis Greene resembled our suspect, was dressed similarly in roughly the same area. Those liberal nutjobs are going to blow this thing up, so we’re placing you on administrative leave with pay until we can figure this out. We take care of our own around here, and if you keep your head down, it’ll be fine.”            “Yes sir.”            “Alright. Go home, take the back way. We’ll deal with the fallout.”            “Thank you, sir.”            Barnes knew he should be relieved.            But he wasn’t.            Nothing really registered until Barnes was back home in his shitty apartment on the south side, and he turned on his bathroom sink to rinse his face.            Thick blood flowed from the tap.            Stumbling backward, Barnes let out a panicked cry, his blue eyes wide with horror.            Leaving the tap, he ran, slamming the bathroom door behind him.            “Oh God…oh God…okay…” Barnes pressed a hand to his head.            Stress induced hallucinations.            That’s all it was.            Counseling started tomorrow.            He wondered what the counselor would say about that.            A beer. He needed a beer.            Ripping his fridge open, he grabbed one, pulled the tab and tipped it back into his mouth.            Thick, lukewarm liquid filled his mouth and trickled down his throat.            Rushing to the sink, Barnes spit it out.            …blood…?            Blood!            “Oh GOD…”            Tearing through his refrigerator, he opened can after can of shitty beer and dumped them onto the floor—blood poured from every last one.            He fell to his hands and knees; tears streamed down his cheeks—covered in blood, he scrambled into his living room.            Along one wall, scrawled in dripping blood, was one word…            MURDERER.            It was the last thing he remembered before blacking out, right there, on his ugly throw rug.            He never heard the footsteps; never saw the window open, and the thin, pallid man crawl into his house.            Johnny stepped over Barnes’ body—phone in hand, camera capturing every angle.            Disgraced cop, driven crazy…            …it was almost too delicious.

***

             He didn’t know how long it had been.            A day, a week, a year.            But Barnes blinked awake—he was flat on the floor of his apartment, face and shirt covered in dried blood.            On the table, his phone buzzed.            It it was too early. He wasn’t in the mood.            But even still, Barnes dragged himself off the floor and grabbed his phone.            It was just after noon—his counseling was to start in just an hour, and the message from Martinez reminded him of that.

           Hey, it’s me—we’re sending the counselor to you—too dangerous to bring you in. Greene’s Mom is protesting out front, had to park three blocks away. Big mess. –Martinez

           The next message rattled in just as Barnes was reading the first.

           And so you know, Jones is in the ICU. Found her last night lying by her cruiser, she took one to the stomach—I guess no one got there in time. –Martinez

           Oh God.            He’d killed Travis Greene, and got Jones shot by not being there to help her.            The shower was hot—steam filled the whole bathroom, fogging the glass, the mirror…            Barnes sat, fully dressed, against the wall under the showerhead, his knees pulled up to his chest.            The water drenched him, his phone was in his pocket, but he didn’t care.            There was no feeling clean—not after shooting that boy.            Every time he shut his eyes, he saw him fall. Heard the sound of his gun, the dying scream of Travis Greene.            Barnes shut his eyes now and just let the hot water rush over him.            The shower spurted a moment, as it tended to do—but when Barnes looked up, he got a face full of blood.            It came from the walls, it dripped from the ceiling, the faucet, the showerhead…even came up through the drain. He stood straight up, pressing his back against the walls.            It was up to his ankles.            Why was this happening?            His knees.            Why was he seeing these things?            BOOM!            Two long, white hands landed on the shower door, holding a paper sign against the glass.            Murderer…            …in dripping red letters.            “Let me out! Let! Me! OUT!” Barnes threw all his weight against the door as the blood continued to rise, to his waist, his chest…            A thin face with horn-rimmed glasses obscuring his eyes appeared on the other side of the glass.            The one from the protest.            He shook his head slowly.            “PLEASE!” Barnes screamed, the blood now up to his shoulders.            The door wouldn’t budge.            And then the intruder smiled.            Oversized pointed teeth filled his blackened mouth.            Barnes’ scream was strangled as the blood overtook him.

***

           “Guess he just couldn’t handle it…” Martinez sighed heavily.            The counselor had found Barnes sitting on his bathroom floor with the back of his head blown off, the same gun he’d killed Travis Greene with in his hand.            Martinez and Lafferty watched the crime scene guys wander around, taking pictures, dusting for prints…            …but it was clear what happened here.            “I should’ve been here.” Martinez sighed as they stepped into the living room. Lafferty shook his head.            “Don’t start that shit.” The chief warned, “It was hard enough getting you through this once…but if you start blaming yourself now it’s all over.”            “But I knew what he was feeling. I killed a little girl. I put my gun in my mouth same as him, but I had someone there. Someone to talk to, to make me realize it wasn’t worth it to die. That’s what Barnes needed last night, and we all fucking failed him.”            “Oh for Christ’s sake…drop it, Martinez. What’s done is done—no going back, no do-overs. I don’t have time for your lessons in morality, I’ve got a dead cop in the next room and a mess back and the precinct. So if you want to be Gandhi, I suggest you find yourself a new job. Now get the hell out of here…send in someone with some balls.”            Martinez turned and stormed from the room.            Curious… thought the creature outside the window.            He had a choice to make.            The child-murderer, or this bastard chief.            Johnny ran his forked tongue over his pointed teeth.            Why not both?