#frankly I might switch the update day to Friday anyway

[argothiathedreamer]

229 words written in Still Breathing! I'm getting places today!

[themisterdarcy]

dear darcy,

what’s up? it’s currently thursday, april 30, 2020. we are in the middle of the covid-19 pandemic, and north carolina is on lockdown. well, technically. we are actually the worst state in the entire country in pandemic support. there are 1.06 million confirmed cases in the entire country, with 9,948 in north carolina, and 1,567 in mecklenburg county alone. the stay-at-home order is still supposed to be lifted on may 8th, though. that’s next friday. i don’t know how on earth anybody thinks that is a good idea, but the governor has the power in this situation.

school is canceled for the rest of the year, meaning that i have to finish my junior year online. i’m disappointed that i have to miss prom and seeing my friends (especially kai), but i think it’s for the best. nobody expected covid-19 to be this big of a deal, or for the quarantine to last this long. the day before schools closed, my apush teacher, mr. church, told us that he thought the situation was “blown out of proportion” and i quote: “there’s no way that school is going to be canceled.” even when schools closed, we were originally supposed to be back in school by march 30! here we are, a month later, and there’s no end in sight for this crisis.

trump is being absolutely useless, and even detrimental to the effort to contain the virus. he his early information about the virus, and didn’t bother to take precautions, leaving the country unprepared. by the time of the first case, it was hopeless. this week (or last week... time is all running together right now), he actually suggested in a press conference that a way to prevent/cure coronavirus would be to inject bleach/disinfectant into the body, or to illuminate the body from the inside with a uv light to kill the virus. both of these options as said by trump (uv light actually does have some merit to it, but it is in an entirely different context than trump suggested, and still in developmental phases) would be fatal, and aren’t even a solution to the main issue at hand: containing and controlling the spread of the virus.

in my opinion, new zealand has it down. i only know about it because amanda palmer is quarantined there, but they’re getting close to the end of 5 weeks of near complete lockdown. people are not allowed to leave their houses or visit non-immediate family members at all, and parks and public spaces are closed. while it does seem a little like an overextension of governmental power, it’s working. new zealand only has 1,476 total cases. thanks to prime minister jacinda ardern, the entire country has fewer cases than mecklenburg county. yes, new zealand only has a population of about 5 million, while mecklenburg county has 1.1 million, it’s still impressive that a population five times the size has 100 fewer cases. i honestly wouldn’t mind temporarily giving up some of my civil liberties and democratic principles if it meant that covid-19 was knocked out and controlled.

the people who are protesting the lockdowns are quite frankly narcissistic idiots who cannot see past their own ego. yes, staying at home is difficult and boring, but it’s the only way that life has any sort of chance of returning to a form of normalcy. i don’t think things will be exactly the same, nor do i think they should, but i do want to be able to hang out with friends again. i do want to go to school and have my senior year. i do want to be able to move out and go to college when the time comes. the more people disregard reality and ignore social distancing, the longer life will be like this. the protesters are only making things worse for themselves, and the saddest part is that i don’t think they realize this.

i’m writing these letters to future me (that’s you, darcy!) so that i can have a document of my life from the pandemic. also, i want to be able to remember what being 17 was like when i’m older. i do keep a journal, but that’s more for songs, poetry, and breakdowns. screaming into the void of the internet just feels more Official to me. also, i can’t lose a blog. that’s the thing about the internet: it’s forever, for better or for worse.

i think that i will open each letter with a discussion of any updates about the pandemic, focusing mainly on concrete facts and statistics. these are important to document, and i wish i had been recording this from the beginning. maybe i will go back and create a timeline, but i’m not sure yet. that might just be a task for another sleepless night. after the corona rundown, though, i’ll go into my own experiences and thoughts about the events of my life. these will probably be in bullet-point form, since my mind has the tendency to jump around as if topics were trampolines. i don’t know how often i’ll write, but i will try to everyday. every letter won’t be as long as this one, that’s for sure, but i do tend to ramble on. i hope you’re not overwhelmed, darcy.

taking a much needed break from 2020, how’s your life at the moment? i don’t know how old you are, but i’m assuming that you’re in college at the very least. are you and kai still together? i hope so. i really do love them. have you come out to the family yet? have you changed your name legally yet? i need to do that before my college graduation, because i want my degrees to be in My Name. the thing is, i’ll need to come out to change my name, and that is an issue i don’t really care to think about at the moment. how did that go? was it as bad as i expect it will be? have you started t? besides transitioning, how is your academic and career life? i hope to go to the university of texas at austin and double major in physics and music theory and composition. did that happen? if it didn’t, where did you go to school, and did you stick with the course of study i mentioned? i can’t really imagine studying anything else, to be honest. physics and music theory are two of the most intimidating and difficult subjects there are, and they also happen to be my favorite subjects. i love being challenged mentally, and i also like being seen as intimidating. imagine: a punk, non-binary, queer physicist who also writes and performs music. is there anything more intimidating than that? i aspire to be the “scary kid in your physics class.” i want to be an exception.

i’ve written so much already, but i do have quite a bit to get off my chest. yesterday was a weird day, and i couldn’t sleep at all last night, so here we are. this is what being 17 is like:

it is 6:15 am, and i have stayed up all night.

i was planning on getting a lot of work done, but instead i wasted time listening to amanda palmer and browsing the internet.

my dad thinks i took my sleeping pill, so i need to stay quiet in my room until at least 10:00 tomorrow morning so he doesn’t get suspicious.

kai called me today, but only for 15 minutes. they are a month behind in school, and will only get their phone back once they are caught up. i don’t know when that will be, but i am preparing for the worst.

i identify as androgyne, meaning in between man and woman. recently, i stopped feeling like i was faking, though. instead of worrying that i was making it all up in my head, i’ve become confident that i am Androgyne. it makes sense. it always has made sense. when i was little, i asked my father if it was possible to be “half-girl, half-boy,” and i would tell people that about myself. just because i like glitter and riot grrrl doesn’t make me a girl. i am an enby.

this is the song of the night:

i realized today that i have not left the house (excepting switching between mother’s/father’s) in an entire month. at the beginning of this lockdown, i was struggling, but i feel like i’ve adjusted more or less. this feels normal, now. i don’t feel like i’m missing something from my daily life.

10 days clean :)

my sleep schedule is fucked up. dr. kissam has put me on a mood stabilizer, an antidepressant, and a sleep medicine as well as my anxiety meds because she’s concerned by my bipolar tendencies. my manic phases have gotten more intense and happen more often now, and my down phases have gotten worse than they have in a long time. i started hurting again, but i’m trying to stop. i think i have a handle on it now. i did give myself two stick and pokes on monday night, though... does that count? i don’t think so.

i have the deathly hallows on my ankle, and the androgyne symbol on my left middle finger. it looks more like an anchor or a dandelion though. :/ i like them anyways, because they are Mine. My body. My decisions. I Am My Own Person.

during the call today, i felt like kai was distancing themself from me. i don’t know if i’m overthinking a 15 minute chat, but they didn’t seem like their usual clingy, lovey self. i’m worried that they’re going to decide they don’t want to be with me anymore during this time that they are off their phone, but i know that it’s just anxiety. overthinking is my enemy. kai loves me. i love them. we are in a healthy, stable relationship (for the first time in my life!!). they aren’t going to decide to leave me out of the blue.

the song for the kai situation:

sometimes i wonder what life would be like if i could just focus on school like a normal person. i have good grades, but i am a Very Chaotic student. if i could just sit down and complete assignments at a normal pace and with consistent motivation, what would i be able to achieve? would i be in a bunch of service organizations? would i be on student council? who knows?! i am darcy, and i am tied for valedictorian while never doing my homework. i don’t know how i do it either.

i’ve decided that i don’t like my confirmation name (octavian) as my middle name. i want to take my dad’s middle name, lamont. darcy lamont wheeler. it’s a super cool name, and it has Significance. our family is directly descended from the lamont clan in scotland. it’s also my grandmother’s maiden name, which i feel like makes sense because my dead middle name was her middle name. poetic justice. symmetry. i have come full circle.

hi! my name is darcy lamont wheeler.

darcy means “dark one.” i really, really like that. i like thinking that i am connected to the somewhat dark and eccentric. like the dresden dolls, or disturbing short stories. darkness adds complexity. nuance. background.

my favorite short story is “i have no mouth & i must scream” by harlan ellison. it is so completely terrifying, so beautifully disgusting, so brilliantly bizarre, so disturbingly ominous, and i have never read anything else that has come close to comparing. i love science fiction, especially dystopian ideas about technology advancing past the point of no return. it’s crazy to me that what could be considered mankind’s greatest achievement is so close to being our downfall.

everybody is awake now, and i hear them in the kitchen. i wonder when i stopped wanting to be awake. matthew and brianna seem to wake up as early as they can and fight bedtime until the absolute limit, as if they want to maximize the hours that they have each day. each morning is a new chance for fun. they don’t seem to resent life yet. i would rather be asleep instead of conscious most of the time. days are uniformly boring and miserable, with the rare diversion. why would i want them to be longer than they have to be? is this depression or is this just growing up? i can’t even tell anymore.

i missed amanda palmer’s birthday livestream yesterday, so i’m going to watch it today. two hours of her and her quarantine buddies sounds like heaven. this woman’s music quite honestly saved my life, and she is the epitome of badass!! i love amanda palmer. i wish i could write songs like she can.

on the topic of the dresden dolls, i asked brian viglione, the drummer, to “prom” as a pretense to ask him about his experiences as a musician, and for advice about how to develop my music. against all the odds, he accepted, so now, on may 9th at 8:00 pm, i am going to facetime with Brian Viglione, drummer for the dresden dolls and the violent femmes, among many others. life? made. i still can barely believe that this is actually happening!!

i came out to my english class, including ms. blaylock on tuesday. everybody reacted really well, and in that class at least, i get to go by my name and use my pronouns. i honestly couldn’t believe that i had the balls to tell anybody besides kai’s family, but i did, and it actually went well! the fact that there are people calling me darcy makes me so happy that i can’t even put it into words. it’s validating. i am darcy. not just when i’m by myself, but in real life. i am darcy.

is it weird that i’m not crippled by kai’s absence? i used to be an unproductive tangle of anxiety whenever mary was out of touch, even for a few hours. i was constantly worried that she was going to hurt herself, or that she was going to leave me. the thing is, even though i am in love with kai and i only thought that i loved mary because she was the first girl i was with, i don’t miss them to the point that i can’t function. i don’t think about them 24/7. i do miss them at times, and i cannot wait until we can talk again, but it’s not an all-consuming thing. i can go through my entire day without talking to them, no problem. night time is a little harder, but that’s because night is always when i go down spirals and rabbitholes. maybe this means that our relationship is healthy? co-dependency is a bad thing, i know, but i don’t know what a healthy relationship feels like since the only other experiences i’ve had (jack, mary, saanchi, rachel) have all been toxic in their own way.

one thing i have learned with kai is the importance of boundaries in a relationship. just because i love everything about them doesn’t mean that it’s healthy for us to share everything. there was a time where we were both in dark places and hurting, and when they shared what they did, it would set me off. the same went for them, i was using them as a journal too often, and the emotional burden had started to affect them. we had a conversation about this though, and established clear lines that we will not cross. it felt good to figure that out. i felt mature, looking out for my own needs and respecting kai’s. isn’t that how a relationship should work?

i love kai.

i’ve written a SHIT-TON. i think this is enough for now, but i might write another letter today. this was cathartic, and i feel like i’ve processed some shit as well as made a record for the future. i hope you weren’t bored or overwhelmed by my novel, darcy. i’m just writing what i feel is important, and i hope it’s still important to you.

signing off,

darcy lamont wheeler

[accio-ambition]

No Good Deed (3/15)

Summary: Killian Jones is a gentleman. He and his brother pride themselves on the matter, even if it ends with harm to them. So when an angry ex of Killian’s client bites him, he tends to the wound, watches it heal, and thinks no more of it.Until he wakes up in a closet on his ship with no memory of what happened the night of the full moon. Fleeing from the unknown, the brothers Jones find Storybrooke, and with it, Emma Swan, who is a lot more familiar with their situation than anyone could expect. And when an old foe comes to their new home, Killian has to rely on new talents to keep those he loves safe. Rating: M for language, violence, some sexual content. (better safe than sorry) Content warnings: violence

happy friday friends! time for another update, literally just in the nick of time (I PROMISE I’LL GET BETTER). anyway, hoping that the mods won’t hound me too bad about this chapter ;) as always, muchos gracias to Taylor aka @killiarious for her beta-ing skillz, @wellhellotragic for her art that I absolutely adore and will properly praise this weekend properly, and the mods at @captainswanbigbang who know what they’re doing and get me sucked into this project each and every time. :)

Ao3 if that’s the name of your game

Chapter Three

"Oy, Jones!"

Killian turns to see Gus running down the gangplank to catch him. He waits, though he's eager to get home, shower off today's grime, and settle down with a drink and the game of the night on the telly. In the few days since Gold’s attack, Killian’s been tired beyond belief. He’s also had more headaches, at least one a day, since the occurrence. It’s probably got something to do with the pills he’s downed to keep the pain of his bite at a minimum, or the lack of sleep caused by more frequent and vivid nightmares of that night.

All he wants to do is go home, but he waits for his coworker to catch up to him.

"I was hoping," Gus says, breathing deeply. Holding up a finger of pause, he bends over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. Killian does all he can to keep himself from rolling his eyes at the man's dramatic action - he's in fine shape, he shouldn't be this winded from a slight jog. When Gus finally believes himself to be ready, he straightens.

"Sorry. I was hoping you could cover me next Tuesday. It's the night shift, which I know you don't normally do, but my son placed in the science fair and I-"

Holding up his own hand in interruption, Killian says, "No worries, Gus. I've enough warning so I can stock up on sleep." Grinning, he holds his hand out for a shake, one that Gus gratefully takes part in. "Tell the lad good luck."

"With pleasure!" Chuckling to himself, Gus claps Killian on the shoulder. "Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver."

When the Tuesday in question comes around, Liam, the sodding fool, hands Killian a brown lunch sack as he's on his way out the door.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Killian asks. "I'm not in school anymore, or have you forgotten that?"

"It's dinner, you arsewipe," Liam explains, flopping on the couch. "Nothing's going to be open by the time you get hungry, so I made you a sandwich and threw in some pretzels if you get hungry in the meantime."

His brows furrowed and a slight frown on his lips, Killian unravels the opening of the bag to peer inside. As he said, Liam had packed a sandwich, a ziploc bag of pretzels, and what looks like some cookies wrapped in plastic.

"If I didn't know any better, brother, I would say that you have a heart."

Liam laughs, his head falling on the back of the couch. "It's been known to come to life every once in a while."

The television clicks on and Jeopardy appears on the screen as Killian throws on his jacket and boots. "You'll need your strength and wits tonight. Supposed to be a full moon."

"And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

"Crazies come out in droves." Killian's popping his collar when he catches Liam's eye. "And, you know, werewolves and such."

"Ah yes, such a prevalent problem in the post-Twilight day and age," Killian quips. His keys jingle when he snatches them from the ring they rest on. "Alright, I'm off. Don't wait up."

"I won't."

“Thanks for caring.”

“Never a problem.” Killian’s scoff is overwhelmed by the slamming of the door shutting behind him.

The public transport ride down to the harbor is never been particularly notable. The occasional dancing crew or street musician sometimes serenades his ride, but at this hour, everyone is heading away from the water, for the most part. Sure, there’s a couple dressed nicely further into the car, probably heading down for a dinner cruise along the river. Everyone else has got families to attend to, laundry to do, errands to run before the shops close in Midtown.

Killian spends his time thinking mostly unconsciously on his wound. Especially as he comes up from the underground station, something about the sea breeze makes Killian scratch his injury a little more forcefully than he probably should. It's been hurting over the past couple of days, a soreness and itch that he attributes to healing, but currently is at its worst yet. The skin’s scarred over, flaked off, and knitted itself back together, but it's still obvious that the crazy man broke quite deeply into the skin. Frankly speaking, he should’ve probably gotten stitches, but Liam’s first responder skills seemed to the job well enough.

Still, he probably should have gotten it checked out. But, as he’s grown to do, Killian ignores it, jogging across the street in the last seconds of the crosswalk timer without a second thought. Thatch’s office window is alight, second story of the marina office building, one in from the corner. It’s a little quirk he’s picked up over the years, checking to see if the boss man was in and what the chances were of any surprise inspections or visits before setting sail. When that happened, Killian could always makes out his pacing figure in the lit window.

The windows are empty now, void of any person or object moving or otherwise. He’s safe from any surprise scolding for the night.

He strolls down the docks, head down as he makes his way past the line of anxious travelers. He walks up the gangplank, nodding to the lads in the crew he recognizes and the odd passenger whose boarded early due to age or disability. He’d stop to chat with them all, but he hasn’t the time. Gus’ men are good men, Killian knows that, or otherwise Thatch wouldn’t have hired them in the first place. Killian just doesn’t know them as well as he knows his own crew, and therefore can’t guarantee that they’d do all the tasks needed to safely get across the Hudson. With a final itch at his injury, Killian sets off to check all the stations, make sure proper switches are flicked and such before settling in at the captain’s wheel for the evening.

After checking everything and requesting his second in command for the night, Tom, double-check behind him, Killian waves at the man on the gangplank to let the line file on and find spots on board. He closes the door of the helm behind him, ready to get going. The lights are dimmer up here to make sure sailors can see whatever lies beyond the ship. Others’ faces only illuminate due to the dashboard lamps and button lights. Killian checks the place over quickly before opening up a window and waiting for the signal that the ropes were untied and secured.

It comes in and Killian pulls away with ease despite the darkness falling around them.

With a contented sigh, he sets course for Union City.

They make it over uneventfully the first time, and then they make the return trip without consequence. But the third time, as the saying goes, is the charm.

It comes on suddenly, his migraine. He's been known to have them on occasion, but they're usually more gradual, his body having courtesy enough to give him a wee bit of warning before his head feels like it's about to split in two. But this one strikes him harder than the rest: even the deck lights from passing vessels and the dull dashboard blinkers are too bright, the few thoughts in his own head are yelps and howls, and that thoughtful dinner Liam packed him is more than threatening to make a reappearance.

"Sorry, lads," Killian groans, the mere movement of the ship and the action of speaking worsening his condition. "I need to take a minute."

"Go for it, Jones," Tom says, "people aren't supposed to be that color."

Barely able to nod, Killian blessedly wanders below deck, off to find some secluded corner of the ship that's dark, quiet, and hopefully has something he can lay horizontal across.

He hasn't felt this ill in ages. The last time it was this bad, he must have been in high school and, though he retains his youthful glow, that was easily a decade ago. Could it be food poisoning of some sort, he questions himself. Maybe Liam was finally sick of some of his more dickish tendencies and decided to off him.

When he finds a closet big enough for him to lie down on the floor, Killian is hobbling instead of walking. The clang of the closet door as it shuts behind him throws him to his hands and knees. For some reason, he looks up, his eyes caught by the light of the full moon shining through the porthole window above him. This light source - nature's nightlight, a guardian that used to calm him before closing the bedroom door and submerging a purely frightened Killian into darkness - seems to be the only one that doesn't bother his vision. Curious, Killian thinks, before his stomach rolls and causes him to curl into the fetal position.

There might be something impeding him from laying down, but he's too far gone to even bother. Eyes closed, Killian focuses on his breathing, hoping that maybe settling that will settle the rest of him.

It doesn't work much.

He might fall asleep, but it's fitful to say the least. The strangest dreams plague him. They're animalistic in nature, but, for some odd reason, he's on the water. It's sort of calming: even in his subconscious, the water has that affect, makes him stop whatever he's doing in the dream and take a breath. Somehow, he can even tell it's the Hudson, the very body of water his physical body sails across. It's something in the scent, the dirt and oil and rubbish that New Yorkers and New Jerseyans constantly bash it with.

(He's never been a huge believer in dreams having hidden meanings, but the appearance of this water makes him at least contemplate googling it.)

When he comes to, Killian feels oddly refreshed. It feels like he's gone on a run, one meant rid him of all the excess energy he sometimes has, and his muscles are beautifully sore. He goes to sit up and then the pleasant feelings he's got start to disappear. His back is blessedly achy, and when he twists around to see why, Killian finds a loose nail right where his right shoulder blade was. That, and the floor of the closet he's for some reason still in is pure metal.

"That can't be good," he mumbles to himself, his voice hoarse speaking about the errant screw. Clearing his throat, he notices it feels sore, as if he's coming down with strep or something similar, or like he'd spent the evening before shouting imitating his favorite screamo band's top hits.

(He doesn't have one. A favorite screamo band.)

Shaking his head, Killian glances out the porthole window. It's bright, but not too much so. "Early," he says to himself. Liam's going to be worrying: Killian should've been home a couple hours ago. The ship isn't swaying anymore, meaning they must be docked, probably fueling up for the day's cross-river trips.

Going easy on his body, Killian stands, brushing his clothes off. Or, he should say, what's left of his clothes. His pants stop at the knees now, tatters dangling from the fabric. There's also a rather sizable hole near the seam of his crotch that wasn't there when he boarded last night. Killian grabs at his shirt. Half of his left sleeve is missing, the skin showing scratched up and crusted over with dry blood.

"What the -" Searching his surroundings for any clue as to what might have happened or who might have attacked him in such an odd manner, Killian sees something curious. As he approaches the door to the closet, his hand reaches out to trace what looks like claw marks, deep ones, in the grain of the door. "Bloody hell."

Everything after that seems a little bit fuzzy, or at least that's what he'll tell the psychologist he'll definitely have to see because of this incident. In the moment, Killian is disoriented, sure, but more so, he's hyper aware of exactly everything that happens to him: the smell of the diesel filling up tank, the face of everyone he passes. The bracingly cool feel of the Hudson as he stumbles getting off the gangplank and trips into the water. Sand and sludge greet his feet, the water pretty shallow, thankfully, and after a quick scan, Killian swims to the closest ladder unharmed. Dripping wet and even more confused, he makes his way down the docks and back to land. He doesn't have the patience to deal with public transportation and, at this hour, it's run is limited, so he calls for a Lyft.

(Thankfully, working on and around the water for so long has taught Killian to invest in waterproofing his phone. His wallet, however, and the other various small things in his pockets aren't so lucky.)

Once safely back in the apartment, Killian leans against the front door, his head tilting back and his eyes sliding shut. His breathing is harsh. When he tries to remember what happened last night, his memories fail him. He knows he wasn't feeling well, had told the lads that he needed a lie down to get rid of a migraine. And then waking up this morning. Something must have happened in between the two memories, especially taking in to account the injuries and state of his clothing.

"Killian? Is that you?" Liam's voice breaks him from the point of falling apart. It sounds like he's in the kitchen, meaning it's early enough for him to be getting ready for work, but not so late that his brother's rushing out of the house. That's comforting.

Pushing off the door, Killian heads toward his brother, asking, "What time is it?"

"What time is...?" Liam's scoff turns into a chuckle as he comes into view. He's fixing a cup of coffee, back to Killian. He's got his police department shirt on, yet hasn't changed out of his pajamas pants. "Little brother, where the hell have you..." Turning around, Liam trails off. Killian can see his eyes widen. Placing his mug carefully on the counter, Liam rushes up to him. "Killian, what the bloody hell? Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" Killian laughs at the notion. Gesturing wildly, he adds, "Do I look like I'm alright?"

Liam's hands inspect the scratches on his arm, then frantically search the rest of his skin for marks. He finds some on his other arm, and even more on his neck, face, and calves. "What the fuck happened, Killian? Did you get in a fight?"

"No!" Running a hand through his hair, Killian sighs. He can feel his pulse speeding up again, and an irrational sense of anger and frustration wells up in him.

"Move," he growls at Liam. His brother takes a step back and watches him cautiously as Killian begins to pace.

When he calms down a bit, is more able to string words together sensibly, Killian breathes deeply and stops in front of Liam. "I don't know what happened," he tells him. "I was feeling ill around eleven, so I went to one of the closets to rest and I woke up this morning looking like this."

Liam's brow arches. "You woke up this morning in one of the closets looking like a drowned rat and smelling like sun-baked shit?"

"Ugh, no," Killian says, shaking his head emphatically, "I fell in the river trying to get back home."

Shrugging his shoulders, Liam makes a noise of understanding.

Killian grasps his brother's arms, forcing him to pay attention and focus. "Liam, I think something's wrong with me."

"I would be more concerned if you didn't believe there something to be wrong," he says.

Releasing himself from Killian's hold, Liam places a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"We'll figure it out together, little brother, worry not." He gives him a comforting smile and squeezes his shoulder gently. "But let's get you in the shower and then dressed in something clean. Then we'll figure out the rest in time."

0000

Confusion and slight trauma of blacking out aside, Killian recovers for the entire experience quite well. Nothing a shower, some sleep, and a bottle of rum couldn’t solve.

When he comes back to the Jolly Roger after a day off, Thatch, Gus, and the rest of the men welcome him back as if nothing had happened. They were worried for him, sure, but they thought he’d been struck by a bad 24 hour flu.

Killian asks Tom, Rob, and everyone else who was on the ship with him that night. All they could recall was him going down below complaining of a headache. No one saw him leave the ship, yet didn’t question it because, as captain, he was often the last one to leave as it was. No one checked on him, figuring that he would be angry if they woke him or would appreciate the chance to rest. It’s a wee bit disconcerting, but at least Killian can argue that his crew is thoughtful enough of his well being.

A few weeks go by with nothing unusual to report. Life goes on and on. Killian keeps reporting to the Jolly Roger, each time pushing away the concern of his blacked out night. Liam keeps his shifts at the station, sometimes staying on duty over 24 hours to follow that ‘good form’ he drilled into his younger brother. It’s not very often they get to share a meal together, but when they do, it’s over DVR-ed games and alcohol.

It’s the night before one of those nights - Killian’s off for the next couple days, but Liam’s working on his last graveyard shift of the week. Tomorrow, they’ll be able to spend the day together, or at least the afternoon depending on how late Liam decides to sleep, for the first time in a while. The forecast calls for rain - torrential downpours at times - so the chances of them spending all of their time in pajamas, probably unshowered, and a questionable amount of alcohol is quite likely.

Killian’s already preparing for it.

For his last night of solo freedom, he’s conquered the couch, sitting in the middle cushion and sprawled out. No cares. Chinese food on the coffee table and a beer in hand.

Save for the slight headache grinding his brain, the night is pretty perfect.

He’s zoned off enough to only catch the tail end of the local weather report, the meteorologist warning of thunderstorms and higher tides due to the full moon.

He rolls his eyes at the weather report, and instead, settles on a rerun of Friends, something familiar, funny, and mindless. If he falls asleep - a likely outcome, given the growing severity of his headache - he won’t feel like he missed out on anything.

(Liam never liked watching Friends, he was always more of a Seinfeld person, so that’s an additional reason to get in an episode while he can do so without complaints.)

Idly scratching the scar left Gold left behind, Killian relaxes on the couch, fixing his feet on the table. He takes a sip of his drink as one of the characters begins complaining about her hair. Throughout the first episode, he closes up his dinner and lays down on the couch. On about the fourth episode, his eyes begin to droop, his headache unwieldy. He stays conscious long enough to turn the volume almost all the way down, hoping that will help soothe his aching head, before fading off to sleep.

Shooting awake an hour and a half later, pain wrecks his entire body. Killian can’t help it: he howls. His headache is wreaking havoc, somehow having gotten worse as he rested. The grinding has evolved into pulsations and mumbling, incoherent voices and questions unanswered. His muscles feel like they’re ripping apart, the pain manifesting in another, longer howl. Waves hit him, radiating from his wrist, right where Gold bit him. The voices and noises he hears are getting louder by the minute. Thank gods Liam was working that night, though the same can’t be said for their neighbors. He’s definitely woken them: they might have already called the police or banged on their shared walls.

Despite his better judgement, Killian tries to stand from couch, immediately collapsing. His skin is too tight: he feels like he’s going to explode. His clothes already seem to be doing so, the seams of his sweatpants tearing and his shirt hanging from his shoulders.

He grasps for the coffee table, his fingers sinking into the wood like putty. His eyes shoot to his hand.

It’s not his hand.

Rationally, he knows it’s his hand, can feel the coffee table splintering beneath his grip, but it’s not his hand. It’s far too large, too hairy, too pawlike to even be human.

Pain ripples through him again, another wave curling him up on the floor. Whatever illness he has, or attack that’s struck him, is ending him. Killian is convinced this is how he dies, in the fetal position on his living room floor.

And then it’s done. The sinews of his muscles return to their spots. His organs have halted their threat of explosion. He is fine.

Except now his eye level barely reaches the top of the couch arm.

And something heavy hangs from his ass.

Panic starts to set in. Killian’s somehow shrunk, and the idea throws him off balance. He thumps into the couch seat, then slams into the destroyed coffee table. He looks down and, instead of seeing his knees and his bare feet as expected, he’s met with the floor.

And paws. Not paw-like hands. Paws.

His head whips over his shoulder. The heavy weight is connected to him, switching swiftly from side to side.

He’s got a tail.

“Oh fuck,” he says. But it doesn’t come out in words. It’s incomprehensible, something like a moan or a man without a tongue trying to speak.

There’s a banging on the ceiling that Killian can somehow differentiate from the nearly identical banging three floors door. It’s two couples having sex, the woman above him having a much more pleasurable time than the other. He’s not quite sure how he knows that, but he can pick up the hitches in her breath.

“FUCK!” Killian barks. An actual bark.

Before he’s sure he’s made up his mind, Killian’s barreling toward the front door. He needs to get out of here, but without opposable thumbs, he’s trapped. That flusters him even further, his tail wagging furiously and running him into the wall.

Killian tries to headbutt the door down to no avail. Anger floods him, brings a growl from the depths of his stomach in frustration. He pulls back, adrenaline coiling in the muscles of his legs, and jumps, throwing the whole of his body weight against the door. It budges, and with another, more forceful headbutt, the door gives, leading Killian to freedom.

He’s running: where, he knows not. Killian can already smell the dirt and garbage in the air from the stairwell. He hits the outdoors, the fresh air as stunning as the puddle of rain his paws splash in. The colors of neon business signs flash as he runs by them, the lights far too bright, and the noises he usually finds comforting enough to fall asleep to far too loud. He can hear the garbage truck six streets over, the drunk conversation in the pizza parlor on the corner of the block, the rumble of thunder rolling southeast. It’s overwhelming to the point of nausea.

That is until he reaches a wooded area. What little part of his rationality remains realizes he’s somehow made it to Central Park and over the fence. He’d made what was normally a 20 minute subway ride in maybe ten on foot. The pavement here smells differently, damp grass and dead leaves mingling and growing stronger in his nostrils. He slows down to a trot, his senses calming. He can feel his heartbeat slow, the adrenaline leaking from his muscles. The noises are quieter here, more natural. Nocturnal animals scurrying around in search of a meal. Zoo animals breathing deeply in sleep. The occasional couple passing on the outskirts of the park.

This is a side of New York no one really ever considers. Even as a self-professed New Yorker for life, Killian sometimes forgets how peaceful New York is at night, especially Central Park when it’s closed to the public eye.

It’s nice.

Breathing deeply through his nose, Killian lets out a contented sigh. A crack of wood to his left catches his attention, the noise far louder than he’s used to. It startles him. It startles him further when he can tell that, whatever creature broke the stick, is smaller than him.

And panicking because it knows it’s been heard.

Before he can realize what’s truly happening, Killian’s running. His breath comes hard and fast. His muscles stretch and contract more than he’s ever really realized possible. His legs feel stronger. There’s an ache in his shoulders he knows will be even worse come morning.

The animal’s a coyote, rare in the park, but not unheard of. It’s running, far and fast.

Killian’s faster.

He catches up to the creature in less than a half a mile, a good effort on both sides.

Unsure of killing it, Killian lets the animal in himself take over.

This primal side of him sated, Killian carefully ambles back to the apartment. He’s not quite sure what the hour is, but somehow knows it’s late enough to be considered early. He’s been out for far longer than he should have been. It’d be wise for him to watch where he strays. The last place he’d want to end this transformative night is the city pound, especially when he doesn’t know what might happen come sunrise.

(He hope he isn’t...whatever he is by sunrise. That’s put a damper in some plans.)

The front door is just as he left it, slightly unhinged, just as he feels. Killian crawls through the opening, his back bristling as the wood scratches his spine.

(Idly, he hopes he doesn’t have weirdly-placed splinters on his back tomorrow.)

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, hardly shining through the grates of the fire escape outside the living room when he settles on the couch. He’s got nothing left to do but wait out this demonstration. Might as well catch up on some sleep while he does.

Killian nods off, only to come to when a noise pricks at his ears.

Someone’s coming up the building stairs. The gait is somewhat familiar, heavy.

They stop on his floor. Killian’s hackles rise.

The person stops short of the apartment door. There’s a brief scuffling, as if the person is looking around. In his throat, Killian feels a slight hum rising.

And then the door creaks open.

“Who’s there?” Liam’s threatening voice startles him and brings a growl from the back of his throat. Killian can feel the noise reverberate off the walls of the apartment. He hops off the couch and stalks toward the front door, hiding in the shadows of the couch.

When his brother comes into view, it’s a little unnerving. The door fully pushed in, much more wonky than it was when Killian came back earlier in the evening. Liam’s off duty, yes, but he’s still got his badge and his gun, leading him into the apartment. His eyes search the opening area quickly, methodically, until they land on Killian. Liam’s eyes go wide in shock, his arms falling slightly. He’s scared and Killian isn’t quite sure why.

And then Killian realizes: he’s the reason Liam is so frightened.

Coming out of the shadows, Killian cautiously approaches his brother, looking him straight in the eyes. When he’s within reach, he knocks his head against Liam’s knees, hoping that, somehow, his brother will get the message.

“Hoooooly shit,” Liam breathes. His eyes, if possible, go even wider. In an instant, his arms fall to his side and the gun goes back in its holster. His brother runs his hands through his hair, the exhaustion already on his face further emphasized with messy hair. He cocks his head for a moment, something like recognition washing over his expression, before asking, “Killian, is that you?”

Killian nods. There’s a weird sensation occurring on his head, high above his brows. He’s felt this sensation earlier tonight, but not enough for him to question it. New muscles are stretching behind him, and Liam’s voice becomes a wee bit fainter. His brother holds up his hands. “Don’t be afraid.” Killian tilts his head up to match gazes. Liam points at his head. “Your ears are back.”

Killian grumps. This weird body he’s inhabiting is so unusual. He already tends to wear his heart on his sleeve and now, it seems, his thoughts bubble up in his ears or his hackles. Killian stalks around the apartment, back toward the cushions and destroyed coffee table. Liam follows, as evidenced by his footfalls. Killian leaps onto the couch and sits, staring at his brother as he observes the damage inflicted.

“Christ alive, you’re a fucking wolf,” he mumbles. “What the fuck happened here?”

When he opens his mouth to explain, Killian is unfortunately reminded that his vocal chords aren’t as advanced as he’s accustomed to. His words come out as whimpers and grunts. With a groan, Killian rolls his eyes.

Liam chuckles. “Right,” he says, “I suppose you can’t really tell me anything that happened.” Looking around the living room, he must come to the conclusion that nothing more can be said - or barked - on the matter.

“Just tell me this. It’s a simple yes or no question. Are you okay?” Killian nods, his tail wagging behind him.

Nodding, Liam scrubs at his forehead and mumbles, “Go to bed, Killian. Or go to your bedroom. You don’t have to sleep, but I do.” Sighing, Liam stands, his joints crunching in protest. “Just stay in your room until morning and then we’ll discuss options.” He glances toward Killian once more. “Hopefully it won’t be as one-sided as this conversation.”

Killian watches as Liam heads to his bedroom. He hops off the couch and trots up to his brother’s side, his haunches coming up to Liam’s hips. Hoping his brother perceives it as the sign of affection it’s meant to be, Killian knocks his head against Liam’s knees again.

Liam chuckles, reaching his hand down to pat Killian’s head. “I know, brother,” he says.

“Don’t stress about things you don’t understand and can’t fix at the moment. Try and rest.” With a brush of Killian’s ears and a final pat to the head, Liam smiles tiredly and heads off to his room.

Following suit, Killian lopes into his own bedroom, bed still made from this morning and his sleep clothes still folded on the dresser. Unsure of what state he might be in come morning, all Killian can do is jump up on the bed, circle a spot in the center and plop down, his head resting on his paws. All he can do is close his eyes and hope that he can find some sleep and some answers tomorrow.

0000

A cold breeze wakes Killian. It runs over his shoulders, his bare back, and over his ass. He shivers so violently that his eyes shoot open and he inhales deeply and suddenly.

He’s caddywompus on the mattress, one foot hanging off one edge, a forearm and both hands hanging off the other. But they’re human hands, not paws anymore. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Killian takes a quick inventory. He’s naked, his clothes from last night mostly likely in tatters on the living room floor next to the destroyed furniture. He’s cold, yes, but goosebumps cover his skin, not his fur. All of his parts are in place and, save for a few scratches and bruises on his calves and arms, he’s unharmed.

Cautiously standing, his muscles scream from overexertion. Killian rifles through his drawers for some of his less-loved clothes just in case a repeat of last night occurs. Once clothed, he stretches further, reaching a high as he can and moaning.

Last night was interesting, to say the least. He remembers everything that happened, thankfully, and the migraine that preceded yesterday’s events has since disappeared.

That’s promising.

Shuffling out of his room, still a little disoriented, Killian makes his way into the kitchen. Liam stands at the counter, pouring out his own mug of coffee.

“Morning,” Killian grumbles, squinting at the light from the windows and the gravel in his own voice.

Liam glances over his shoulder with a chuckle. “Oh good,” he says. “I was wondering whether I’d have to go out and get some kibble for you, but it looks like you can find some breakfast on your own now.”

“Yeah, opposable thumbs are quite the invention.” He opens the cabinet and pulls out a coffee cup. He fills it to the brim before replacing the pot and taking a healthy swallow.

Turning to Liam, mug wafting steam up his nose, Killian asks, “How did you know it was me and not some stray dog?”

“Eyes,” Liam says solidly, pointing to his own. “I raised you, little brother. I’d know the family trait if I were blind.” Walking to the living room, Liam gestures for Killian to follow. He does, naturally, only to see the destruction from last night cleaned up. Liam sits on the couch as if nothing were unusual. “What happened, Killian?” he asks.

“I…” Clicking his tongue, Killian sits down on the other side of the couch. “I’m not quite sure. I think,” but that can’t be right, could it, “I think I ran to Central Park.”

Liam chokes, spitting his coffee messily back into his mug. “Excuse me?”

Killian shrugs. “It would explain the unhinged door.” The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure that it’s the only logical explanation. “Yeah. The noises on the street, the lights.” He looks up. “It was a lot to take in.”

“What happened in the park?” Liam inquires.

“Nothing.” Eyebrows furrowed as he mentally reviews what he did, Killian tilts his head.

“It was quite lovely, actually. It was quiet and dark. I got to hunt. No one bothered me.”

“I should think not,” Liam says. “Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t paying them much attention.” He’s pretty sure no one saw him, though the more he ponders on the topic, the more concerned he grows. Matching his gaze with his brother’s, Killian professes, “We can’t stay here, Liam.”

“I agree.” Killian leans back against the couch arm, confused.

Liam shrugs, pointing toward the door. “What? You were a goddamn wolf mere hours ago! We live in one of the most populated cities in the entire world.”

Setting his cup down on the floor, Liam rests his elbows on his knees, fingers templed over his mouth. “Look, I know human you has a heart of gold, but how am I supposed to know that animal you won’t attack someone in the building or on the street?”

“I didn’t this time, did I?” Killian responds petulantly.

“Beginners’ luck, I guarantee it.”

“Technically, this would be my second time going through this transformation.”

“Killian, you don’t remember the first time this happened and you wrecked this place the second.” He has to concede: Liam does have a fair point. “Come now, let's get some food and then we can start looking for a new town.”

As his brother stands, Killian looks into his mug. The liquid is muddy, just like his mind. There’s so much running through it - transforming, ruining furniture, searching for a new home. He feels slightly hungover. Still, Killian hangs his head, bringing his cup down to his lap.

“I’m sorry, brother,” he apologizes morosely. His voice is soft, but he knows from years of experience that Liam’s listening.

“For breaking so much of this shitty furniture?” Liam asks with a chuckle. There’s a clink signaling he’s put his mug in the sink. “We’re due for some adult digs.”

“No, not that,” Killian says, standing himself. “You know how much I hated this table.” He makes his way back to the kitchen, pouring himself another cup unlike his brother.

“This is home. This is where we became a family again. This is our safe haven and I’ve ruined it.”

Liam’s shoulders sag as he sighs. “No you haven’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “We are home when we are together. Don’t ever forget that. The weather, the city, the blasted kitchen table might change, but our love for one another never will.”

His hand falls on Killian’s shoulder. He squeezes comfortingly, drawing his attention. “I love you, Killian. I don’t say it often, but I do. We’ll find a new place to settle and we will figure out this Twilight thing of yours.” Lightly punching him on the arm, Liam laughs.

“This is the weirdest way to reveal which side of that fight you’re on.”

Killian scoffs, pushing his brother away. “Team Jacob for the win,” he says half heartedly. That makes Liam guffaw, bending at the waist to help get air in his lungs.

“Shut up. You’re only laughing because you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I won’t pretend to.” He’s still laughing as he heads back to his room. “Get yourself together. We’ve got a long day of finding a house ahead of us.

[yuki-setsu]

[New] Painful Nights, Sleepless Awakenings

hi hello please accept this while i meager up the strength to finish up my WIP;;; wrote this for an event called Langst Palooza (@langstpalooza), so take the chance to check out the other great works people will be putting out!!

there should be 4 chapters and i’ll be posting every friday until it’s complete ^^ (lord i hope the cut works i don’t want to clog people’s dashes T__T) 

it’ll also be updating on AO3 if you read on there! the full collection for the stories that’ll be part of this event can also be found here! 😃

Summary: A potential alliance gone wrong lands Lance at the receiving end of a curse that makes him experience unbearable pain whenever he tries to sleep. Unfortunately, trying to shrug it off and deal with it on his own might bring consequences that become too heavy to bear.

Forging alliances usually went smoothly.

It tended to be a simple affair: make contact with a peaceful planet with the intent of bringing them under the protection of Voltron, and then go for a face-to-face meeting once they got approval to land. Some took more persuading than others, having faced the horrific realities of Galra strikes and the Empire's suffocating influence. But most of the time, they came around and things were resolved amicably, sometimes even with a celebration.

Lance found the planet of Xa'Qar nice. Kind of dreary and too warm at first glance, but he thought the tranquil and steady ambience was comforting. It reminded him of days where he napped on the beach back on Earth, the sun soaking warm rays in his skin and the waves crashing in his ears.

He glanced around at the looming tree-like plants that seemed to span the entirety of the area the team was passing through. The Xa'Qans had agreed to meeting for a possible alliance, and Allura had landed the Castle in the one open patch of land they could find closest to the small village the species resided in. The planet was like a big, warm jungle. Except all of the trees were as tall as redwood, and weird yellow ginkgo-looking leaves covered every inch of what would usually be bark.

“These things look like huge, fluffy French Fries,” Lance said, reaching out a hand to gingerly touch the leaves of another tree they passed.

“They are called Zensag.” The Xa'Qan replied. A guide had been waiting for the team at the landing point, calmly greeting them before guiding them down a path towards their civilization. “They grow even without direct care from us, but they provide much to our people. Their leaves are used with other ingredients for effective remedies, their wood helps us create our homes, and they bear fruit that can feed many.”

“They look incredible.” Allura chimed in politely, earning a small nod from the guide.

Lance hummed, lightly bumping shoulders with Hunk once in a while as they walked side-by-side down the path. Shiro, Keith, and Pidge were walking just ahead, but they trekked on silently, too exhausted for small talk. There had been an Galra raid in the middle of the night on a planet not too far from Xa'Qar and two other separate emergencies throughout the day before they'd finally come here in the evening for the alliance talk, leaving most of them running on—at most—5 hours of sleep. No one was really in the mood to expend any more unnecessary energy.

“We are here,” the guide announced, stopping in front of a large arch, a clear division between the end of the forest and the beginning of the Xa'Qan's home. The houses, needless to say, were... yellow. Turns out the wood of the Zensag were as bright as its leaves.

For some reason, the guide chose to wait until they all navigated to the small hut in the heart of the city to announce that the leader preferred to have small company during negotiations, resulting in just Allura and Shiro heading inside to talk. The rest of them were told that they could “explore the village as they wished”, but the guide hesitated for a moment before adding, “we advise that you disregard anything the witch doctor says should she approach you.” They ducked inside the hut before anyone could fully process the statement.

Lance had no idea what they meant, and quite frankly, the words sounded a bit worrying despite the calm and brief manner in which the warning was delivered. How were they supposed to even know who the witch doctor was, anyways? He doubted this planet held the same stereotypical interpretation of what a witch was imagined to look like back on Earth, with her green skin, pointed hat, and smoking cauldron. He leaned over to voice the question to the team, but found that everyone else had already dispersed. Pidge and Hunk were busy fawning over a snack offering of what looked like warm biscuits brought over by a young Xa'Qan, and Keith had opted to linger and keep watch near the leader's hut, so Lance headed over towards a pair of Xa'Qans that were quietly watching under the shade of another home.

“How are you?” He started brightly, keeping what he felt was an appropriate distance for a first encounter. “The name's Lance, also known as the incredible Blue Paladin of Voltron. But the pleasure's mine.”

The pair seemed to neither accept or reject his introduction, simply staring at him with their hazel eyes. All of them seemed to have the same eyes, he realized—piercing but accented against the dark brown of their skin. The only thing that distinguished them—asides from their outfits—were their ears, which looked like the equivalent of large, floppy dog ears that drooped down to brush against the top of their shoulders. The color of their ears seemed to differ with each Xa'Qan, even similar shades having a slightly different hue.

The extended silence had Lance shifting uncomfortably. “Uh, sorry. Was that rude?”

One of the Xa'Qans finally responded with a slight shake of their head, donning a small grin as their gray ears jostled with the movement. “It was not. We have just not met an outsider who acts as... familiarly as you.”

“Oh.” Lance smiled again, the tension in his shoulders receding. “Well, when it comes to making conversation, you can say I'm the best Paladin for the job. Love the planet, by the way. Very, uh, yellow and warm.”

The green-eared Xa'Qan straightened slightly, perking up at his words. “We take very good care of it, and it us. We let the trees grow and prosper throughout the days, and we work in the nights to harvest and collect wood.”

Lance tilted his head. “Wow, busy workers. When do you all sleep, then?”

It was the gray-eared Xa'Qan's turn to puff up their chest, a smug look on their face. “We do not need sleep to function. We are always awake.”

Lance blinked, not sure if he heard right. “You...don't sleep? At all?” His eyes widened at their nods, a smile growing on his own face. “You don't feel tired ever? That's insane! In a good way, I mean!”

“The most exhaustion we will feel is from overwork, but that is easily overcome by sitting for a short time and eating to regain energy.” The green-eared Xa'Qan was speaking animatedly, her eyes shining. “After so many tries, we can finally use every dobash possible to commit ourselves to prospering as a village.”

The question was already lodged in Lance's throat, and he couldn't stop himself from asking. “Wait, 'so many tries'? Does that mean your species wasn't born not needing sleep?”

The conversation reached a lull, neither of the Xa'Qan's scrambling to speak this time. They exchanged a quick glance before the gray-eared one cleared their throat. “You could say it was an...improvement. Our village gained the ability through the mixture of an herbal concoction and some...witchcraft.” Their face grew dark at the last word, and Lance had the nagging sense not to press further on the subject.

But before he could even find a topic to switch to, another voice rang out from the side, low and ragged. “Not witchcraft, but magic.” He glanced over to see a small hooded figure standing a good few feet away, their form hunched and obscuring their appearance completely. “Good magic, bad magic, stolen magic.”

One of the Xa'Qan let out a noise of disgust, and Lance looked to see them already inching away from the newcomer. They met Lance's gaze, giving him a curt nod before turning in the opposite direction. “We will be leaving now. Be well, Blue Paladin.” They left almost too quickly, heading towards the middle of the village where Hunk and the others still were.

Lance stared at their retreating figures, a bit dumbfounded before he blinked and turned back around to see if the figure was still there. They were, and even though their head was ducked, Lance felt like their eyes were trained solely on him. It was an uncomfortable sensation that crawled up his spine like spiders.

“Blue Paladin,” the figure croaked, as if they hadn't spoken properly in ages. “Blue. You are indeed blue. Come a little closer.”

He took a step forward reflexively before freezing, a bit of uncertainty tickling his chest. “Uh, are you... Are you the witch doctor?”

“I am no witch.” The form hissed, practically bristling under the large robe. “I am a doctor, yet they call me a witch. Even though they live this way due to me.”

'Disregard anything the witch doctor says should she approach you', the guide had said.

Lance shifted his weight from side to side, not knowing how to exactly approach the situation. After a few seconds, he opted to smile, trying to look as friendly as he could. “Okay, doctor it is. I'm guessing you mean you were the one who helped them achieve this 'no sleep needed' thing?”

For a moment, the figure didn't respond. But then she straightened up, letting her hood fall back to reveal an aged face lined with wrinkles and black ears. Even with that appearance, Lance had a feeling that she was even older than she seemed. But what unsettled him the most was her expression. It was angry, haunted, bitter—a stark contrast from the peaceful and quiet vibe the other Xa'Qan's gave off.

“Yes. My biggest accomplishment, my biggest mistake.” She growled, creeping closer. Lance fought down the urge to back away, although he was ready to bolt for it if things got out of hand. “Do not trust this village. They took everything from me for themselves.” She was right in front of him now, her height just barely reaching up to his chest.

“Lance, whatcha doing over there?” Hunk's voice drifted in before he draped an arm over Lance's shoulders, happily oblivious. “Look, you gotta try this Zensag bread. I swear it tastes like oatmeal cookies.” His voice tapered off for a second, realizing Lance hadn't been alone. “Oh. Hello.”

Lance took the bread from Hunk's hand, choosing to save it for later. “Thanks, buddy. This is, uh, the village doctor? Hey, did you know that they don't—”

“What do you seek on this planet?” The Xa'Qan cut in, voice low.

The question threw both Lance and Hunk for a loop. Lance couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a trick question, or if she genuinely had no idea why they were here.

Hunk recovered first, a confused noise at the back of his throat. “Um, Voltron's alliance with this planet, I guess? I mean, the Princess and our leader are still in talks with your leader, but yeah.”

The witch-doctor's eyes flashed, an almost deadly look creeping across her face. “You wish to ally with this village? They will only take. Never give. Bad beings. If you negotiate with them, you are no better than they.”

Lance straightened up slightly, suddenly glad Hunk was there with him as support. “Look, I don't know what you have against the village, but Voltron just wants to provide protection for the planet should it ever come under threat by the Galra.” He could feel Hunk's hand still on his shoulder, the slight anxiety dancing off his fingertips. “We fight the bad guys, defend the universe, all that jazz.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, and her face twisted into one of raw anger. “You wish to protect them? Then you are even worse.” Her hand whipped out, reaching for Lance's wrist. “You will regret saying such vile words.”

Her fingers had barely brushed the top of his armor, and it should have been impossible for him to feel the fleeting contact at all. But he felt it, a slight twinge sparking across the area like a burst of static electricity, as if she'd touched his bare skin. It wasn't painful, but Lance jerked his arm back in surprise. Hunk jumped at the movement, already stepping backwards as he used his arm to drag Lance with him.

“Uh, I think I hear our teammates calling us.” Hunk laughed nervously, voice high. “We'll be leaving now.”

The witch-doctor said nothing as Hunk led Lance away, although the boiled anger in her gaze already spoke plenty. Lance finally forced himself to turn around, swallowing down the mild panic that had been rushing up his throat as they reached the front of the leader's hut again. Keith was still propped against the yellow home, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. He raised an eyebrow when the two approached, but he said nothing as Hunk came to a stop, letting out a large sigh.

“That was... kinda creepy.”

Lance nodded, the spot on his armor that the Xa'Qan had touched feeling...oddly exposed, even though his armor was still fully covering what it should. He couldn't understand why she'd been so angry, but suddenly, this planet started feeling a bit more unpleasant than peaceful.

There was movement out of the corner of his eye before someone snatched at the bread that had still been lying in Lance's hand. He glanced over to catch Pidge shoving the last few bits into her mouth, a triumphant grin on her face.

“You snooze, you lose. Should've eaten it when you had the chance.” She sing-sang. Her smile faltered slightly when she caught Lance's expression. “Did something happen?”

A door opened before he could reply, and all eyes landed on Allura and Shiro as they made their way back out of the hut. Allura was smiling, but the strain in it was poorly hidden. Shiro hadn't even bothered, looking more than a bit disgruntled as he followed behind her. No Xa'Qan accompanied them out.

“Paladins,” Allura started, her voice excessively upbeat. “Let us head back to the Castle. We will debrief once we've taken off.”

From the looks of it, the talks clearly didn't go well. Everyone followed along silently, and Lance took a chance to see if the witch-doctor was still there as they headed back towards the forest. She wasn't.

By the time everyone had filed into the Castle, Allura had stopped looking cordial, a scowl on her face as she set the ship for a course back up into space. They were gathered on the bridge, standing awkwardly with Coran as they waited for a sort of explanation, one Shiro clearly wasn't tripping over himself to offer.

“So...” Hunk said slowly. “The alliance...?”

“Is not happening.” Allura answered flatly. “Our ideals and methods simply did not align, so it was bound to not reach fruition.” She turned around at the heavy silence, an apologetic smile on her face. “Do not be too down. Our goal is still the same. We will continue to expand Voltron's protection with planets that seek our help. We are not guaranteed to be accepted by all of them.”

“The Princess is right,” Coran piped up brightly. “We've all had a long day, I think we all deserve a good rest for now. Good work today, Paladins.”

The team mumbled in acknowledgment before they all headed towards the kitchen for some food. They'd been so busy that they'd barely eaten all day. But somehow, Lance somehow didn't feel that hungry. His mind kept flashing back to that witch-doctor, so resentful and overflowing with anger. His wrist tickled again, but he ignored it.

That night, Lance woke up to the worst pain he'd ever experienced in his life. It was like knives scraping at the insides of his body, the pain radiating throughout so violently it jolted him out of the slow tendrils of sleep in an instant. He pushed himself upright, practically tearing both the eye mask and headphones off and tossing them to the side in his panic. What was hell?

His head felt like it was threatening to split open any second, not helping the almost burning sensation that was dragging across the rest of his body. But as soon as it started, it seemed to ebb away, like a slow and receding tide. He doubted it at first, thinking that the pain was just so great it was numbing out his senses, but no, it was definitely going away. It didn't take more than 30 seconds before Lance was sitting in the dark with nothing but a cold sweat and slight shudders that ran down his skin with each heavy breath. His throat felt raw. Had he screamed? He couldn't remember.

Blue was fuzzy in his mind, her concern washing over him. He glanced down, placing a shaky hand against his chest where the pain had felt the greatest. Then checked under his shirt to make certain that he didn't actually have some sort of injury. There was nothing, and Lance was starting to think he just had some sort of crazily realistic nightmare. That had to be it—there was no other explanation.

His heart rate was still well above the norm by the time he'd retrieved his eye mask and Pidge's headphones (they hadn't broken, thankfully—Pidge would've killed him), and he opted for a few breathing exercises before he let himself lie back down.

The second time around, he woke up to the same excruciating pain almost immediately, and this time he didn't even have the energy to sit up and recover his senses. He pressed his face against the pillow, screaming into it as his hands gripped at the fabric so tightly it might have torn. But the same thing was happening. The moment his mind began to jolt awake and reorient itself, the pain was already beginning to fizzle out like a dying flame. Only when it seemed to have completely disappeared did he finally release his death grip on the pillow, rolling onto his side. The headphone pressed uncomfortably against his ear, and he took them off a bit more gently this time, placing them next to him as he removed the eye mask and blinked blearily at his darkened room.

Something was wrong. He had no idea what was going on. Was he sick? He felt fine now, though. Shaken up, but fine. He pushed himself upright again, pressing his hands gingerly against his stomach. Felt it rise with each unsteady breath he took. Why did he feel so normal now? All he could remember was waking up both times to—

He blinked. Now that he thought about it, the pain left nearly as soon as he woke up. As if it only seemed to trigger once he fell asleep. A shudder passed through his body, settling into an uneasy weight in his chest. That almost sounded like a curse...

An image of the witch-doctor flashed through his mind for a quick second, but he swallowed down the sudden panic. No, he was overthinking this. It sounded crazy. It was crazy. Even still, his stomach lurched at the idea of trying to go to sleep again, of having to relive that sort of rude awakening a third time.

He didn't sleep that night, sitting against the wall of his bed as he thought about blue oceans and orange sunsets.

                                                        (Hour 28)

All-nighters never came easy for Lance. Sleep was important—vital—both for healthy skin and a healthy mind. If given the chance, Lance avoided all-nighters like the plague. Usually, it never came to that extreme, and he always managed a few hours of sleep in between late night Galra attacks and distress calls from nearby planets. But as morning crept around, Lance wondered how Pidge managed all of her sleepless nights. His body felt particularly heavy as he slumped against the wall, wishing he could sink into his bed and be wrapped into a warm cocoon. It was so tempting, the idea of curling back under the blankets and drifting off, even though it was the completely wrong time to do so.

Lance sighed, pushing himself onto his feet as he rubbed at his eyes. The room's lights felt brighter than usual—he'd turned them on halfway through the night to keep himself awake—and he trudged to the bathroom with heavy steps.

What was wrong with him? He had no idea, and he had no idea how to explain to anyone if he tried to bring it up. He hurt whenever he tried to fall asleep? He didn't know how to describe it if anyone asked; the sensation felt too visceral in a way that words seemed to fall short of portraying it accurately. Maybe it was just a psychological thing. But how does he fix something like that?

He figured it might wear off. He hoped, at least. Then maybe later through the day, he'd be able to nap without any of his current worries. It sounded optimistic, almost too optimistic, but Lance was desperate for anything that would help him get through the day. Hopefully they wouldn't have to do anything that required a lot of concentration—he could barely focus on one thing at a time.

After he'd gotten ready and headed down for breakfast, he wasn't surprised to see he was the last one to arrive. The others were already seated, in various stages of finishing their bowl while they shared idle chatter amongst themselves. Hunk was the first to catch his eye when he walked in, his smile slipping into something more concerned by the time Lance got close enough to slide into the seat next to him.

“Dude...” Hunk started hesitantly. “You look kinda...”

“Terrible?” Lance supplied, eyes shut as he slumped against the chair. “Worse for wear? Like a dried up plant?”

There was a small clatter, and Lance peeked an eye open to see Hunk grabbing a bowl that Shiro passed over the table before placing it in front of his seat. “Yeah, basically,” Hunk said, a slight grin on his face. “Trouble sleeping last night?”

The question brought back the current reality of his situation back with startling clarity, jerking Lance out of his drowsiness. He straightened up, grumbling as he reached for the bowl of space goo. “Don't get me started. I didn't sleep at all.”

Across the table, Pidge made a slight noise, almost surprised. “You pulled an all-nighter? That's new.” She'd already finished her bowl, one hand propping her head up as she stared at him lazily. One look was enough for him to tell that she didn't get much sleep, either. Although that was probably out of poor life choices, not whatever he was dealing with. “What were you doing up?”

Lance picked at his bowl, his appetite failing to rouse him enough to eat. He could hardly remember last night, his memory a blur of bright lights and hazy thoughts. It was exhausting just to try and recall the past few hours, so he gave up, opting to focus on the weird texture of the food in his bowl as he mixed the spoon around. It was gross, but it kept him awake.

“Uh, hello?” Hunk's voice suddenly cut in, and Lance startled at the hand waving in front of his eyes. “Earth to Lance? Don't tell me you fell asleep.”

Lance blinked, looking up to see the rest of the table had quieted down, all staring at him after Hunk's question. He felt the heat rising to his face, shaking his head as he sat up, the spoon all but abandoned in his bowl. “I didn't, I was just... thinking. I probably just had trouble sleeping because I wasn't feeling that great last night.”

Hunk's brow furrowed, eyes scanning even more closely. “Maybe you're sick?” He raised a hand towards Lance's forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

Lance batted the hand away, clicking his tongue. “I'm fine. No fever. Not sick. Nada. Don't mind me.”

“We will be training around one varga after we finish eating and preparing,” Allura said, watching him carefully. “Are you sure you will be alright?”

Just the thought of having to train had his body groan with exhaustion, but Lance forced himself to nod, a tight smile on his face. “Don't worry, Princess. Nothing I can't handle. Appreciate the concern, though.”

He was glad no one pressed much further, although Lance grew acutely aware of the subtle glances people threw his way, as if they were expecting him to fall asleep in his food. Not a far off possibility, but Lance wasn't going to let that happen. The last thing he needed was to wake up screaming in the middle of breakfast and freak everyone out. So Lance ignored the fatigue pressing at the back of his eyes, shoveling down a few spoonfuls of food at Hunk's insistence.

He'd deal with it after training.

[barryjaybluejeans]

Baby ’s first TAZ fic!  Inspired by this actual news story. Shout-out to @fridge246 for being a wonderful beta!

Spoilers through the whole mini-arc-pilot-thing.

Kirby found the woman seated in a booth by the door of the little coffee shop in downtown Kepler, just where they had agreed to meet. In the small room, empty but for her and a few of the sleepy town's residents out for lunch, she was easy to spot.

The woman looked, in two words, fancied up. Artificial tan and frosted tips, and cosmetics applied with surprisingly artful hand. She looks just as put together as she did in all the photos he found while researching her story online; the more recent photos, anyway. It was clear she had made special changes in her appearance lately, the way a person does when they are trying to impress a certain someone.

And, Kirby thought, eyeing her tee-shirt which bore the iconic silhouette of Sasquatch on the front, he had a pretty good idea who that someone was.

“Renee?” Kirby asked, shifting his laptop bag under one arm to free his right hand.

She smiled broadly, flashing teeth that matched her french-tipped nails. “Got it in one. You’re the man from the Lamplighter? Kirby?”

They shook hands, exchanging a few more pleasantries as Kirby settled himself across from her. He pulled out his equipment—notepad, pencils, an old-school recorder.

“I ordered a pot of coffee,” Renee was saying, “just before you got here. We can have the waitress bring another mug for you, if you’d like?”

“Yeah, sounds fine. The food isn’t the greatest here, honestly, but it makes for a quiet place to meet. Do you mind if we get started right away?”

Renee’s eyes were all but sparkling with eagerness. “Absolutely not!”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, and switched on his recording. “I’m sitting with Renee Lesky, the former stay-at-home mother of two, and current Bigfoot enthusiast.”

“I prefer cryptid activist,” she interrupted.

“Of course. Renee, your life, uh, has taken a significant change in the last several months. You’ve already discussed this with other...news outlets, but if you don’t mind, could you explain for our readers how that all started? What set you to become a...an activist?”

She leaned forwards, hands clasped under her chin. Kirby could have sworn she was pausing for dramatic effect, and he made a note to work that in somehow when he wrote this whole thing up. In a voice heavy with importance, Renee said into the recorder, “ I met Bigfoot.”

“She’s loony-tunes.”

Kirby double-clicked his pen, held at the ready over his notebook. “Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, eying Ranger Newton.

Behind his desk, the man was scowling up a storm, and that expression was only made worse by the dark, heavy bags under his eyes and the patches of scruff on his typically clean-shaved face. It didn’t take an investigative journalist to see that the man was in a bad mood, and probably had been for at least a few days.

If he would have known the Newton would be like that, Kirby would have stopped by the ranger shack another day. He had been tempted to just leave when he first arrived, but it had been weeks since he first tried to get a few answered questions out of him about the Lesky-Bigfoot situation, and this could be his only chance to corner the man. Even all his wheedling at Ned Chicane, who was friends with Newton, hadn’t been enough to help arrange a meeting.

“Professionally,” Newton said, “the parks department respectfully disagrees with Ms. Lesky’s enthusiastic but ill-informed beliefs.”

“Uh-huh.” Kirby jotted that down. Shame. He might still work in the phrase loony-tunes and figure out a way to give the same punch without truly being a quote.

Frankly, Kirby had to agree with his original assessment. Renee was at best overly enthusiastic, at worst...well. There was a word for people who called furred creatures “majestic” in such breathless tones. But, Kirby was used to the crazies and the frauds and the “enthusiastic, but ill-informed”—he had built the Lamplighter on not only working with them, but preaching to them.

No, he wasn’t bitter about that. Yes, there might have been a time when he once believed the wild stories told by people just like he had become, but he was older now. Kirby had accepted the cold, hard, cryptid-less facts of reality.

“Ms. Lesky says that the parks department denies it was a cryptid. Is that right?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“So, what do you think that is in her footage?”

“It was a bear. I told Ms. Lesky that, just as I’m tellin' you now, just as I’ll tell anyone else who comes ‘round here asking.”

Kirby glanced down at highlighted note from his interview with Renee. “She claims that the parks service won’t admit she capture footage of a bigfoot because, quote, ‘the government is conspiring to control, both the knowledge available to folks and this majestic being living out in the wilds of Kepler.’ End quote.”

Newton stared at him.

Kirby threw up on hand. “Her words! The Lamplighter does not endorse those views.”

“Right.” He leaned forwards and rested his arms on the desk, his chair squeaking under him. “I can safely promise you, Mr. Kirby, that I am not a part of any government conspiracy. And I’m for sure not following government orders to hide animals from the public.

“I have an appreciation for flora and fauna—they’re precious things, and with the dangers facing their dwindling numbers, no on would be more happy to discover new critters runnin’ around in the woods than me or my fellow rangers. I would love it if this were somethin’ other than your average black bear. But it ain’t.”

He rose from the desk, and although Duck Newton wasn’t a tall man, he had this presence that seemed to loom over the room. It was unsettling. Kirby tried not to squirm in his seat.

Newton reached behind him to grab the hat hung from a row of hooks on the wall, then stepped towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me Mr. Kirby, as delightful as this has been, I’m scheduled for patrol right ‘bout now.”

Kirby tucked away his notebook and stood. “Right. If you see anything strange out there, you know who to call,” he joked.

Newton smiled serenely. “I do believe I do.”

As the afternoon slowly turned towards the cool of evening, Kirby retreated to the Cryptonomica and its modem. Stepping inside the shop was almost worse than the muggy summer outdoors had been. Last month, the AC had quit, and Ned Chicane was still figuring out a way to get it fixed without spending the money it would cost. None of the windows could open all the way. And even when they did manage to slide one up an inch, letting in a faint trickle of air, that only managed to stir up the dust that seemed to perpetually coats the racks and displays inside. It stuffy, hot, smelt of old taxidermy, and all around uncomfortable.

But, there was internet and a steady supply of caffeinated beverages. Kirby could make do.

He pulled out his notes from the interview with Newton. It was probably for the best that he hadn’t been able to convince the ranger to let him record the meeting; there hadn’t been anything sensational, anyway, and this way he wouldn’t have to re-listen to and transcribe half-an-hour of audio.

Spreading his material out on the little corner table he had claimed as his station, he set to work. The Lamplighter blog didn’t need an update until Monday, but if he wanted to have the edition out for sale in the store, he would need to turn the copy in bright and early Friday morning. Which was tomorrow.

Well, he had at least six hours.

Behind him, there was a muffled thump and rustling, then the squeak of an unoiled door and heavy footsteps. He didn’t need to turn to know that it was Ned Chicane, emerging from his “secret” back room with what the shopkeeper probably imagined was an air of mystery.

“Ah, you’ve returned from your journalistic pursuits, I see.”

“Yep,” Kirby answered, popping the last syllable. He didn’t look up from his work.

“Are...you still doing that piece about the old bat with the, uh, thing for our legendary friend?”

“Mmhm. Same as I have for the past month.”

“Oh, yes. I haven’t forgotten! I just...wondered, I suppose, if you had changed your mind about using that particular set of events.”

Kirby typed the last few words of a sentence, letting his fingers hit the keyboard with a series of hard click-clacks . Then he paused. He ran a hand through his hair as he turned, and he eyed Ned. Who was leaning against the counter in his usual get-up (loud suit, bolo tie), with his usual showman’s smile on his face. Except, there was a trace of anxiety lining his face, faint enough that Kirby almost missed it, and that betrayed the whole look.

“What’s up, Ned?” Kirby sighed. “You’ve been pussy-footing around this story since I discovered it. And now you want me to trash it the night before I need it?”

Ned shifted on his feet. “I didn’t say that precisely, but, well, if you decided to...”

“Ned.”

He dithered for a moment, moving from the counter to toy with a few of the knickknacks lining the surfaces of the store. “It is a bit of a hot-bed topic isn’t it?”

“How’d you mean?”

“As I understand it, there are accusations at the state government. I shouldn’t think the Lamplighter, or the business that graciously hosts your fine press, would want to be associated with those.”

Of course. With all the bits and pieces he had gathered about Ned Chicane’s none-too-pristine history, it wasn’t surprising that he would be concerned about drawing government attention. A chuckle escaped Kirby. “It’s conspiracy theories, Ned. Just...all this—“ he gestured broadly, swooping arms over the cluttered storefront “—on a political level. Folks’ll eat it up, and those who aren’t already interested won’t pay it any mind.”

He didn’t appear convinced.

“Look, if you’re that nervous, I’ll be careful with my wording. Or put a disclaimer with the article, or something. But this the kinda thing the people who buy my magazine want to hear about, and I can’t just not ignore it.”

Bigfoot, as cliche as that particular cryptid was, had become a major selling point for not only the Lamplighter and the Cryptonomica, but the town of Kepler as a whole. It had been sometime since Kirby had first leaked that video Ned had faked (which Kirby was still impressed with the quality of), and even now, tourists would make a visit simply because they had watched “Bigfoot wrestles monster wildcat REAL!!” on YouTube.

Ned made a thoughtful noise, and stared at a spot on the wall over Kirby’s head while his brow furrowed deeper. Just as he looked about to respond, the bell over the entrance jingled. And in rushed a large bear of a man—larger even than Ned—all stomping boots and frantic calls.

“Ned! You gotta talk to—“

His eyes landed on Kirby, tucked away in the almost-hidden corner of the room, and the man jerked to a stop. His words cut off sharply, and the man began to stumble, apparently having tripped over his feet. His arms windmilled, as Ned stepped forwards to help him catch his balance.

“Barclay!” Ned boomed, a little too jovial to be sincere. “How wonderful to see you here, right now!”

“Um, thanks.” The man—Barclay—glanced back towards Kirby again. “Ah. Um. Hi, um.”

“Hey,” Kirby said, with an uncertain wave.

Barclay turned back to Ned. “Can I...talk with you privately?”

And that was Kirby’s cue to turn back to his computer and ignore the whole deal. Ned was up to something shady; water was wet, more news at eleven. As curious as he might be about...whatever it was that was going on, the less he knew about Ned’s back-door business, the more he could deny involvement in when the cops showed up.

The two murmured in low, indiscernible tones for a few moments, while Kirby pointedly did not try to listen. Before long, Ned spoke up and announced that he would be going out for a bit.

Kirby smiled politely. “Sure thing. I’ll keep an eye on the place while I’m here.”

They left, quickly, and Kirby caught Barclay glancing at him a few times as the two headed out the door. Weird, but—Kirby shook his head, rising to grab a can from the vending machine. Ned’s definitely-illegal shenanigans were his own problem, and Kirby had an article to write.

“Looks like your fangirl is talking again.”

A copy of the Lamplighter slapped on the table. Loudly. Three of the four people gathered around the table jumped, then all shrunk under the glare Mama directed at them.

The Pine Guard—the vital line of defense protecting the alliance between Earth and Sylvan, ensuing the harmony and safety of both worlds—had been rounded up like a group children called the the principal’s office.

Mama leaned against the table, still glaring. “And let’s pray you haven’t got a reporter fanboy now.”

Barclay was not having a very good day. Or week. Or month. The last four months, actually, had not been especially wonderful. Somehow, everything was managing to grow worse and worse.

He glanced at the Zine, then began studying the grain in the table intently. The copy had landed cover up, and out from the grainy still-photo stared a familiar, fur-covered figure. He remembered the moment. The image didn’t fully capture the shock and horror he had felt, or the panicked way he had tried fall behind a tree for cover.

“What were you doing?” Aubrey asked. Barclay didn’t look, but he could imagine her leaning over the table and peering at the picture with delight.

“Yes,” Mama snapped. “What were you doing?”

Barclay dared a peek up, just enough to see her arms folded disapprovingly across her chest. “It...the crane position,” he muttered, and instantly regretted it. Exercise—he should have just said exercise .

“And you needed to do this undisguised? Outside? Where God an’ every hiker with a smartphone can see you?” Mama demanded, at the same time Aubrey hooted, “ Nude yoga? ”

Well. This was the moment he would die. He had always hoped he would go out in some brave way, in the line of duty for the Pine Guard, but apparently whatever deity was out there had a cruel, cruel sense of humor.

Barclay hunched into his shoulders. If only, he wished he wished desperately, he could snap his fingers, like he was Aubrey doing a magic show. A cloud of smoke, and, poof, he would make himself and this whole situation disappear.

“It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, for all the good that might do.

Someone snorted—Ned, probably, since it didn’t sound like Aubrey, and Duck had seemed less amused by the situation than the other two. Barclay ducked his head lower.

“You,” Mama hissed, voice like a sharped, swinging scythe. “Ned Chicane. Care to explain how this ended up not only published and for sale in your store, but on the front page?”

Ned defended himself, claiming it would have been more suspicious if he had refused to let Kirby print that. He went on, but Barclay was doing his best to block out the rest of the meeting. Duck spoke up, at one point, saying he’d do his best to keep Renee Lesky from raising too much trouble, but that she seemed determined enough to take extreme measures.

Extreme measures . Barclay hoped that meant she would continue trying to spread her story, and not that the woman would take to wandering the wilds of the Monongahela, calling for him.

“It’ll blow over soon,” Ned insisted.

“Better hope so!” Mama hit her palm against the table, and Barclay jolted straight. She sighed, and finally sank into a chair, massaging her forehead. “Y’all just gonna need to be extra careful from now on— Extra. Careful . Ya hear me?”

“Yes’um,” the four chorused as one.

“And Aubrey, you’re in charge of spreading that to the rest of the Lodge. We don’t need anyone else messin’ up and givin’ me even more trouble to clean up right now.”

“Of course,” Aubrey chirped. “I’ll call a meeting with Doctor Harris Bonkers.”

Mama half cracked a smile at that. “Good. Now go on.”

They cleared the room, pursued by her weary displeasure. As Barclay stepped through the doorway, he heard her call him back.

He ducked his head back in the room, hesitantly. “Yes?”

Mama steeped her fingers, and peered at him over her hands for a long moment. “So,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “Nude yoga?”

“Uh, I’m just going to go. Yep. Good-bye.”

Outside her office, Ned, Duck, and Aubrey were gathered just down the hall. For a moment, Barclay almost felt touched that they had waited for him. Then, he spotted the copy of the Lamplighter in Aubrey’s hands, which she must have grabbed off the table—and, he heard the excerpt she was reading aloud. Dramatically, in her performance voice.

“—the moment I spotted that majestic creature, I realized that there’s so much more to life that we don’t know. Life is beautiful .”

“Aubrey,” he pleaded.

“Take pride! You’re a majestic creature. She even says she left her husband after she saw you, you hunk of a Bigfoot.”

He turned, pleadingly, to Duck. Duck was a sensible person, right? He was a professional, who would take pity on his tormented coworker.

Duck clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she likes you for more than your ravishin’ good looks.”

Barclay buried his face in his hands.

[thecreativeangel]

Sophomore Year In Queens Would Include...

Spoilers for Spiderman: Homecoming™ ahead. You have been warned. 

Freshman Year

- Summer is over and you’re on your second year of school in Queens.

- Recap: Michelle is still your best friend and still very sarcastic, Ned is still way too into Star Wars, Peter still has a HUGE crush on Liz Allan, you still lo-like Peter aS A FRIEND YUP ONLY AS A FRIEND. 

- Ned in the background: “But yesterday you stared at him for at least-”

- *Ned has been tackled to the ground.*

- But onto serious business: the story line 

- Remember Evelyn from when she stuck gum in your hair in freshman year? (if not the first part is in my masterlist) Anyway she came back after summer break and now you’re legit scared to be in the same room as her. She’s all girly and disgustingly nice unless you make her angry, in which case you should switch schools. Now.

- She is now the most popular girl at school. You pissed of the most popular girl in school. What the fuck. Is wrong. With you.

- On a happier note you’re friends with Liz Allan because you met her at meetings for academic decathlon and she is a ray of fucking sunshine which doesn’t happen a lot in high school. 

- Except Liz is friends with Evelyn. How did you find out?

- “Oh, hey (Name)! Meet my other friends. This is Betty, Amanda, Jane, Evelyn-”

- *High Pitched Internal Screaming For Ten Hours (Unlike Pluto Remix ft. You)*

- And Evelyn just fucking smiles at you all sweet and cute. And you excuse yourself and run out of there faster than Sonic the Hedgehog. 

- Rumors spread about you like wildfire. (I wonder why? Cough, cough Evelyn, cough.)

- Peter and Ned laugh them off, especially when one rumor is about you having murdered an orphanage. 

- Michelle on the other hand is pissed. PISSED. (But in her own, special way.)

- *Michelle speaking in a completely calm voice* “I will shave off her stupid hair and simultaneously tear her limb from limb in front of the entire student body while her family and friends watch her turn into a bloody pile of-”

- “hOLY SHIT MICKEY I GOT THE POINT AND I LOVE YOU FOR THAT BUT I’M EATING SO PLEASE STOP.”

- Peter starts to miss classes and decathlon and you’re worried. He also skips Friday Movie Night which he apologizes for the next day. Soon enough though, he looks so tired he forgets to say sorry.

- At lunch he stares at Liz with Ned and gushes about her or just falls asleep on the table. You have had to lift him by the hair because he tends to land face forward in his food. It becomes almost a daily task to wipe the mashed potatoes off his face.

- You are happy when Peter joins the decathlon team again, then absolutely furious when he skips Nationals anyway. When the elevator at the Washington Monument starts to malfunction, you push everyone out first, even if they have to stand on your shoulders to do so. 

- The elevator is on it’s last support cable and you sort of accept death. At least your friends made it out. 

-  Spiderman uses his webs to stop it from falling just in time, though, pulls you out... and goes straight to Liz to not so subtly ask her if she’s alright. 

- *in your mind* “Wow, okay, go ask her if she’s fine. It’s not like I almost died just now. Not like I got everyone out first. Damn, thanks for the caring attitude, Spiderman.”

- You also start to notice Peter’s weird behavior in a different light. Since the whole elevator thing, you collected that Spiderman had a thing for Liz, which is something he shares with Peter. The sudden disappearances, the bad excuses start to come together. You aren’t 100% sure, but you’re suspicious as hell.

-  Peter asks Liz to Homecoming and you aren’t jealous at all.

- *Michelle in the background* “1.25 seconds after receiving the news that Peter asked Liz to Homecoming your countenance changed from a neutral expression to an surprisingly well executed forced smile signalling that you were trying to look happy but on the inside wanted to punch Peter for being an oblivious bitc-”

- *Michelle has been tackled to the ground* 

- Homecoming was okay. Ned made you go, and you reasoned that avoiding Peter and Liz making out would make the evening at least 73.2% more enjoyable. When Peter came though, he looked like he saw ghost and ran out after saying sorry to Liz.

- You leave early because Homecoming isn’t really enjoyable to a person who absorbed the nerdy loser dome of her friends, plus you’re happier at home watching Gravity Falls and binge eating junk food. 

- You were walking home from Seven Eleven after buying all the junk food you needed when Spiderman swings by. You were going to ignore it but he fricking starts to fall mid swing and doesn’t even try to use his web shooters, which scares the living shit out of you. 

- You drop the groceries you were carrying and tackle him before he hits the ground. 

- Update: You have skinned multiple parts of your body from tackling him and rolling on the pavement, and Spiderman seems to have fainted. 

- You drag an unconscious Spiderman to your apartment? Thank god your parents are out on a business trip and your apartment is close.

- *grumbling to yourself* “That’s right, (Name). Drag an unconscious stranger to your house. I mean it is Spiderman, but he’s still a stranger. Holy shit, it probably looks like I killed Spiderman.” 

- *and of course muttering to yourself like a crazy person* “Oh my god Spiderman is bleeding out on the couch. Spiderman is fUCKING BLEEDING OUT ON THE COUCH. Do I take his suit off? Is that creepy? I can’t take his mask off, right? His mask is bloody too, he’s probably got a cut there... wHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

- Spiderman wakes up in an unfamiliar room and a girl losing her shit.

- “Why am I on your couch?”

- “Oh I don’t know! Why are you bleeding out on my couch? Why are you bleeding out at all?”

- You rush around, trying to find paper towels and a first aid kit. He lets you take off the bottom of his suit. 

- Blushing™ on your side cuz he’s half naked and ripped and on his side cuz you’re in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, wiping his chest with a bath towel. You let him wash his face in the bathroom so you wouldn’t find out his identity. 

- Having a drowsy late night conversation with Spiderman. 

- “So I heard today was Homecoming?”

- “Yeah, it was kinda awkward, lame and boring, so I left early. You sound young, did you skip Homecoming to be Spiderman?”

- “W-what? No! I’m not even in high school! I’m super old-well, not super. I’m not 30, I swear!”

- You have a hard time believing him because he got major voice cracks while saying that. 

- “Soo, did you have a date?”

- You actually scoff. “No. I think I like this guy, and that terrifies me, but he’s in love with another girl. He actually got his dream girl to come to Homecoming, that’s kinda why I left I guess. Frankly I’m not surprised, she’s super pretty and smart, basically perfect in every way. Everyone has a crush on her. Hell, I may have a crush on her!”

- “You’re very mature about it.”

- “Thanks, I guess...”

- Inside the Spidey suit, Peter is dying to know who you like.

- “So who do you have a crush on? I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

- You consider telling him, but then remember that he sounds young, and may go to Midtown, which would be a disaster. “Not gonna happen, Spidey. I might know you in real life, so I’d better keep it a secret.”

- Liz moves away, which makes Peter act really sad for a couple of days. You planned on cheering him up with another movie night, but...

- gUESS WHO COMFORTED HIM FIRST. GUESS.

- Yeah, it was motherfucking Evelyn O’ Connor, the popular girl who hates your guts. You saw her approach Peter after class and since you’re terrified of her, you just watched from afar like a creep.

- According to Peter (when she left), Evelyn was actually “super nice” and he “didn’t know why you weren’t friends with her���.

- THIS BOI FORGOT THE TIME SHE STUCK GUM IN YOUR HAIR, SPREAD RUMORS, ETC... 

- aND GUESS WHO PETER STARES AT DURING LUNCH. THAT’S RIGHT. EVELYN MOTHERFUCKING O’ CONNOR. 

- *You to yourself* “The world is out to get me.”

- It just dawned upon you during the last day of school, in the middle of science that Evelyn was Peter’s new Liz, and that he has a huge crush on her now, and that he’ll probably talk about her all summer.

- You literally dropped the stack of Physics books you were carrying because... What. The. Hell.

- Let’s just say you spent a lot of time on the Stark internship to avoid Peter that summer. 

[dlamp-dictator]

Allen’s Friday Update

So, in an effort to get back into regularly blogging, I’m going to try and do little update posts every Friday where I talk about the general things that happened to me during the week. The games I’ve been playing, manga I’ve been reading, anime I’ve been watching, activities I’ve been up to, things of that nature. And... y’know, give myself something of an easy benchmark for when I go back to doing my big Ramblings. And I’ve got a lot to discuss for a first week.

E3 Happened

And much like every E3 that happens I didn’t really tune in because my job(s) keep me away from a computer for most of the day and I, frankly, have better things to do than watch game executives fumble about with the crowd. I did check out a few trailers and here are my current thoughts on what little I’ve seen:

Banjo-Kazooie is in Smash and that’s fantastic... now if only I played Smash more often. I’m not to big into the series aside from just having the games and fighters. Still hoping for an honest-to-god Subspace Emissary/Story Mode DLC at some point. I would honestly pay $25 for that with no complaint.

Destroy All Humans is getting a remake and that’s fantastic, I’m really looking forward to it in 2020. DAH was joy to play back in the day. I heard they were going to try and modernize the gameplay a little for a current-era audience, so I’m excited to see what we get.

Three Houses looks fine. I think I’m going to go in hibernation on that until it comes out. I want to go into that game blind.

The new Pokemon game... it exist and the internet is up in arms about a chick in a swimsuit... this is why we can’t have nice things.

Oh yeah, there was an English trailer for Persona 5 Royal, so that was nice.

I know a Tales of Arise trailer happened... I just didn’t watch. I want to go into that game blind too, at least for now.

Yeah, not much caught my notice for E3. Just getting my thoughts out there. Anyway onto stuff that has been happening to me.

Video Games

Been playing a lot of Yakuza 0 lately and enjoying the game a lot. My first entry into the series of Yakuza 4, and playing 0 reminds me of why I liked it. The combat is fast and fun, the story is classic crime drama that tugs at my emotions, the side quests are great, if pushing my suspension of disbelief a little, and I love how you get four fighting styles in the game, one of them being unlocked after a very lengthy side quest. There’s a bit of narrative dissonance with certain mechanics of the game, namely how you make money, but I’ll probably save that for a later Rambling. Everything’s been great so far, and I’m going to try and unlock the secret style for Majima before continuing the game in earnest. I at chapter 13 if I remember correctly  and only two more Hostess Clubs away from unlocking Majima’s final style, so wish me luck.

Been playing AFK Arena on my phone for the past two months. A real fun game that only asks for 15-30 minutes of my time a day. It has a surprising amount of lore in it as well if you read the character profiles. So far my favorite characters are Silvana, Isabelle, and Estrilda. Really, the Graveborn faction in general is just my Edgelord aesthetic, but that’s a discussion for another day.

Been playing a bit of Hollow Knight on my Switch recently. It’s a nice game to sink about an hour in every day. It’s pretty nice to have on the go... not that I get to play it on the go much, but nice having it in my hands.

Manga and Anime

Finally got volume 15 of Twin Star Exorcists, meaning I’m at my cut-off point. I might do a Rambling/Review of the series this month. Overall, I’m curious about where the manga is going, but disappointed by a few elements. Rokuro shouldn’t be having this mini-harem building when he’s already engaged with Benio. This manga did something pretty subversive by immediately attaching the male and female lead together in an arranged marriage and making them actually fall in love with each other as the manga goes on. By then end of volume 15 Benio admits (albeit privately) that she loves her husband, and when Rokuro is off getting a whole bunch of potential love interests while Benio outright shuts down Kamui’s budding feelings, it makes Rokuro feel like not only a weak protagonist, but a weak man. Other than that I like how things are coming together with the whole mission to finally stop Yuto. Again, not sure where the manga is going, but I’m still invested.

I digitally bought Samurai Girl Real Bout High School on Amazon’s Comixology website... Yeah. I haven’t read them yet, but I have the whole series. I’m looking forward to reading about tough Samurai girls beating each other up.

The Rising of the Shield Hero basically reached it’s narrative conclusion last week, so I think I can safely give my thoughts on it without worry of people dog-piling me for not reading the light novel. It’s... okay. For Isekai, it’s pretty good, but since Re:Zero, Saga of Tanya the Evil, and Grimgar of Fantasy and Ash exist, I don’t really see a reason to watch this if you’re already familiar with a Deconstructive take on the Isekai genre. Again, it’s good and I can recommend it if you haven’t seen a good Isekai in awhile, but... this has been done before.

Art and Writing

It’s June, so that means I’m doing the DUTAC once again. For those new, it’s when I draw and upload something on my deviantart everyday for the month of June. Originally, it was a way for me to get use to the feel of the tablet, as well as put the dang thing to use. But as this is the third year of me doing this, it’s mostly to keep up the tradition. I usually have a set of rules and challenges for myself, but being a lot lighter this year since I have two jobs. Basically just gonna’ draw whatever comes to mind. I’ll post the highlights of what I’ve done so far later tonight.

I’m writing Violaceous Storm again! Again, for those new, this was basically my kung fu girl story. You know those red and blue kung fu girls you see me post picture of? It’s about those two. I’ll probably make a rambling about this one later as well, but it feels good to rewrite about this girls again. 

Anyway, that’s it for this update. Ideally it’ll look nicer as time goes on, but for now I’m going head out, do some laps, and get back to work on Yakuza 0.