#he’s scared and alone fresh out of the test tube

[seriously-siri]

I was rooting through more works to post and I realized I never posted this. So yay, new content!

For a little background, this is the War/Fall universe (the games, not Netflix show). Might be a little dry at the start, but I really enjoyed writing Megs in this.

 “All Hail Megatron!”

Sparks cascaded down from the wreckage of a small transport and the smell of burnt metal and wiring lingered in the air with the unmistakable, acrid smell of spilt energon. There were a few survivors; whether or not they should be kept alive? Well that depended on who you asked. 

To Megatron, it could go either way. It all depended on what the cargo had to say. There weren’t weapons or energon cubes or any other kind of war supplies on that ship. There were bots. Generic made to order bots fresh off the production line on their way to Iacon. On their way to join Optimus. 

He couldn’t have that, now could he? 

So one well aimed shot later and he was standing on the edge of the small crater the transport made on its impact waiting to see who was strong enough to survive. Strong enough to crawl to their feet and take his hand. Smart enough to stand against the Autobots. Strong enough to join him. 

If they weren’t? Well, too bad they won’t even have a chance to transform for the first time. 

“All Hail Megatron!”, the cry sounded again, less muffled this time as audio receptors reset themselves from the shock of the crash. 

A bot listened to the cheer again as he slowly tested his limbs. Nothing was pinning him down and he couldn’t feel any serious damage. He’d gotten lucky. He hurt, but that would happen when you fall from the sky in nothing but a small metal tube jam packed with other bots; most of whom are now dead.

So much for not getting scratched up on the first deca cycle.

With a disturbing creak in his frame the bot sat up and pushed himself up onto shaky legs. His orientation leader had said there was a war on the horizon. He said they were going to play important roles in the war. He just failed to mention the war had started and was so close. They weren’t even a dozen clicks from the facility he came online in. Were they trying not to scare them? He didn’t even know what his function was going to be. He woke up, got a digital download of the last million years of history and was shoved onto a ship to continue onwards to his life. 

Everyone on board the ship had been a little shell shocked and then they went down. 

Looking for a way out of the crater they had ended up in, his optics focused upon a towering form.  It knelt near the edge and offered a hand to him, which he gladly accepted and found the strength of its grip incredible.  It was with very little effort the larger ‘bot hoisted him out, and only then did the difference in their size become truly apparent. And he was not alone.

A rescue party? 

A myriad of colors and designations were present.  Some shorter than knee joint height, others with the gift of flight. They all stood a pace or so behind the one that had helped him up.  In the middle of their chest plates shone a mark. 

Oh. He knew that symbol. It was the mark of the Decepticons. The ones that he was told were the enemies of this war. The ones that had to be stopped. The bot looked down at his own chest, a red symbol recently plastered to it. Compared to the purple insignia he suddenly felt very small and very weak.

The Decepticon symbol was more distinct.  It wasn’t something one was given, like his, it held far more value than that.  It had to be earned. He didn’t need any history download to tell him that. It was obvious that this group of bots had proven themselves a hundred times over. They stood tall and proud and unafraid. 

He really wished he wasn’t so scared right now. Still, he took what little courage he had and met his savior’s gaze. “Thank you.” 

This one. Megatron resisted the urge to grin.  It didn’t take a lot to figure out which ones were worth keeping around and which ones were, well, scrap. It usually only took him one or two moments to figure it out and it all started with an action. 

Whether or not they had the courage to look him in the optics or not. This one passed, so far.

“No thanks needed.” Looking over the measly few who survived the crash he turned back to the one in front of him. “Who are you, my friend? What is your name?”

He already knew the answer, of course, but he waited nonetheless. The confusion came as it always did. 

Cue.

“You...do not have a name?”

“I am MS 9-78160 of 107511, but a name? I… no.”, The bot glanced at the other stragglers in the crater, but most had halted their ascent to listen and watch.  He processed for a moment and looked slowly upward into the glowing red optics studying him. “You have a name?” 

“I do.” Megatron loved this part. Loved this speech. It wasn’t just for fresh ears to hear. It wasn’t about convincing others to join him. It was a reaffirmation of his purpose, his cause, for all his men. “As do we all.”

Gesturing behind him Megatron turned to look at his small army. “But some of us had to claim our names. Take them and make them ours because we are more than just a bunch of numbers and code.

“AC 9-78." A knowing smirk. "That was my number, my callsign in the mines, but that wasn’t me. That wasn’t my choice. My friends, you are unaware of what this world is, how it works. How we, as numbers, are simply binary for a larger functioning machine. One that gives to the greedy and steals from the needy. One that gives us numbers instead of names. I’ve come to warn you, my friends, about this world that refused to designate me and my brothers as anything more than useful tools. I have also come to give you something I never had.” Turning back to the small group of bots he made sure to catch the front liner’s optics again.

“A choice. A choice to prove your worth. A choice to be a part of something great and good. A choice to change this world for the better- one where we are beyond ones and zeros.” Gathering himself he raised his voice just enough. “I am Megatron and I have come to let you choose. Join me and my Decepticons or...don’t.”

And that was the sound of Barricade cocking his gun. 

Megatron finally allowed himself a toothy grin. “The choice is yours, but I warn you. Be wise.”

“Megatron! Back off! They are not yours!” A familiar voice called out from the other side of the wreckage. 9-78 turned to find the orientation officer, Downshift standing around the side of the wrecked ship. He must have driven out after the transport went down. 

“Oh?” Megatron laughed. “No, they are most certainly not mine. I do not claim ownership of a spark that has not chosen to be by my side. You, on the other hand, seem very intent on getting your property back.” 

“Property?” 9-78 spat the word. “We’re not-”

“No?” Megatron raised an eyebrow. “You have a brand and a number? Surely that means someone owns you.” 

This time a voice floated up from the crater, another one of the survivors. “You have a brand!”

“That I chose. That I painted on myself. It was not stamped on my chest without my permission. What about yours?” Megatron waved a hand in the air, dismissing the argument. “If anything my point has been proven. I came here to free you. He’s come here to put you back in shackles.” 

Downshift shook his head desperately. “Don’t listen to him recruits! Megatron is a master of lies and-” 

“Oh shut up already.” A purple and yellow bot to Megatron’s right raised an arm, hand trading out for a shotgun. 

“Just a moment.” Megatron flashed a wicked grin and turned slightly to his left. “Barricade, your spare.” Holding out an arm Megatron waited for the mech’s spare blaster pistol to drop into his palm. Barricade always had a spare or two. Sometimes three. Turning back to 9-78 he held out the gun. “Why don’t you see what you’re capable of.” 

Raising a wary hand, 9-78 hesitated before wrapping trembling fingers around the gun’s barrel and turning it over in his hands to look at it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean?”

“Put it down!” Downshift pleaded. “Guns were not meant for you!” 

9-78 turned to look at his orientation officer. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Megatron chuckled. “9-7 yes? That’s the code for messenger, am I right? It means you are to be a delivery boy. Traveling to and from with writing and items at everyone else’s whims.” 9-78’s optics got a little darker, a little angrier. “I believe they make you in bulk because with this oh-so-savage war going on, your life expectancy is minimal, at best.” 

This world Megatron presented was one that offered a fate worse than termination.  Endless cycles of what? Nothing? These… Decepticons, they sought a better world as he had said.  They were unafraid to take it if they had to.  He turned again toward the crater.  The same look was upon every face, including Downshift’s.

Fear.

They were afraid. Of what? Of Megatron? Of the Decepticons and their weapons? It was becoming clearer. They were afraid to choose. To choose means to ask.  Asking yourself, which path. It was already so obvious to him, and they could not see it. Blinded by their fear of the choice, they could not comprehend the outcome of either option. Casting one last look over his production mates, all identical to him in form, obviously not in function, he turned back toward Megatron.

“I choose a better world.”  There was no further hesitation. He would not be like the others. He would stand out. Gasps came from the others behind him, but he stood proud of his choice, and awaited its outcome.

One of the minicons, purple and silver, shifted and leaned into another that looked similar, red and black. “Quick thinking, that one. I like 'em.”

“Shut up Rumble.” Barricade snapped. He took a step closer to Megatron. “Lord Megatron, the others seem hesitant. Perhaps you didn’t inspire them quite enough.”

Megatron didn’t react to the bribe, but right now he was looking at one of the saddest bunch of bots to come from manufacturing he’d ever seen. Perhaps with the haste and need of more numbers the quality had gone down. Which then begged the question if anyone here was worth the effort.

But he was also looking at one of the bots that might just turn tides in the future. Reaching out he gestured to 9-78. “Come.”

The bot responded almost immediately, taking three shaky steps to plant himself in front of Megatron who turned him to look back at his group and held him in place by the shoulders. “Will any of you be joining your brother? Will anyone be standing by his side?”

No answers. 

“My Decepticons.” Megatron turned to his lieutenant just behind him. “Would you be so kind as to motivate them for me?”

9-78 was unsure which sound coming from behind him was more disturbing; the weapons fire, the screams, or the laughter.  It was less than a full cycle and it was almost over.  Only two remained. Himself and Downshift.  

From the other side of the crater he called out. “You were so quick to choose this?! Traitor!” 

9-78 cocked his head in question glancing down at the gun in his hand and then back up at Downshift. “Traitor to what? I’ve only made one decision in my life so far. How can I betray something I never believed in? Something I haven’t been taught to be a part of yet?”

Megatron grinned.

Barricade knelt down next to 9-78 and quickly righted the gun in his unpracticed hand and raised the bot’s arms to shooting level. “I always like to aim for the face.” He whispered before backing up a couple of steps.

9-78 took one step forward, aimed the unfamiliar weapon across the crater, and sneered. “You can’t betray a free choice.”

The bolt of plasma that seared from the weapon struck true and detonated Downshit’s head, erasing the look of both horror and shock.

He handed the weapon back to Barricade and looked back toward Megatron, unsure of what he would find.

Megatron didn’t hold back a grin. “Well done. To stand up against such odds. To be so alone and yet so alive. Conviction and good sound logic run through that head of yours.” Placing a hand on the bot’s shoulder he looked out into the crater and at the strewn about bodies- the final one across the way still smoking. “You have proven yourself to us, a maverick among cowards. Welcome, my brother.” 

Maverick. That… I like that. I think I’ll take it.

-----

Maverick is my friend's OC, a little naive, a little lost, but he's got spirit.

[dark-twist-fairytales]

Me? Accidentally making Torbek angst? It's more likely than you think! Anyways! it's almost 2 in the morning, but beloved Torbek is here! Honestly, I really enjoyed drawing the gangely limbs. Somehow felt more natural.

Yes, he is holding the ticket from Guys Night in his hand. Why? Well... Snippet of a story underneath >:)

[Warnings for story: Mentions of medical torture and related as such. Spoilers for Torbek's time between episode 8 to episode 19]

~~~~~

It had been... Years, since Torbek last saw the others. Since he had been thrown into the chaos that was the Feywild upon the command of the carnival. Curled up on himself, Torbek stayed in the corner. Nothing felt.. Right. Trapped in a little box, frantic huffs and whimpers left him.

Years, and Torbek hasn't known a day of rest, trapped and bound to beds, to walls, or anything just to keep him restrained. This time was no different, the fluid going through and hitting his veins uncomfortably with the fear. More whimpers left the bugbear as he curled up tighter.

His jacket, that someone had given him to keep warm, was torn at the sleeves, causing him to shiver. When that had happened? Torbek didn't know, other than the pain that followed. The medical shirt was too small for him, sticking and stretching uncomfortably on his fur and the tubes that stuck out of him.

Each time he went under, it only got worse. Grabbing something from his pocket, his hands shook with the mix of fear and the cold chill he felt from the vent blowing on him. A ticket to the Witchlight Carnival. A small smile managed to tug on Torbek's lips, remembering guys night, as he hugged the golden ticket to his chest. A hiss of pain left when he pressed on the fresh tube on his chest.

However, the pain was drowned out by a voice whispering in his head, his ears dropped to try and ignore it, but... He didn't find it easy to ignore. It didn't want to be ignored, and growled in time with Torbek's verbal whimpers: "I will get us out of here. I promise that. Those friends-"

Torbek hugged the ticket close, curling up tighter around it as tears, both pain and fear, stained at the lighter fur markings around his face. "-They can't help you here... I won't stop fighting."

Despite what the voice growled, -Torbek gulping out of worry for his friends- he found that the voice in his head was scared too. Who wouldn't be? It's been years since Torbek had come around.

With the approaching steps of someone walking towards his medical door, he could feel each pin-prick of pain arising on his body, places that had been previously poked at to the point of numbing and hypersensitivity. Today was another day of testing machines. Or worse, experimenting.

He heard a whimper in the back of his mind.

He wasn't alone in his fear.

Torbek wasn't alone at all.

Torbek just had to wait.

[little-pondhead]

So I was looking at Victor's name to see exactly what the name inhaled winner and conqueror which of course I chose the name for a reason cuz I felt like Vlad would choose that but there was also personality traits that I found associated with the name so here's that The name Victor is often associated with several personality traits, including emotional resilience, loyalty, protectiveness, and competitiveness.

I think Victor is the perfect name, honestly. I can see Vlad giving him that name kinda offhandedly, without much thought other than his expectations for his new weapon, or I can see Victor getting frustrated and upset he doesn’t have name so he picks one out himself. Which would be the first step of distancing himself from Vlad.

For anyone wondering, this is in reference to this post.

[vanmccannonlyfans]

Cocoon

part i.

But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

“How do you have so many of these?!”

Alicia had 10s of boxes of tests in her suitcase, as if they were hotel shampoo bottles or restaurant breath mints. The pink floral branding stuck out against the sea of black leather and denim that comprised her wardrobe.

“Get em in bulk on amazon, cheaper that way and saves me a trip to the store.” As if bulk buying pregnancy tests was as casual as ordering toothpaste or tampons.

You moved to the bathroom to take the test, stepping over used towels strewn across the floor. You were glad you were doing this in a place so impersonal, however uncomfortable. Whatever the outcome, good or bad, you would be able to leave without any memories tainting the space, never to return and have to relive the feeling. If this was your bathroom at home, you’d be reminded every time you had to go.

Alicia camped in front of the mirror, smacking her lips together after every layer of strawberry gloss, the wand alternating between tracing her plump lips and pumping the tube for more product. Leaning against the fake granite hotel counter, she fussed with her raven black bangs and adjusted her top.

“Is it ready yet?” She asked, without averting her eyes from their own contact, her lips now more reflective than the mirror.

“I can’t look..” The room was twisting more than your stomach as you picked up the test, double vision making it impossible to count the number of lines.

Was there just one? Two? How dark does the second one have to be?

“Does this look positive to you?”

Alicia cocked her head at the test, brow furrowed.

“The second line is faint...but it’s there.”

“Fuck,” You exhaled as you fell against the wall, exasperated.

“Didn’t you always want to be parents?”

“Well yes, but...not so soon. We don’t even have a place to live...”

Life on the road was hollow and lonely, even with your best friends. Playing shows every night to strangers who saw you as enigmas, then returning to cold hotel rooms to sleep until the having to get back on the bus or plane for the next event, repeat ad infinitum until you had crossed off a laundry list of places you had stepped foot in but not actually experienced. It all seemed so fun and exciting until you realized that you didn’t know anyone anywhere and were too tired to do things even on days off, and ended up just sleeping the day away and ordering in pizza. It wasn’t a viable situation for raising a child, and hardly sustainable for an otherwise healthy adult.

-

You laid on the scratchy quilted comforter, each tick of the clock intensifying your anxiety, like a bomb about to detonate. Every second brought you closer to confronting a situation that felt neither fully real nor fantasy. Like your whole world depended on what he would think.

The beep of the key card brought you back down to earth from the peaks of your existential dread. You couldn’t wait to be held, comforted, told it was going to be alright, even if neither of you had any idea what to do. His touch was a balm to your aching soul, one that no antidepressant could rival.

Van entered without a word.

“Baby?” You called to him, as if he couldn’t see you.

He remained silent, dropping his guitar case on the ground. After what felt like eons, he looked up toward the window behind you, as if you were invisible.

“I think you should go.” His eyes were sallow, skin dehydrated from all the smokes and shitty fast food and beers every night.

“What?” The single word came out like a croak, your voice evading you. First you couldn’t be seen, now you could hardly be heard, as if you were dissolving from material reality. As if only his acknowledgement made you real. “Van--”

“No,” He cut you off, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, the other on his hip, swiveling him towards the wall. His adams apple rose and fell without a word, bobbing like a buoy on a choppy sea.

“I don’t want to fight about this. I just want you to leave.” He looked down, running a hand through his hair before tucking it under his armpit as if he were chilled.

You were in disbelief. The same man who had invited you to accompany him across the world was discarding you as easily as you had tossed the test that said you were carrying his child into the bin.

“But Van--”

“JUST GO!” He belted, shaking the room with his volume. You had never heard him yell like that, hardly had ever seen him genuinely angry.

You struggled to catch your breath, hot tears erupting from your eyes.

“--I’m pregnant.”

There was a loud crack as Van’s phone hit the wall, leaving a mark.

“STOP LYING!” He thundered, grabbing your shoulders.

He was finally looking into your eyes. His were red and glassy and you could smell the last cigarette on his skin, so much so that you found yourself on the floor throwing up, then running to your suitcase like a wounded animal, then in the brass elevator, then out the lobby and into the street. You weren’t sure where you were going or how you would get there, just that you wanted to be gone.

When your legs finally collapsed from exhaustion, you found yourself out of breath in front of a bodega, simultaneously sweating and shivering from the physical and emotional trauma. You went in to buy a bottle of water and drank it in greedy gulps while scrolling on your phone to take your mind off of your predicament. At the top of your inbox was a flight confirmation, forwarded from the band’s manager. It was a plane ticket back home.

-

The sterile, unfriendly design of airports had always thrilled you. They were an exciting gateway to a new place in the wide world you hadn’t explored much of. You had never even been on a plane before Van had toured outside of the UK. The complete lack of rules and disregard for conventional social norms enchanted you; how strange a place to have bars open at 6am next to designer shops and restaurants more expensive than you had ever eaten in. Van would order bailey’s in your coffee while he had a morning beer, before sneaking tipsy kisses in cheap seats at 42,000 feet.

Now the airport felt like a portal to hell, sucking you back to the place you had escaped from.

You hadn’t told anyone you were coming home, or that you had broken up, or...anything. You hadn’t spoken a word to anyone besides the cab driver who asked which terminal to drop you off at. You weren’t sure who you would tell first, what you would say. If you opened your mouth, nothing would come out. Except maybe some incoherent stuttering and word salad, which fit how you felt inside--both numb and acerbic, cold to the touch but teeming with a pain so primal and acrid it could kill a horse. The water in your stomach felt like it was curdling, and you hoped you could make it through the flight without throwing up.

-

The cab dropped you off on the corner of your parent’s property where the guest house loomed, hardly visible through the gloaming. You fumbled with the key, hoping it hadn’t been changed since the last time. The door rattled open to dusty furniture and soupy air; musty and untouched as if it had been abandoned. You and Van used to sneak in here in for quickies and hold clandestine parties, lighting candles instead of turning on lights to not tip off your parents that you were present. The stain from when someone dropped a bottle of whiskey still marred the floorboards, and you wondered if anyone had been in here since you left.

You had hardly surveilled the place before the door snapped open behind you.

“Fuck, you scared me!” It was your brother, shaking the dew from his trainers. “Why are you back? I thought you would be gone until next year, at least.” You sucked in the thick air, scanning the room for alibis. Stretching the last few moments before you had the acknowledge that you now walked the earth all by yourself.

“Oh, you know. Just felt homesick.”

Your brother respected your lie, letting it dissipate in the stale air like the smoke from a snuffed wick.

“I never liked him, anyway”

-

Your parents were happy, albeit a bit startled, to see you. They had converted your room to an office and all of your old things from high school, like notes from Van and old chemistry notebooks, were collecting dust in the attic. It was good to have the guest house to yourself, to be miserable in peace without the lingering tension of having to acknowledge the reason for your return, or to have anyone ask why you were throwing up so much and sleeping for 14 hours at a time.

Your dreams were so deep and lifelike that you had trouble discerning reality from fiction in your own memory; your nightmares even worse. Once you dreamt that Van had come into the guest house bedroom with a cup of tea asking how you’d slept, how his baby was doing. When your eyes had burst open, you were cold and alone. Anguish gripped your stomach, forcing it’s contents up your throat then down onto the floor.

Other times the dreams were of him fucking you.  Most nights it was just replays of your breakup, repeating every time you fell back asleep after being jerked awake from the sheer horror of that moment, worse than any organic monster ridden nightmare you had ever had. Each iteration more fresh than the last, as if someone was rewinding it over and over again on a cassette tape, starting at a high pitched blur then ending only when you could feel his hot breath ghost across your face.

Some days you woke up so paralyzed by your grief you wondered if you were in hell. Each moment was unbearably painful and eternal, the mere act of breathing felt sisyphean. But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

-

The clinic was on the outskirts of town, far enough away you weren’t likely to run into anyone unless they were there for the same reason. The ultrasound tech didn’t make eye contact a single time, snapping her gum as she dispensed the chilly ultrasound gel in a single deft shake.

Your chest tightened when you heard the heartbeat for the first time, eyes prickling with tears. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump ticking through the monitor flooded your heart with a profound sense of relief.

Finally, something that was yours.

-

Tour stretched on, every night sold out. Press junkets, radio shows, interviews, and photoshoots were plastered all over social media, news papers, television, even the bus station adverts and shop bathroom posters. You quickly learned not to check your phone outside of calls and avoided the media. It was easy when you hardly had the energy to lift your head in the first place. Isolation was easier than breathing, and a lot less painful.

You had learned the hard way when you had tried reading the paper each day. You could leaf through mindlessly, until page 6 which always featured a half page spread of Van and a nameless girl, all uniquely the same. They always took similar form, as if made in a factory by formula: tight jeans and low cut blouses, cakefaced and bottle blonde; each one skinner, prettier, and younger than the last. Some looked like they had school the next day. You stopped reading the paper.

-

When you told your family you were pregnant, your mother cried--whether out of shock or happiness, you weren’t sure. Your brother punched a hole in the wall, then went outside to smoke. Your father just sighed--a long, deep sigh that validated his disappointment in your circumstances and choices.  His reaction was the most heartbreaking.

Unlike your mother’s reaction, you knew unequivocally that his was one of disappointment.  You were supposed to go to uni, maybe Oxbridge or a fancy American school or even elsewhere in Europe where you could learn a new language and lounge on picnic blankets in the sun with a bottle of wine and fancy cheese while mulling over your Literature seminar readings. You were supposed to be interesting and clever and successful and far away from here. Instead you were back where you had started, some wash up’s discards, nothing to show for it except a new dependent on your taxes.

Your brother followed you back to the guest house, determined to argue as ever. He was a man of few words until he was upset, and then every word cut like broken glass.

“Are you sure you want to keep it? It isn’t too late for you to finish up and go to uni.”

You had almost forgotten that you basically dropped out to follow Van on tour.

You had told your family that it would just be a couple stops, then you never came home. Until now.

-

One day your mother phoned in a rage after receiving a letter from the school that you had been expelled on the grounds of truancy. You remembered you told her you were turning in your work remotely—an obvious, bold faced lie.

Your relationship with Van had changed you from a studious rule follower to a fool, lucky in love, dropping out of high school to accompany someone else building their dream. Loving Van was like climbing a tree, higher and higher with no thought of how you would get down. But now you were flat on your ass, with another between your legs.

Your personality change had sparked concern in your friends in family, allegeding that you were “not that type of girl” to abandon everything for a man.

“I’m not really sure what type of girl I am,” was your only response.

After all,how could you know who you were meant to be when you were so young? Being with Van, being Van’s, was fun and exciting in a way you had never experienced. You’d never really dated, and didn’t have a lot of friends outside your brother’s friends, which was how you met Van. He was always nearby, goofing around and causing trouble.

Your earliest memories of Van were of riding bikes through town, collapsing in the cool grass when your legs turned to jelly and you could hardly peddle anymore. Van would blow dandelion seeds in your face while you giggled and rolled away from him. All of the hours spent under the gushing lemony sunshine ended in grass stained knees and freckled cheeks that lingered long after the popsicle drippings had been washed from your fingers.

That was the beginning--the familiarity; the quintessential bedrock of love that matures as you do, which each outgrown shoe and lost tooth. The type of childlike innocence entwined with companionship that warms your stomach just to think of, having had such a pure memory to call your own; an endless syrupy summer’s day that no one can take away from you.

-

As you grew and changed from girls and boys to women and men, your love morphed right along with it. There were many long stretches of time you hadn’t seen him at all, either from busyness with school or a row with your brother. But whenever you saw him again, that warmth returned right back to you, starting in your stomach and burning up to your sternum, bright and effervescent.

Your relationship mutated from platonic to romantic one night at a house party. Alcohol was still a novelty to you and two bottles of beer was your limit. You and Van were sitting together on a couch, the dim room filled with your other friends, illuminated only by fairy lights and the occasional flicker of a lighter. Van was telling ridiculous stories all while gesticulating wildly, each one making you laugh harder than the last. The combination of the alcohol and throwing your head back with laughter so many times had made you feel like you were on a rollercoaster, vertiginous and bubbly.

As if you hadn’t had enough, you got up to get another drink and fell back down onto the couch--except you missed your original spot by several inches and landed squarely on Van’s lap. You laughed out loud at your clumsiness. If you were sober you would have been so embarrassed! But your lowered inhibitions helped you see the humor in the situation. The room was aglow and the world was still big; the energy of youth electrifying the room.

Van instinctively placed a hand on the small of your back to steady you, and quickly jerked it up towards your shoulders as to not make you feel uncomfortable. A twinge of excitement seared in your stomach. You had never really touched before, and this felt nice in the most unexpected of ways--as if you had found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

You studied Van’s face, having never been so close to it. The perfect slope of his nose, the confetti of reddish freckles across high cheekbones, the pink pillowy lips that outfitted his wide mouth.

He must have been staring at your lips, too, because they clashed together as if drawn by magnet. There was no saying who kissed who as your heads met, puckering together needily. You wrapped your hand arms around him, leaning into his warm body so that your heads were resting on the couch, lips married together. His mouth tasted sweet like fairy floss, the room spinning like a carousel. You weren’t sure how long you made out for, but it felt like you were alone in the room full of people, coiled in the sweetest embrace that made time stand still. When you finally came up for air Van was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, gingerly tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I hope your brother didn’t see that,” he joked, making you blush.

You didn’t remember much of how the rest of the night went or how you ended up in your own bed the next morning, but the mere thought of having kissed Van so publicly both thrilled and mortified you. Surely people would talk--or were they all too drunk to notice? Did this mean he fancied you, or was it alcohol fueled happenstance?

At school the next week you heard his voice echoing in the halls, and turned to see him hanging on another girl while fraternizing with a group students the same year as Van and your brother. He tickled and teased her before hugging her from behind, then kissing her cheek with fervor. White hot shame flared inside you, ruddying your cheeks. You hurried home in a daze, scolding yourself for being so naive. He was a flirt and you were a fucking idiot for allowing yourself to be involved with someone like that--your brother’s friend, no less.

But the next weekend the same booze soaked gathering reoccurred, this time with more warm bodies packed into a smaller room. You sipped from a can while exchanging small talk with a girl from your chemistry class, wondering if you should leave or have another drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Van had arrived with the same girl from earlier, making a scene as he greeted his friends.

You decided to have another drink.

Cracking open a fresh can, you turned away hoping Van wouldn’t notice you. You smiled and nodded while your classmate blathered on, not registering a single word she said, unable to concentrate on anything other the imaginary tension in your head. The slick condensation beading on the aluminum can was your only anchor to reality as your body flushed from the discomfiture as much as the humidity. Though you hated to admit it, you wanted to be the girl next to him. Instead you slurped more beer, hoping to reach a level of inebriation where someone else started looking better.

Eventually the heat of the room became too suffocating to bear, and you excused yourself for a smoke. The noise of the party was barely a low thrum from the cement patio, despite being eight feet away. You sat on the very edge of the pavement, stretching your legs out into the dewy grass. The damp chill grounded you, your heart rate descending as you exhaled into the ether. The stars scrambled against the inky sky, floating in and out of focus as your nerves melted away with each crisp breeze. You were more drunk than you thought, but it felt nice out here where you weren’t being choked by calefaction and confronted with Van with the other girl.

The first drag of your cigarette was interrupted by a body shuffling next to yours, thumping down beside you on the cement.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here by yourself?” It was Van.

You scanned over the back of your shoulder to see if the girl was around you. She was not.

“I’m alright,” you sighed, tapping the ash from your cigarette onto the curb.

Van wrapped his arms around his crossed legs, shaking his hair out. From under his fringe, his eyes searching your face for clues to decode your expression.

You exhaled the smoke so at least there would be something between you to shield you from his intent gaze. The chirp of crickets in the distance filled the silence. Snuffing the butt out on the cement, you got up to leave without a word. Van grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks.

His expression nearly broke you, wide eyes begging for an explanation, confused as it was hurt. Letting out a deep sigh, you weighed your options: stay with him and exchange meaningless platitudes or leave. Leaving seemed like the better choice.

“I’m going home.”

Van sprang up. “You shouldn’t go alone this time of night after drinking. I’ll walk you home.”

Secretly, you loved the initiative he was taking. He wasn’t asking, he was announcing. This type of attention and caretaking were foreign to you, even as the kid sister and tagalong. No one ever fussed over you. Even though Van was known for being sweet to everyone, you were pleased as punch he was fussing over you.

Dark was the night as you trudged home, guided only by the flaxen incandescence of streetlamps and drunken intuition. For a long time neither of you spoke, reveling in the quietude of the sleepy town in the dead of night.

Van broke the silence. “So how’ve you been?”

“Same as it ever was,” you sighed, still uncomfortable with the hidden motive of his small talk. “Is your girlfriend gonna be upset that you’re walking me home?” Van laughed to himself, even though it wasn’t a joke. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Only partially did those words alleviate the tension that had been badgering you all night. The alcohol poisoning your bloodstream was making you bold.

“So you just kiss all your friends like that,” You kicked a bottle down the road. Van’s head jerked up, turning towards you.

“Let me kiss you not as a friend then.” You stopped dead in your tracks. Of course he could be bolder than you. For the second time that night, you looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. You could feel yourself freezing in place like a deer in the headlights, but your bodies were being pulled together as if magnetized. Van grabbed your face as your lips married; exchanging greedy, hungry kisses. His arm migrated around your lower back, pulling you into him, subsuming your bodies as one. You kissed as if you couldn’t breath without the other’s air, desperate and smacking.

Even when your lips finally parted, your figures remained cocooned together. Your noses brushed at the tip, studying each other’s faces. Never had you seen Van so still and ruminative before. He brushed his thumb across your cheek before imparting a final kiss.

“How’s that for not friends?”

-

Soon Van was coming to your house to see you more than your brother and their friends. He would meet you in the hallway to exchange forbidden kisses, risking demerits and suspensions. Now instead of lurking on the outskirts at parties you were right next to him, the center of attention, with his arm wrapped around you.

You could tell your brother wasn’t comfortable with your arrangement, but he never said anything discouraging. You had never smiled so much in your life, and people sometimes didn’t recognize you next to him. You drank more and wore less. School began to feel like a prison, entrapping you 8 hours a day when you’d rather spend time with your sweetheart. Even in subjects you loved, you couldn’t focus. You tried to study while the band practiced, but you’d always get distracted by how cute Van was and his never ending questions about their creative direction. You started helping manage their shows, calling venues and arranging transport and making sure every piece was in its place.

Soon you were helping out so much that you were hardly home and rarely saw your other friends. As the band became more successful, you would occasionally skip school to accompany them to far off gigs and events, reveling both in the rebelliousness of playing hooky and the sheer delight of watching your favorite person achieve their dreams.

-

One of your favorite teachers had warned you against following Van, confronting you during office hours when you had dropped in to ask about an assignment.  There was genuine concern in his expression, as if you were his own child that was making a stupid mistake.

“I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but you really should rethink your decision to leave. You could go to a great school and study whatever you wanted. You’re brilliant and clever and could charm the most stoic of souls. There are plenty of people in the world like Ryan, who will want to harness your energy to use for themselves. Don’t let them.”

You had thought he was just jealous, or perhaps had a tiny crush on you. You smiled at your past naivety. He was right. Your brother agreed.

“He picked you because you were hardworking and clever and too sweet to realize he was taking advantage of you! You were the best girl at that school and he fucking knew it. None of the girls like Alice or Nia would have lasted longer than a second with him! They would have crumbled from not being the center of attention, nor do they have a brain cell to show for it. He wanted someone to support him and do all of the hard work while he took credit for all of the glory. I mean, he didn’t even arrange you as a manager or assistant like Larry so you could get paid by the touring company!”

You hated when your brother was right, because it was a gut punch every time. He was a man of few words, but those choice words stung.  You had organized much of the band’s earlier endeavors, like communication with agents and venues and examining contracts for faulty clauses and loopholes. The band was hardworking and talented, but still too hungry for success to make good judgements on their offerings. Without you, they surely would have fallen prey to a lecherous label under a contract that would have destroyed them.

“I know it wasn’t malicious, because he can’t pull his head out of his ass to think about anyone else. He surely knows you could achieve more without him, the thought just never occurred to him because it’s his world and the rest of us just live in it. And now you’re having his child in the town he abandoned while he’s living out his rockstar fantasies. Did he ever even call you to make sure you made it home, and the plane didn’t fucking explode with his unborn child on it? Does he even fucking know your pregnant? Does he even care?”

You turned away so that your brother wouldn’t see the hot tears in springing from your eyes.

“You can go now,” you mewed, hoping he would take the hint.

“If he sets foot in this town again, I’m going to fucking kill him.”

It was a promise.

-

[popculturebuffet]

Sparkshortstravaganza! (Commissioned by WeirdKev27)

Well this was a needed kick in the pants. When I first heard of the Sparkshorts program I was excited. As a kid I loved PIxar, as an adult I love pixar and as an old man dealing with the loss of his partner floating away in my balloon house, i’ll still love pixar. So the idea of a program focused on giving new fresh talent the room to do whatever they wanted and make content that would be on Disney Plus, a platform BADLY bereft of original animation? It was a dream come true and the first one I saw Kitbull is easily a masterpiece and something that I can vividly recall every part of to this day, which for my terrible short term memory recalling EVERYTHING is a rare feat few works have achived.  But given I have a REALLY bad habit of letting things I want to watch sit there if I don’t jump on them immediately.. I let it sit there and didn’t touch any of the shorts and mostly forgot about the program until now. Until Kev, my patron and the only person paying for reviews at the moment, though others are more than welcome wink wonk, just decided what the heck and to test out comissioning shorts picked these ones because why not. And given I had been dragging my feet and reading the descriptions found creative and suprisingly heavy premises... I was fully on board And better late than never because along with Soul this program has EASILY restored my faith in the company after Onward really disapointed. Granted they’ve done worse, while there are pixar films I haven’t seen I need to like Coco or Cars 3, I’ve vowed NEVER to watch Cars 2 unless I have to and that vow has served me well so far. The shorts here are as a whole beautifully animated, have a ton of wonderful concepts and even the two weaker ones are still gorgeous to look at and a decent watch regardless and both come from a very well meaning place with a very well meant message. So yeah i’m thankful for this comission and to show you why let’s go through every Sparkshorts so far and see why their so awesome.. after some background of course. 

Sparkshorts, for the uniniated, is a program by pixar where animators are given six months and a limited budget to create a film based on personal experince. The program was designed to test out new ways of animating, directing and creating and to find a creative “spark” in it’s employees. Thus each film feels unique, has it’s own style.. and is utterly charming. I’ll be looking at them chronologically as while this wasn’t my watch order, I feel it’s a bit neater that way. I’ve already taken long enough to get to watching these, let’s open these films up and see what makes them tick shall we?

Purl: An Adorable Yarn Ball Vs Toxic Masculinity  Purl.. was better the more I thought about it. The first short released, it DOES have a good message and killer animation. The film takes place at B.R.O., a dude broey brockerage firm that’s painfully relasitic both in how broey it is and in how it looks. That’s to contrast our heroine: Purl, an adorable ball of yarn who just wants to be accepted but is instead ignored by the rest of the company till she changes herself up, donning a suit like her co workers she badly wants to fit in with and adopting their wolf of wallstreet esque douchebaggery. She finally gets accepted.. but ends up shedding her new self to help another Yarn Ball starting up.  Director Kristen Lester drew from personal experince, starting work at animation in a mostly male dominated workplace and thus having to adapt and only letting the femine side she’d repressed out when she moved to working at pixar, which had more female employees. The film DOES have a good message about toxic workplaces and toxic masulinty and learning the personal story did raise it a few notches as it made it clear to me that what SEEMED like an over exageration.. was probably just a light exageration given the kind of bro antics we’ve heard about at companies like Ubisoft. So while I didn’t like the film much at first honestly.. it’s over the top because it NEEDS to be because even though it’s 2021.. some idiots STILL don’t get it and kids are better off learning it now so it’ll hopefully stick when their entering the workforce. So we’ll get more people like perl willing to make a change and stick up for those like her and less dude bros. Still a decent and clever short with Perl’s bro form looking really neat and the animation on her in general is really fucking gorgeous. All in all not the best of these but still pretty good and while a bit thick on the message.. it kinda has to be. 

Smash And Grab: A Jaunty Ride to Freedom

This was a really fun one. Directed by Brian Larson and inspried by his need for a break from routine this follows two robots, the titular smash and grab who are designed to well.. smash and grab coal-like energy things for a train and have for years and years. The two long to high five, but can’t because their hooked to tubes so they can’t escape. But one day Smash looks out the window and not only sees fellow robots living a better life.. but a way to power him and his buddy/love intrest? I mean bromance or romance, either way it works. Point is our heroes escape, and have to fight security.  It’s just a really damn fun and creative movie. While robots wanting a better life isn’t new, the crisp art deco animation, breakneck pace, fun gags and heartwearming relationship between the two bots is just charming as hell. It’s just a fun ride the whole way through with a lot of heart and creativity with the two’s way they throw coal to one another used to take out the guards, and all together just some really good set pieces. Easily one of my faviorites here and that’s a high water mark to pass. 

Kitbull: Tiny Orphan Kitty + Big Abused Doggo = Best Friends

As I said this is the only one of these I saw before today and as I said it’s stuck with me. I love dogs. I have one of my own named Yoshi whose just a sweet boy. So i’ve always loved ALL DOGS.. and was thus horrified years ago when I learned about the stigma Bulldogs get. Seen as “agressive’ and “Mean’ and victious.. when really a lot of them, including my grandpa’s own pitbull when I was little, are just loveable as any other dogs. And having also known a former fighting dog my friend owned, if a much smaller min pin rather than a pitbull, who by the time I met him had become the sweetest dog you’d ever meet.. yeah.. don’t mistreat a dog just because some assholes force it to fight to the death because their sick, horrible, ghastly human beings.. if they can even be CALLED human beings after doing that to these poor animals.  My point is it’s nice to have a short about such a needed subject. Director Rosana Sullivan actually had the idea for the short for years and intended to do it as a side project, but when the program cropped up she moved it to pixar and the result is one of the most popular and easily one of the best of an already bright bunch, brought on by her love of animals and working in a shelter. It’s also one of Pixar’s first 2d animated projects and proves their just as good at that as cgi.  It’s the touching story of a kitty whose alone in the world and initally mistrustful and hissy at a big dog she finds and is naturally scared of.. until she grows to bond with the dog, realizing much like a LOT of fucking people need to that pitbulls.. are just dogs and often victims of circumstance and the poor, sweet pooch who just wants his owner to love him.. is instead thrown into a fighting pit, nearly killed and forced to make a daring escape with their new forever friends help. It’s through this wonderful, heartrending friendship that the dog finds freedom and the cat.. finds them both a home, no longer running from people but instead making sure they both get a person. It’s often brutal at times, with the scene of the dog being forced to fight being one of the most striking: while we thankfully don’t see the action, we HEAR IT, as does the poor kitty, and we see the aftermath: a friendly harmless dog thrown out into the cold just because it dosen’t WANT to fight. It’s just really heartrending stuff that makes the happy ending all the better. It’s also gorgeiously animated which I mentioned but i’ll say it again; the animation here is GOREGOUS, unqiue and stunning. Go watch this if you haven’t. 

Float: This is Why Krakoa Exists

This.. has easily been the hardest to review of the bunch. While ALL of these stories are very personal, very inclusive and very intresting, this one.. is a bit rougher than most of them and hits REALLY close to home. See this one was built out of director Bobby Rubio’s experinces raising his son who has autisim. 

It’s about a dad who discovers his infant son can float... and thus gets stares of fear or judgment from eveyrone around him slowly getting broken down by this. So he makes a HORRIBLE judgment call and rather than just accept some people are assholes, weighs his son’s backpack down with stones despite him hating it then drags him away when he ends up floating off, before screaming at the poor kid WHY CAN’T YOU BE DIFFRENT.. He DOES instantly regret this and the ending is genuinely touching as the father finally accepts his son is different and throws him into the air while on a swing, letting his son soar as he always should’ve. It is a beautifully animated and well meant film and the filipino representation is truly great: Rubio originally was going to have the characters as white but his fellow animators convinced him to go for represntation and be true to himself and honestly in a time when disney itself has had to be fought to get queer representation most of the time, it’s nice that pixar at least is a part of it that throughly encourages representation and will gladly put diversity and representation over any bullshit “risk factors”.  That being said.. while this was a decent short with a very well intentioned message and it clearly connected with a lot of people.. it wasn’t for me and I say this as someone who has autisim. As someone who has worn down people’s patince and been starred at by a freak for something I was way too young to properly deal with.  I’ve been in this Kid’s shoes. 

And that’s the problem: The metaphor dosen’t really work for me. While auitism CAN have some benifits and I wouldn’t be any other way i’d be lying if I said it was easy having trouble commuincating, constnatly misreading people, constnatly worrying if someone’s going to like you, and hyperfocusing on a problem instead of being able to set it and forget it for a bit to my own detriment. There’s other problems and not ALL of my issues come from anxiety disorder: I also have anxiety and depression. They just bleed badly INTO said autisim sometimes, as it’s hard to effectively combat anxiety sometimes when your mind won’t let you. 

What i’m saying is... there aren’t any FAULTS in his powers. See i’m a fan of x-men, so I can only see this boy as a mutant, and yes I know they usually manfifest at puberty but there have been exceptions so don’t at me.. and one of them who has no real downsides other than the unfair stigma of being a mutant. He’s more like storm, who can control the elements and whose power only enhances her life nad lesss like say Rogue, who looks normal.. but can’t touch anyone without knocking them out at best or horribly abosrbing them into her head at worst. There’s no downside other than the fact people judge him and his dad is a dick about it.  And the dad part is hard because I get what Rubio is going for: parents make mistakes, parents mess up and their only human even if they should embrace their kids anyway. That’s a good message and one I support.. I just think Rubio was way TOO hard on himself and thus made his stand in into an unlikeable asshole, one whose more concerned with how everyone ELSE thinks and does the horribly abusive action of basically tying his son’s wings down so he can’t fly. He mans well, it’s so his son dosen’t float off.. but instead of finding a way to help him and work with him on it.. he just stuffs rocks in his back and forces the kid to be miserable so other people can be happy. It just goes way too far in the other direction to work. As I said I think it’s the guy being too hard on himself, manifesting his worst moments with his kids and his biggest regrets and making himself into a very hard to like character because he has trouble forgviing himself for how he acted. So I want to say if you ever read this bobby while I wasn’t hte biggest fan of your film.. I do wholly support you and your son.. and the fact you made an entire FILM just to show your sturggle and show people there not alone was a beautiful act. You are not a bad person , we all make mistakes and we’re all just human. You are a good man Bobby Rubio. I may of not liked your metaphor... but your message is beautiful. 

Wind: Immigration by Way of Rocket Science

Thankfully moving on.. this one is tied with Kitbull for my faviorite. It has a truly intriguing premise, a great metaphor, stunning animation, and is just really moving, gripping and fun to watch. This one was by Edwin Chang, and as is usualy by now, it was built on personal experince.. but not his. It was built on the fact his father was an immigrant who had to leave his mother, Chang’s grandmother, behind to a better life. She rejoined them eventually but it left an impact on his father and thus serves as the core of this story. And honestly knowing that only STRENGTHENS an already impresssive sci fi short.  It’s the story of a boy, apparently named Ellis so i’ll use that, and his grandmother who live in a bizzare, hauntingly beautifuly stygian sinkhole that has floating rocks and debris. The two spend their day farming potatoes and grabbing whatever they can to hopefully make their way out. But it becomes clear to young Ellis after they find a plane his grandmother wants HIM to go alone and escape and is willing to sacrifice herself.. and ends up having to trick the boy into thinking sh’es going along in order to get him to do what he needs to surivive and thrive. It’s a truly gut wrenching story as even when she seems to have found a way for them both to leave.. it’s very clear she’s simply training him with all the welding tools and what not so he has skills to make it out there on his own in the unknown. So he can live without her.. but more importantly.. so he CAN LIVE. Away from the darkness, not having to scrape and to surivive and hopefully find something better out there. While the old parental figure sacrifciing thsmelves so the youngun can start hteir journey isn’t new.. it’s the unique, beautiful and haunting setting and the emotoin, conveyed only through the utterly beautiful animation that make this story feel fresh, along with it’s great metaphor. This short is just haunting, beauitful and really damn sad, and I only dont’ have all that much to say because it’s all in the visuals. The only thing I have left is like all of these really, watch it. But especailly this one. 

Loop: Enough Said

This is part of the reason I didn’t like Float all that much. Loop is just.. way better at conveying the experinces of having auitism. While Renee is a more severe case than me I can relate to what kicks off the film: Renee, usually paired with an adult at the camp she at, is forcibley paired with a chatty boy named Marcus. While Marcus is eager to go home and has no idea how to interact with the two the two genuinely bond, with Marcus slowly getting into Renee’s world. The key scene for this and the one that clinches the film is Renee waving her hands over the reeeds in the water, throughly enjoying it with marcus not getting it.. till he tries himself. Director Erica Milsom, whose worked with autistic children and picked this medium entriely because i’ts perfect for a non verbal character and is one that can tackle heavy issues like this in a way to help people understan, really wanted to counter most depections of severe autisim, paticuarlly sensory issues. While we see the good in them instead of JUST her freaking out or being overwhelemed: how her sounds and the things she feels truly relax her and how she really DOES enjoy nature and is perfectly at home there. It’s just a beautiful way to show this disablility is not ALL bad, as many works tend to focus soley on the drawbacks. While I had my issues with Float part of it was it had too much good.. but Loop is superior at this simply because it shows both with unflinching honesty: The beauty of something that calms and relaxes your brain or a touch or sensation that just FEEELS really good, things that while again i’m not on the same level as Renee.. I can still fully relate to.  But what puts it over float besides not having a messy metaphor is it DOES show the issues that come with it.. but does so WELL and with nuance. It shows how isolating autisim can be, especially for someone like Renee who can’t talk, how people are sometimes freaked out by you and don’t know how to interact with you and how adults can MEAN WELL, and the counsler setting them off was a good idea in the end... but can also be misguided and not fully know how to handle you without overwhelming you. It shows just how bad a panic attack can be, how you can just.. shut down and drive away. It was easily the sequence that hit the hartest and resonated the most as I’ve had those, and i’ve just shut down with no one able to reach me.. and it makes it all the more touching as Marcus eventually realizes how to handle things, and gives her space despite the setting son and the peril of being stranded.. because he realizes she needs it and offers to simply be there when she’s ready. It’s a touching, wonderful gesture, capped by him giving her a reed.. and the two heading home finally udnerstanding one another.This one is very close to wind in my heart and I think I found even more love for it writing this review and realizing just how much it hit me. And that ain’t bad. 

Out: Be Proud of Who You Are.. with the help of a gay cosmic space cat 

Speaking of hitting close to home and really resonating with me, we have Pixar’s first short with a gay main character, with his sexuality being the center of this. And as a bi person who had struggle accepting his sexuality let alone telling anyone, even when you know someoen will likely accept you.. this naturally hit hard. I took some time to realize I was bi, and when I did I was terrified of telling my mom, despite her being loving, supportive and just wonderful, same with my brother. Both fully accepted me as I figured and had no issue with it, esepcially sine my romantic history is nearly non existant anyways, but I related to our hero Greg’s fears of coming out to his parents despite them being utterly wonderful, well meaning people. It’s hard to come out, it’s hard to admit that about yourself, and it’s hard knowing you may not be accepted or things may change. I had an even harder time coming out to my dad, who I fully expected being a trump supporter and having said “if gay marriage is leagal I should be able to marry my cat”, to not support me and to loose him.. and was proud and suprised when nope, he was utterly supportive and happy for me.. if a bit awkward with the “be careful with sex” advice.. to someone whose had none and may never will due to being awkward as shit. But he meant well and the point is I really related to this, and it’s easily one of the best coming out stories of this kind, tied handily with Schitt’s Creek’s episode about Patrick coming out to his parents that dealt with the same theme.  And naturally given the nature of these shorts it was a story close to Stephen Clay Hunter’s heart, as he group up a gay nerd in the 80′s a time when homophobia was even worse and representation was near non-existent. So when given the shot he wanted to make something for a young him, something they can look at and point to and tha’ts me. And the behind the scenes short for this one sold just how... big this felt for him. To draw two men in love and embrcing, to see guys mo capping that. To see someone LIKE him on screen. It shows just how important representation is and how dumb it is it took 20 goddamn years at pixar for them to get gay. 

The short itsel is delightful as we open with a gay space cat and dog appearing in a rainbow. The Cat and Dog are watching Greg, a nice young man whose moving out of his small town with his boyfriend Manuel.. only to panic when his parents who he hasn’t come out to show up to help move and try and hide the one photo he has of them. And despite Manuel seeing it as a very easy thing to do to come out.. it’s not for Greg. He knows it’s hard and a scene of him practicing shows the poor guy breaking down at the thought of telling them despite getting every indicatio their nice people.  It’s then the whole Space Cat thing comes in as the cat enchanted Greg’s dog’s collar, so when greg puts it on as  a jest, it’s a body swap! So naturally we get tons of REALLY well animated shenanigans as Greg has to get his body back. Seriously the animation here is gorgeous with director Hunter choosing the painted on , impercet style to give it a storybook feel which fits the story perfectly.. seriously if Disney hasn’t made a story book of this do so.. and if they won’t someone on etsy do it because Etsy is apparently where the merch companies should be making happens.

The point is it’s fun, furious and leads to some great gags.. and then we get the emotional punch to the godnand as Greg bites his mom’s hand in order to prevent her finding a photo of him and his boyfriend. He instnatly regrets it, and breaking the photo in the process and goes to comfort her.. and we get easily the most emotinal, most beautiful part of it as Greg finds out his mom is hurt as she can clearly tell he’s keeping her at arms length and dosen’t want to loose him.. and she’s known all along he was gay.. just like the Schitts Creek example it’s clear she’s hurt a bit her son is scared to tell her but just wants him to be happy. So with a brilliant use of a squeaky toy greg switches back.. and comes out, with his dad warmly hugging miguel when he introduces himn and the space dog crying. Just a beautiful, charming, fun, and gorgeously animated short with some badly needed representation.

Also... one last note. This isn’t related to the short.. but Disney, who once again proves they can’t be progressive without stabbing themselves in the foot and no I will not stop giving out about this. This time’s especailly bad as while Out was heavily promoted.. the descripton DOSEN’T mention it having Pixar’s first gay lead and goes out of it’s way to hide Greg being gay despite the fact the short dosen’t and his being in the closet is the whole conflict of the short. And the not mnentiong the first gay lead thing is noticable because Loop DID rightly point out it was their first non verbal proganist. You can’t.. brag about being progressive about one thing and then try to hide your being progressive about another you idiots. Plus the “pleasing the bible belt” ship has sailed and left port. Ducktales is gay as hell with Penny being gay, even if Disney won’t let her just come out and say it, the crew still had her say it as much as they could, Violet’s dad’s being gay, Della being bi and Webby and Lena being as close to a couple you can get without disney screaming at them no. Andi Mack is fully avaliable on D+ as well.. well okay not fully because the dad turned out to be a pedophile, but still a series with a fully gay character is out there. And finally Owl House got TONS of press for having a bi progatanist and having her love intrest be a girl. Even if Dana Terrance had to FIGHT for that, and rightly so good on her, the point is you have queer characters already. The groups that hate you for that aren’t going to magically stop hating you because you hide the fact a short anyone can see from minute one is very , beautifully gay, I mean it starts with a very swishy space cat emerging from a rainbow atop a pink dog. COME ON. I only have a few words left for disney..

Okay whew, one more and we’re out of here. 

Burrow: It’s Okay to Ask for Help and To Bang a Willing Salamander This was the first one I watched today. In hindsight had I properly researched the shorts and realized how heavy they were I probably would’ve saved this one for later to help balance out the deep feels of some of these. While Burrow is VERY VERY good, as all these shorts have been even Float, it’s subject matter is a lot lighter. I mean so far we’ve had stories about toxic masculinity, animal abuse, issues accepting your child is diffrent, sacrficing yourself so your loved one can have a better life, autisim and coming out of the closet. Even Smash and Grab which is light and breezy.. still has a disney death, and is still about a heroic rush to freedom from slavery whenyou think about it. This one.. is about an insecure bunny whose afraid to ask for help and ends up learning to get it while ending up plumiting through a bunch of comedic set pieces. It’s basically if Winnie the Pooh and Bugs Bunny had a baby comedy wise, it has the warm feeling of pooh art wise, a storybook quality tha’ts utterly adoring.. but director Madeline Sharafan specifccally wanted the animators to take after chuck jones, using lots of great expressions and reactions. It has a real classic theatrical screwball comedy vibe and given The Looney Tunes, Droopy, and Tom and Jerry mean the world to me and i’m glad nto reocnnect with 2/3 thanks to HBO Max.. I fucking loved it. 

Burrow is still a personal story and is based on Sharifan’s experinces having trouble colaberating, wanting something to be fully baked before showing it off, something I agian relate to. She often hid from the others and refused to show her work until it was done while everyone else was happy to help. And as the previously used to slam disney hard with something they own Hickman Era of X-men has shown.. colaboration is just better and more freeing. By having friends and colleuge s to bounce off of you refine ideas, see how people react to them and grow a bit and that’s what the shorts about. 

The plot is easily the simpliest of these: A young bunny wants to build her dream burrow but gets self concious when she runs into a friendly mole and rat living next door to where she wants to build and keeps digging to find both privacy and her own place.. and instead ends up digging into various shenangians and other burrows from frogs, to hedgehogs to most memorably some Salmanders taking a sauna.. and in the best and most ‘how the fuck did they get away with this bit of it”, one of the salamanders ends up .. gladly removing his town and being liike “You wanna do this? I mean I got an hour free” And i’m just saying while now wasn’t the time and the offer was a little awkward i’d go for it if I was her. I mean at least ask him out for coffee later. He seems nice enough if low on boundries. Then ride him until the morning light girl, ride it. She also finds the Demon Bear from New Mutants at one point.. so that’s where he retried to after danny kicked his ass again. Neat. 

But eventually our heroione digs herself too deep and ends up hitting water before finding a 

Who sees her crumpled plans and then does the stygian call of the badger to call all the other animals to help and after they escape the flood, the bunny finally realizes their good people and lets them see the plans. So we end on our heroine and her new friends and possible salamander lover helping her settle in as she finallyg ets the home she wanted, complete with disco. I mean every home should have a disco. If I didn’t have a ceeling fan i’d have a disco ball.. and I still want one just to set somewhere or hang away from the fan . Let me dream dammit. Overally a fun, hilarious, mad dash short with a good message and a good note to go out on.

Final Thoughts: Overall.. the Sparkshorts program is fucking spectacular, a great way to let some of Pixar’s staff get into the directors chair and really shine, and a way to tackle issues that they may not be able to get greenlit into a full film. Lushily animated, well produced, Pixar has announced MORE are coming and I cannot wait. Thank you kev for comissioning this, and thank you all for reading. If your new and liked this review, follow this blog as I talk disney all the time: when they come back i’ll be doing regular coverage of Amphibia, Ducktales and the Owl House as new episodes come out every week, and i’m currently doing a retropsective on the three cablleros kev also paid for, with the finale of it, an episode by episode look at the legend of the three cablleros, starting this week. I’m also covering LIfe and times of scrooge mcduck (though infrequently for a bit), and finishing up a look at darkwing duck’s just us justice ducks, started with looks at all the players involved and finshing next week with the episode itself.  So if any of that sounds good to you, check out the archives, but goodbye, goodbye, goodbye for now. 

[shittylongcatposts]

Hey hey! How are ya?

For the soulmate alphabet thingie could I request S- Songs with Saeyoung?

I can just imagine MC one day listening to All Star, Never gonna give you up, the one where aquaman goes WHATS GOING on and then being so annoyed, and then the next day is some emo/depressive stuff like MCR or something like that pftt I'm sure MC would be SO confused but I absolutely find it hilarious

You can take all the time you want, and remember to drink lots of water :D

ohhhh!!! this one is hilarious! Thank you Mandy!!^^ I’m still so glad and excited that you requested something- ahhh >.< now, i hope you enjoy it a lot!

stay hydrated 

Soulmate au: S - songs. Any song your soulmate sings will be stuck in your head

Saeyoung x MC (reader)

The first time that your soulmate sent you a catchy song was in your chemistry class, right as you were trying to focus on your task, trying not to spritz the liquid inside your test tube all over the counter, the bongo song started playing in your head. And it was stuck on replay. 

You knew it must have been your soulmate, since all the other songs that were stuck in your head were more… silent and didn’t feel like a live concert where you stood in the first row. 

Of course the liquid bubbled out of the tube and the experiment failed, but despite that you knew that they existed. That you had a soulmate. 

When you came home that day you talked about it with your parents, asking them what they felt when they first “heard” of each other. Your dad just panicked, as you found out, he was so nervous about this feeling, that he did not go out for weeks, hiding himself in his own little word. Scared how things might turn out, after “hearing” of your mom. 

Your mom however tried to communicate with your dad, “sending” him songs that she loved, coming up with questions that she wished for him to answer with another song, and after a while he did and actually she got to meet him just a few months later. From that day on they were always together. Never seperated.

Now they were both enjoying their cup of tea and after you told them about what happened your mom got up, ruffled through your hair and smiled. It was a bright, kind smile. The one she always had playing around her lips when she was proud of something you did. 

“Right now, just go with the flow my dear, see what happens.” 

“I’m so glad that there’s someone out there for you my sweetie” your dad said and hugged you. 

(And with that you began to listen to music more and more, exploring all kinds of songs, directions, until you got stuck in an emo phase lol)

You also got a lot of input from your soulmate who seemed to be around your age but also seemed to be pretty moody. You were wondering from time to time what got into them, if they were stuck somewhere they didn’t want to be. Sometimes you didn’t receive an earwig for days but then again they suddenly came up with the cheesiest meme song, those were the ones you hated the most, because they always popped up when you were in a very important situation. Like the time when you were about to start filling in the answers on the paper sheet right in front of you, amidst your exams, but you just couldn’t focus because your mind played YMCA on repeat. Leaving your brain blanked out with an image of a dancing mothman. (you hated it but it was more like a love hate thing)

But then on some days there were only sad songs, depressing ones and the ones that brought you shivers, leaving you crying with tears that burnt into your heart. They got so sad sometimes, that you were actually worried about them. In these times you always tried sending them a cheery sound, a song that always made you smile when you listened to it or one that felt like a warm hug for you, hoping that they would do the same, feel the same vibes of it as you do.

When the finals were finally over and you officially graduated (your grades weren’t that bad- thank god) your parents gifted you a trip to south korea, all on your own. 

Walking down one of the busy streets in Seoul excited you and your senses were flooded with the smell and the sounds of the city. You looked up, searching for the blue sky that peeked out between the gray clouds, that hung over the city, from time to time. You breathed in and let your mind wander to your friends for a while. 

It hurt you to see that they all found their soulmate in one way or the other but you still didn’t know a thing about your own. You were glad that they did but from time to time seeing them being all cute and lovey dovey with each other stung in your heart.

The only thing you knew was that they were under the same sky as you, which gave you at least a little bit of hope in finding them some day. 

Suddenly a flush rushed through your body, notes began to form in your mind and before you knew there was another song suppressing every other thing that occupied your mind. 

It started silent but got louder and louder, you knew it was them and you silently cursed your soulmate for the new song that stuck in your mind. Darude sandstorm. You would have never imagined walking down the streets of Seoul with Darude Sandstorm playing on repeat. 

Then a red Herari drove by with screeching tires, the windows slightly open, probably to get some fresh air, but what bothered you the most was the sound that came from the car. Darude sandstorm. The red haired guy that sat in the driver’s seat madly dancing along to the song that played on full volume. 

The traffic lights jumped to red and he stopped his car abruptly, waiting for the lights to turn green. You couldn’t decide what to do, you knew it was him, that this guy was your soulmate, but how could you stop them? 

You tried sending them signs, only coming up with stop and stare, but he didn’t stare, he still watched the traffic lights.  

Quick you have to do something, you thought and waved your hand, “hello, it’s me.” your mind sang, but still no response. 

The lights went green and the only thing that came to your mind now was to jump. You closed your eyes, hoping that he would stop. 

“Hey! Hey! Are you hurt?” An unkown voice asked, slapping your face to wake you up from your sudden slumber. You didn’t really feel any pain so you shook your head. 

“Thank god, man, why did you jump right in front of my baby? You could have got yourself killed” the young man sighed, looking at you with concern in his amber eyes. 

So those were the eyes of your soulmate, warm and kind, soft but with a touch of sadness lingering in them. 

“I, uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this, but I would have lost you if I didn’t.” You sighed, rubbing your forehead to get rid of all the things that rushed through your mind. 

“l- Lost me? What are you? A stalker? Now come on, try to get up, then I’ll call an ambulance for you.” The ginger sighed again. He helped you up on your feet in no time, rubbing his neck when you thanked him for it. 

“Oh sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself, I’m Luciel, nice to hit, i mean meet you, hehe” 

“I’m Mc, thanks again for helping me.” You smiled and shook the hand he offered you. 

“Now, let me make a phone call.” He said and turned around to pull his phone out of his pocket. He spoke pretty fast and you couldn’t understand a word. You suddenly felt lost, all alone in a huge city. What were you even doing there? What if he wasn’t your soulmate and just happened to listen to the song? You breathed fastened and your heart started racing. Your thoughts were running wild. 

Then new song came to your mind and you started humming the lyrics, softly, barely making any noise. 

it’s something unpredictable but in the end it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life...  (<-- Tha’ts good riddance by Green Day an amazing song!!)

Luciel hung up on the phone, his eyes lingering on your face with shock in his eyes. 

“Say that again, will you?” He closed the distance to hear you better, and started singing the same lyrics you sang. 

Your heartbeat fastened another time, but this time you were excited. You stared into his amber eyes. Vision blurry from the tears that streamed down your face, you saw that he felt the same. It was him. He was your soulmate, you finally found each other. You pulled him closer, sobbing into his green shirt, laughing at the same time. 

 “So it was you who cheered for me all the time, huh? Thank you, Mc.” he sobbed, kissing your forehead over and over again. Whispering “thank you”s over and over again. 

“So it was you who sent me to the YMCA during my exams.” You chuckled, forming the letters with your hand as you spelled them. A heartwarming laugh bubbled out of his throat and he hooked an arm around you, after rubbing his eyes once more. 

“My god I’m so sorry.”, he laughed, while guiding you towards his car, smiling proudly. “Now let’s wait for the ambulance, and then I’ll take you home.”

[canonconspiracy]

Who Needs Food When You Have Love? (Memori x Fem!Reader)

Fandom: The 100

Fanfiction By: @rmorningstar21 

Pairing: Emori x Fem!Reader x John Murphy

This will be cross-posted between my AO3 and Wattpad (rmorningstar21).

Warnings: Poly, a little swearing, needles

WC: 1890

“I bear the burden so that they don’t have to,” you murmured to yourself as you stared down upon Emori’s beautiful, sedated face, before glancing to the needle in your hand once more.  You, much like Octavia, had been the girl from underneath the floorboards.  You were an outcast upon the Ark, and it was only natural that you managed to fall for the two largest outcasts you had met down on Earth.  

A hand gently caressed Emori’s cheek, a sad smile against your lips as you moved to inject yourself with the black blood marrow experiment, feeling the foregein sensation taking over your body.  It had started with the pain simply from the injection, but your body had to process the new marrow as it began to course through you.  New cells formed in your body slowly, and yet, you knew you did the right thing.  Your voice rang out strong, true, as you called out to the rest of the group.  

“You’ll be testing it on me,” you said firmly.  

Clarke’s eyes widened, and yet she nodded with a tear in her eyes.  “You’ll be okay,” she lied to you, moving to guide you to the other medical bed to allow Emori to wake on her own.  “You’re strong, Y/N.”

“She’s your sister, Clarke,” Abby, your mother, gasped out with wide eyes.  Even so, she knew it needed to be done.  Abby had not been daft to the feelings she could see from your y/e/c orbs towards the two in question.  Though she had not understood exactly how you could love two people, two people like them, she knew it was why you had done it.  “Y/N, what if you die?”

“What if Emori did?” you shot back while crossing your arms against your chest.  “Just like the last test subject, she wasn’t a willing subject.  She knew that she would be the guinea pig, and that’s why she saved her own skin the first time.”

“But, Y/N,” Abby tried to counter, placing a hand upon your shoulder as tears welled in her eyes.  “We need you.”

“And I need them,” you spat back acidically, your y/e/c orbs shifted to a glare as you glanced over upon your mother.  “We will do the testing on me, and if it fails, you did everything to prevent the human race from going extinct.”

“Fine,” Abby said, her voice tight as she glanced away, moving over to distract herself with anything.  The waiting would be agonizing, impossible as she awaited to place her own daughter in the tube.  If it had been her first daughter, though, if it had been Clarke, surely she would have stopped it.  

Emori stirred, her face immediately drifting to panic as she glanced over at everyone.  Her voice was about to exert panic, but she could see the sadness against everyone’s faces...everyone except your own.  As the only person in the room despite John that she trusted, she hurried over to you, placing a hand against your shoulder as her eyes scanned your features.  “Did you let them inject me?” she questioned, worry clearly in her tone.  

“No, Em, I didn’t,” you said, forcing a smile against your lips as your gaze met her beautiful brown eyes.  “You should know by now I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

Emori’s brown eyes widened as she stared you down, her hand moving to meet your face for a moment.  Her thumb trailed your cheekbone as her lips dropped to a distressed frown.  Swallowing hard, she whispered her next words as she removed her hand and backed away.  “You didn’t…” her tone shook with each word.

“What didn’t she do?” John asked as he had finally made his way back over to the group, Clarke being the one to set him free of the restraints that held him to the ship.  He glanced from you to Emori, noticing the terror against her face.  “What’s wrong?”

“She did,” Clarke chimed in.  “But, it has to work.  She’s making the sacrifice so that we can all live.”

“And you’re okay with this?” John spat back, before moving over to your side, motioning with his eyes for Emori to join him.  “You’re okay with playing God on your own sister?”

“I made the choice,” you replied sheepishly, moving your hand to touch his arm gently to get his attention.  “I know how much the two of you mean to one another.  You need each other.”

“We need you, too,” Emori chimed in.  

You moved to press a kiss against Emori’s cheek, before John’s, a sad smile against your lips as you stood to your feet.  Not sure how two hours had already passed, you knew you were ready to test the black blood in your system.  Your eyes shifted to your mother, your sister, and then to Jackson as your tone was firm.  “I’m ready,” you said.  As much as you wanted to tell the two that you loved them, that you needed them as well, you knew it would just make everything hurt so much more.  Tears welled in your eyes as you moved over to the machine, opening it and lying down inside of the tube.  

Jackson was the one to place the EMR tags upon your skin to monitor your vitals as you would go in.  You could hear the faint tears of Emori as she stood beside John, but you dared not look in their direction as you closed your eyes.  Though anxiety filled your chest, you forced yourself to believe you were ready for exposure.  As you took the burden so that Emori would live, you had to believe that what you were doing was to make all of humanity live.  

When the tube had closed, you were unable to hear anything outside of it.  Each time that Jackson cranked the radiation, you were unaware, though you knew it had been happening.  With each tear that fell, each worried strain as the radiation rose, your heart-rate stood intact.  It seemed to be forever that you were in that tube, until your mother had been the one pulling you from the experiment.  

"It…" Abby breathed out as she checked over your body, checking for any sort of lesion.  "...worked!  As she moved to pull you into a bone-crushing hug, she continued.  "Don't you ever scare me like that again." 

Clarke had been the next to have dibs upon hugging you, though the two that you loved waited impatiently as you reunited with your Commander of Death sister.  Tears still shed from her blue eyes as she embraced you, though you knew as well as any that she would have lived with you dying in that tube.  It had been for the greater good, to save everyone, and you had simply gotten lucky that you were the second test subject.   

Emori was on your left, John on your right as the two of them practically squished you in embrace.  Holding you tightly to them, neither of them dared wish to let you go.  The two who would do anything to survive would have been lost without you, and yet, neither knew how to say it aloud.  

Emori still had fresh tears upon her face as the three of you separated, her eyes frantically searching your face for any sort of problem, anything that the radiation had done.  Finally, she breathed out, "You're okay!"  

It took mere moments for the black to begin to drip from your nose as you quickly separated from the woman.  Your hand moved to your face as you turned away, beginning to cough.  Black blood dripped from your hand to the floor as gasps sounded around you.  Lesions formed against your face and neck from the delay to the exposure as your world was spiraling to blackness.  As you fell, you were not even sure who's arms managed to catch you, or if you hit the cold tile.�� 

Waking had been like a dream, though you could feel strength as your y/e/c orbs opened once more.  As your gaze fixated above you, you found two sets of eyes staring down upon you.  Both your hands were held in a comforting manner, one by a strong hand while another by a more lithe one.  

"Y/N!" They both gasped, nearly at the same time as they noticed you waking.  A mix of relief and worry was present in both tones as they spoke, though your mind had yet to process the upturn of John's lips, or the softness in Emori's brown eyes.  The comfort of both of their hands would have made you blush if you had been more awake for it.  

In a groggy voice, you said, "I'm not dead, right?" 

"No, but you missed a lot," John said with a laugh.  "I guess I'm not the only cockroach after all." 

"John," Emori warned sharply before moving to squeeze your hand gently.  "How are you feeling, Y/N?" 

Though you did not want to move out of the comfort of both hands that held you, you pushed yourself up to a seated position, smiling at her softly.  "Honestly, great," you said with a soft chuckle.  "It helps that my two favorite people actually give a shit.  The treatment worked, though.  That means, depending on how long we have, we may have just saved the world." 

"It's a little late for that," John chimed in with an eye roll.  "There's a conclave in Polis over who gets a bunker, and even if we win, there isn't enough time to get there." 

"So, my mother and Clarke…" you began to question, glancing between the two of them.  

"In Polis," Emori confirmed, causing your heart to drop.  "John and I stayed back with you." 

"You remember that bunker we were stuck in for 84 days?" John mentioned snarkily, a smirk making its way to his face.  "We were thinking waiting out the end of the world in there." 

"How could I forget?" You replied with a chuckle.  "I- I wish you guys could have gotten someplace safer, though.  I'm so glad that the two of you cared enough to stick back, but what about survival?"   You raised an eyebrow at the two.  

"We can take supplies and food from the house," Emori suggested slyly, a smile against her lips. 

"And who needs food when you have love?" John added slyly, moving to press his lips against your own quite suddenly.  Though it was a chaste kiss, you had been stunned, barely having the chance to enjoy it, let alone kiss back.  Still, as your lips connected, you felt blush rise in your cheeks.  

To add to your shock, Emori moved to do the same, pressing her lips against your own rather suddenly.  As she did, you could feel John's hand tighten reassuringly upon your own.  It had been Emori that broke into laughter at the absolutely stunned look on your face.  

"I- I- um," you started, trying to think of a way to redeem yourself, though you fell short.  

"If it wasn't obvious, we both love you," John said with a smirk.  "The end of the world wasn't really when we wanted to admit it, but when isn't it the end of the world around here?" 

[clairvoyantsam]

#JUSTINDESERVEDBETTER talk & 13 Reasons Why S4E10 thoughts

So ... I’ve already watched the series finale, did it right after episode 9 but it was hard for me to watch and write my thoughts simultaneously because I was ugly crying the whole freakin time. Thus, I’m posting this now. Haven’t cried this much in a LONG while. My heart is fucking broken. I’m gonna start by talking about my favorite character whom the show did SO. FUCKING. DIRTY. JUSTIN FOLEY DESERVED BETTER. (obviously, OBVIOUSLY, it was gonna be MY favorite character who gets screwed over and dies a horrible death, just my luck, why did I expect a happy ending, I don’t even know).

Justin was the most tragic figure of the show. Raised by a junkie mother who never gave a damn about him, sexually molested as a little kid by one of her many drug addict & violent boyfriends, he often went to school dirty and hungry because of the neglect. He never had a positive influence in his life. He only managed to do better with Bryce’s help (Bryce was a bastard but he did care about Justin in his own way, that’s for sure). 

After the events of S1 with Hannah’s suicide and the tapes and everything that happened with Jessica and Bryce, he left his abusive home and lived in the streets where he barely ever found food and what money he got from charity or the men who paid (and hurt him) to use his body, he gave to drugs. 

In S2, Clay and Toni, found him and saved his life, helped him get back on his feet and he tried his best to set things straight with everyone. He even saved Clay’s life who came so close to killing Bryce and even worse himself. He didn’t hesistate to face the legal consequences if it meant helping the girl he loved. And Clay eventually became his brother as his parents decided to adopt him. 

In S3, he started going to school and doing well, got a job, tried to start his life over, this time in a safe environment with a real family and friends who supported him. He was doing exceptionally well, he looked much happier, he finally felt what it’s like to be loved by a mother and father and a brother and he got some sense of normalcy in his life. He was there for Clay when things got bad, believed in him and he had his back ALWAYS. (still emo about their scenes together where they told each other “I love you” & “I’d do ANYTHING for you”), Plus, he was one of Tyler’s biggest supporters stating Tyler deserved a second chance to be better.

Come S4 ... he’s fresh out of rehab, looking better than ever. His friends welcome him when he gets back but everything is different. EVERYTHING. And everyone has changed. THE ENTIRE SEASON, NOBODY, NOT A SINGLE PERSON gave a fuck about him except for the coach and to a point his adoptive parents. He had done so much progress, he wanted to make his new family proud so bad, he was clean, he was doing great at school, he even got accepted into college!!! And what did he get in return???? NOT ONE OF HIS FRIENDS HUNG OUT WITH HIM ONCE, NOT EVEN ONCE. Every time he tried to approach someone or help THEM deal with their problems, he was turned away and even insulted. They would tell him he shouldn’t be giving advice and that he would never change who he used to be. He confessed to the coach that he felt like nobody believed in him and frankly?? NOBODY SHOWED THEY DID!!!!!!!! Jessica brushed him off all the time because she was MAD he broke up with her so he could FOCUS ON HIS HEALTH!!!!!!!!!! WHAT??????!!!!!!!!! She kept parading everywhere with Diego when she knew this was hurting him deeply. Clay was so fucking MEAN to him and I didn’t understand WHY after their great bonding their previous two seasons. Sure, he had his own problems, but there was NO reason for this, absolutely none. He was jealous of the moments Justin shared with his parents and how he was doing well at school and sports and got accepted in college. He even told in his FACE that Matt and Lainie are his parents ALONE, not Justin’s when he knew Justin’s biggest need was to feel the love and warmth of a family. Justin wanted to go to a free college so that Clay could have the money go to the BEST one and so the Jensens didn’t have to spend any on him. And I’m 100% sure he never told them how sick he was until it was too late because he didn’t want to be a burden so he decided to die quietly and slowly without upsetting them. Clay had the NERVE to pin the positive drug test on Justin when Justin was fucking CLEAN and then went on to smoke POT at that party. It broke my heart in 1000000 pieces when Justin asked him why he hated him so much. Zack wasn’t better either, basically telling Justin that he’d be a junkie his entire life and he could never change. The others mostly didn’t give a flying fuck, focused on nobody else but themselves and stayed far away from him the entire season. His mom died of OD and he didn’t tell anyone but the Jensens and Jess and he had to deal with everything all on his own again. He only had the coach to listen and there was a limit to what help he could give. So, he finally broke. He stopped caring since nobody was giving him a chance, he started using again, he lost his job, he didn’t care about anything. Jess and Clay knew he was using again and did NOTHING to help except tell him “Hey, I thought you quit! I thought you were getting better!”. Wow, BIG HELP, ASSHOLES. They all left him alone on prom night, and Clay SAW how sick he looked but he preferred to go to prom rather than stay with his brother who needed him.

Justin, with what little strength he had left, got dressed and went to the prom towards its end, he looked so beautiful in his suit, like Prince Charming. He lived one last carefree moment with the girl he loved and then he collapsed. And THAT’S when everyone said “OH, NO! Let’s go see our sick friend!”. Well done, now he IS DYING, YOU IGNORANT IDIOTS. Now that he’s at death’s door, you want to be there for him but WHERE WERE YOU WHEN HE WAS SO DESPERATELY TRYING TO LIVE?????????? Yes, it was proven that he had HIV, probably from the time he lived on the streets and without the proper care it went on to become fully AIDS and he had numerous other issues with his health as a result of that and the drugs to the point that he could no longer breathe on his own. BUT. Had he shared his problems and told the Jensens how sick he was feeling for so long, his death could have been prevented. I know someone in real life who got HIV in his 30s and he’s now in his 60s and his life is perfectly fine. He has friends, he has family (didn’t get married), he travels, he does what he wants. Justin could have been saved if someone had NOTICED. Like HANNAH could have been saved if someone, ANYONE was paying attention. Needless to say, I fucking died during his scenes in the hospital, it was so hard to watch him waste away in that hospital bed. When they took the tube out so he could say his goodbyes to Clay, Jess and his adoptive parents ... I LEGIT haven’t cried so hard in SO long ... I still have a headache from all the crying. My poor CHILD, he was scared but he told them all how much he loved them and eventually died in his sleep, holding his brother’s, Clay’s hand. The episode was meaningless after that for me. I only watched to see how everyone’s stories would end, even though I didn’t care and knew that they’d get their happy (mostly) endings. The one character who TRULY deserved the best and happiest ending, got royally fucked and buried six feet under while everyone went about their lives like nothing had happened.

I really don’t have much to comment on the rest of the story. Clay did one final extreme act by walking in the police department, saying he had a gun. Not convinved he didn’t really want to die too after Justin but perhaps his psychologist was right and he was just trying to make people notice he was hurting. I’m happy for Toni for doing what’s best for him and deciding to accept the scholarship and go to college, same goes for Tyler, he deserved to be happy and I’m glad he ended up with Estella. Relieved that Jess and Diego tested negative for HIV but disappointed they were ready to get back together so soon after Justin. Winston decided to not use what he found out about Bryce’s death against Alex and the others and that made me respect him a little bit. (Winston and Ryan btw? hehe, I kinda saw it coming ever since I saw Ryan and Courtney at the graduation-did anyone also notice Bryce and Monty in the crowd too??lol). Liked the graduation and Hannah’s little cameo (although it was archived footage) but it left me with a sour taste because Justin wasn’t there among the rest, only as a ghost in Clay’s mind. Also that Heidi girl talking to Clay, uh, SO cheesy and unnecessary. Clay reading Justin’s college essay with Justin’s ghost in their bedroom and seeing how it was all about him and Justin calling him his brother ... IT DESTROYED ME. UTTERLY AND COMLETELY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME. WHY WOULD YOU KILL THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CHARACTER OF THE SHOW. THE MOST COMPLEX AND DAMAGED ONE. WHY COULDN’T HE HAVE A HAPPY ENDING LIKE THE REST OF THEM. IT’S FUCKING UNFAIR.

I’m glad the final scene was just Clay and Toni driving away, always enjoyed their friendship. Having no word exchange between them was pretty powerful because you only needed to read their expessions to feel the emotions.

All in all, a powerful season who dealt with so many important issues, well directed and full of action but disappointing for me where it mattered the most ... Right now, I don’t want to even touch another show for a long time, I need a break to recover from this, it was too much. I wish I didn’t get so attached to certain characters, but I do and it hurts me deeply when shit like that happens to them. Anyway ... Goodbye, show ... it was (mostly) good while this journey lasted ... I sure hope I see all these HUGELY talented actors and actresses in other projects in the future, especially Brandon Flynn (Justin), Dylan Minnette (Clay), Katherine Langford (Hannah) & Justin Prentice (Bryce). I also hope Brandon & Dylan get ALL the awards for their performances in S4. THEY DESERVE EVERYTHING. I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts on all this, it was such an intense experience.

[emergenciesstory]

Patience with the Patient 1

Story Masterlist

Hospital prompts in Bold

You sighed as you swiped your badge on the units door, taking another long sip of your coffee. Walking to the desk, you quickly tossed your bag under it and logged in, pulling up patient charts for the night. You glanced at the screen, waving to Derrick as he passed you on his rounds, scanning through the charts.

“You’re here!” Jessica, the day nurse smiled, coming to you with patient binders. 

“Hey J, Thanks so much for covering while I was in class. I’ll take two hours from your morning.” You smiled, spinning to look at her.

“You better. I have to take the tots to preschool.” She smirked, taking a sip of your coffee and pulling charts. “These two, beds 1 and 3, are being discharged and then held empty for heart surgeries in the morning, ETA 9a. Bed 4 is going to rehab down the road. Sweet woman, knee replacement. Transport has been called and report given to dispatch, they should be here any moment.”

You nodded, scanning through her notes from entry that weren’t in the system yet. 

“And lastly, bed 2.” She handed you the chart, looking sadly at it.

“Who’s in Bed 2?” You asked, scanning the entry sheet. “Coma admission?”

“John Doe. Poor thing’s an amputee of the left arm with scars covering most of his chest from it. Someone dropped him, bloody, in the ER and left before he was even admitted.” Jessica paused lost in thought. “Only just got a line in, fluids. Seems to be stable.”

“Thanks Jessica. Enjoy your night.” You smiled at your friend, taking the charts and heading to the Bed 1 for your round.

Beds 1 and 3 signed their discharge paperwork and had family assist them in leaving. The transport team showed up while you were chatting briefly with Bed 4, you told them what they needed and helped transfer her to their stretcher with her belongings. You stripped the rooms quickly for cleaning to come in and headed to Bed 2, your only patient. 

The figure in the bed barely resembled a man, mud and bloody bandages covering his body, his hair matted and an unruly beard. You sighed, going to the supply room and grabbing the things you would need, stopping at the linens cart to grab fresh sheets and towels as well. Pulling up the side table, you laid everything out and filled a basin with warm water.

“No wonder no one identified you.” You murmured softly, wetting one of the towels. “We can’t see past this mess. Don’t worry, I’ve got you now.” 

You set to work, cleaning the mud out of his long brunette hair  and trimming his beard of the matted parts. You changed bandages as you went, making notes of all injuries and their conditions for the next nurse. A knock on the door made you stop, looking over the new man before you.

“I figured I’d find you in here.” Derrick said softly, coming to join you as you cleaned up all the soiled supplies. “Wow, he looks a lot better.”

“Just doing my part.” You smiled, turning the lights back to dim in the room. “I had the time.” 

“Speak of time, grab a bite with me?” Derrick asked, following you out of the room.

“Always.” 

_______

John Doe remained unidentified for the next three weeks. No one claimed a missing persons report, and though his wounds healed abnormally fast, he was not getting any better. Starting at the one week mark, he began having what looked like localized seizures, but all scans and tests came up negative for anything wrong with him. Because of this, whomever was on his case had him alone, and you requested to stay on the case. 

Night after night, you curled into the chair beside his bed, watching his monitors and working on your schoolwork. You yawned, the words on the page blurring together with your notes. The clock read 0200am, you set the books down thinking of going to grab a bite and stretch your legs. You saw Derrick leaving his patients room and smiled, heading for the door.

A monitor tone stopped you dead in your tracks, and you moved quickly back to the patient. You checked his IV, everything running properly. The heart rate increased, and you prepared for another seizure, grabbing the medication that would need to be administered. The jerking never came. You waited for five minutes on high alert, eyes flickering up to his face. Bright grey eyes looked back at you, groggy, but looking panicked. His hand moved up towards his mouth, reaching for the tube. 

“Okay, It can come out, just give me a second.” You said softly, grabbing a pair of gloves and sitting him up slightly. “This will feel odd, okay? On the count of three. One. Two. Three.” You pulled the tube out quickly, turning off the ventilator and grabbing a glass of water. His hand met yours quickly, taking the glass readily.

“You gave me quite the scare.” you smiled softly, standing close. He looked around the room slowly, no response on his face. “I’m Y/n, I’ve been your primary night nurse since you came to us. Can you tell me your name?” 

“James.” He said after a moment. It was rough and quiet, and he cleared his throat softly. “James Barnes.”

[adoreyou303]

Sweet Creature (H.S. Fic)

(CW: Mention of sexual assault and panic attacks)

Chapter Two

As time passes, Harry’s world feels as though it’s standing still. He isn’t sure how long he has been in the uncomfortable chair before the shrill ringing of his phone rips him from his thoughts. 

“Hello?” he rasps. 

“Harry? Where the hell are you? What is going on?” Harry’s manager, Jeff, screeches through the phone. 

“It’s Melanie. She’s been attacked. ’m with her at the hospital.”

“Jesus. What the fuck happened? The news is showing pictures of you getting in an ambulance. Are you hurt too?” Jeff questions worriedly. 

“No, ‘m fine. We found her being attacked. Scared the guy off. Jeff, he hurt her. Bad.” 

“The whole place is reeling with cameras. There’s no way he got in or out without being recorded.” The line goes quiet for a few seconds before Jeff sighs. “Do you want some company?” 

“That’d be nice,” Harry mumbles, running his fingers through his hair, the styling long forgotten. 

“Right, I’m on my way. I know this isn’t a good time, but we have to release a message to your fans about the concert. Do you have any ideas?” 

“Something about a personal emergency. I will release a statement when you get here. Just make it short and sweet, but vague. I’ll do damage control when I know she’s okay.”

“She’s going to be alright, mate.”

Harry and Jeff wait for an agonizing 30 minutes before Dr. Rameriz knocks on the door to the private room. The singer stands nervously, waiting to hear any news on his best friend. 

“She’s awake and asking for you,” the doctor smiles. “We’re only allowing one person at a time, so let’s just start with Harry.” 

His heart almost beats out his chest upon hearing the news of her asking for him. If it were up to him, he would run down the hallway and be by her side in an instant. Something in the air of how Dr. Rameriz looks at him tells him there’s something more he needs to know. 

As they walk toward Melanie’s room, Dr. Rameriz places a gentle hand on Harry’s arm. 

“Based on the injuries we were able to assess, we believe she was raped. We haven’t told her the full extent of her situation yet. She wasn’t in the mindset for any of us to tell her. In order for us to run all of our tests and submit a report to the police, we need her consent.”

“I can’t believe this… Are you asking… Are you saying you want me to tell her? This should be her decision.”

“I know this is a lot to take in. Of course it’s up to her to choose what she wants to do. She has every right to decline. We would just like your help to break the news to her. She seems to trust you. Sometimes it’s easier for patients to hear this kind of news from a loved one or with a loved one around. It can help aid them in making decisions or just having emotional support.” 

“Okay, what can I do?” he asks eagerly. 

Walking into her room, Harry felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Even in the hospital with tubes and bruises, she looked like the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He attempts to walk on his toes to be as quiet as possible, but the shuffling causes her to stir. 

“Harry,” she croaks, her eyes lighting up when she spots the figure by the door. 

“Hello, love. How are you feeling?” he asks, crossing the room in nearly two strides. He reaches down to grab her hand, but immediately recoils, fearing he will hurt her further. 

“It’s okay, you can hold my hand,” she smiles gently, wiggling her fingers slightly. Harry intertwines their fingers, bringing her hand up to his lips to leave a tender kiss near her thumb. 

“How are you feeling?” he urges, tilting his head slightly to indicate she has his full attention. 

“Sore. They gave me some stitches and I have bruises everywhere, but I’m okay. It could have been worse,” she sighs. He nods sadly, looking down at her body that is covered by the white sheet.

“Do you remember anything about what happened?” he asks softly, placing his other hand over their intertwined ones. Her eyes widen and for a second, he can almost see a scene flash through her mind, but as quick as she stumbled, she recovers as she shakes her head no. 

“I just remember something over my mouth and waking up not able to move,” she whispers. He can feel her hands shake beneath his, slightly wet from the nerves of recounting her recent attack. 

“When I found you, your attacker was on top of you,” Harry starts, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her palm.

“I remember falling out of a room or something. We were against a door…” she recalls, her eyes searching around the room aimlessly. 

“Right. He was on top of you… with his pants off,” he finishes, the last part quieter than a whisper. Her heart feels like it stopped. Her body freezes as she frantically tries to piece together any memories she can. 

“What?” she whispers, her eyes watering. 

“’m so sorry,” he says, lowering his head in a mix of guilt and sadness. 

Before Harry could even process any thoughts, he hears the sounds of rapid breathing and painful sobs emanating from the person he cared about most. If he thought the sight of her in a hospital bed was bad, the sight of her completely breaking down shattered his heart to pieces. A rush of alarms and bells sound, signaling she’s in some sort of distress. 

“Can I touch you? ’m going to help,” Harry asks quickly, but calmly, dropping their hands to bring himself face to face with her. She looks at him hesitantly, but nods in agreement despite her panicked state. Harry climbs into the bed behind her, noticing how she flinches at his touch. He reminds her of his intentions by repeating his name and what he’s doing in a slow and soothing voice despite the mess of nerves building in the pit of his stomach. Nurses race into the room and take in this odd sight. 

“She’s panicking,” Harry relays. “‘S okay, love. It’s Harry. I know you’re in there. Can you feel me breathing?” She nods against his shoulder, a feeling of embarrassment and anxiety swelling in her throat. 

“Good. Try to match your breathing with mine. Start small. In and out,” he instructs, exaggerating his breathing to help guide her. Her painful gasps of air start to even out as Harry continues to give her praise and encouragement. He peppers her hairline with kisses, admiring her inward and outwardly for her courage to fight. 

“You’re doing so well, darling. Just keep breathing, nice and slow. ’m right here with you,” he says gently. 

“Please don’t go,” she chokes out, her fingers grasping at his expensive shirt. 

“‘m not going anywhere, love. ’m staying right here with you.” 

Her uneven breathing settles into strangled cries mixed with an occasional sob. A kind nurse with a warm smile asks if she would like some medication. 

“No, no medication,” she cries, turning her head into Harry’s chest.

“It’ll help you sleep,” she encourages, placing a hand on the bed’s safety rail.

“I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admits, a fresh wave of tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll stay right here while you sleep,” Harry tells her, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. She contemplates it for a few seconds, almost falling asleep with Harry gently running his fingers through her hair. Suddenly, her eyes snap open as she frantically tries to push herself out of Harry’s arms.

“Wha’? Wha’ is it, love?” he asks worriedly. “Are you hurting?” The nurse frantically presses the red assistance button and snaps on a pair of gloves.

“The concert! We have to… YOU! You have to go! Your fans, they’ll be so disappointed if you don’t show up,” she rattles off. Harry takes her face between his hands in an effort to talk to her quietly and calmly, eyeing nurse readying the injection behind her. The nurse places the medication in her IV. Slowly, her muscles relax and her eyes begin to close. 

“Rest now, love. I’ll be here when you wake up,” Harry whispers, running his fingers lightly across her forehead. 

“Your injuries are healing nicely. If you notice any oozing or new bruising, come back immediately. This paperwork has all the information we talked about earlier, all the medications, and numbers to reach me at if you need anything at all, okay? Take it easy. It’s been a pleasure taking care of you, but I don’t want to see you back here,” Dr. Rameriz smiles, handing Melanie a thick stack of discharge papers. She nods appreciatively and thumbs through the papers mindlessly. Harry watches her with careful eyes, not wanting to push her before she’s ready. 

“I can feel you watching me,” she speaks up, her eyes not leaving the papers in her hand. 

“Sorry, love. Are you ready to go? We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

She looks up with timid eyes, an uneasy feeling suddenly saturating the room. Sensing the shift in the air, Harry pushes out of the chair he had been perched in since the early hours of the morning and makes his way toward her. He makes all his movements visible to her, and she watches him with fear filled curiosity. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he nervously rubs his palms on the fabric of his pants. 

“W-what if I’m never ready?” she stutters, feeling small and helpless.

“Oh, love. I wish I could take this away from you… all of this. I can’t go back and change what happened and I’m so sorry, but I can be there for you, with you, through the rest of this. You’re not alone, Melanie.” 

With trembling hands, she reaches out to grip the hand resting on his thigh. He responds by lacing his fingers through her hers. “Take your time. We will go at your pace.” Slowly, she leans her head on his shoulder. They sit on the hospital bed for an unknown length of time, with his head atop of hers, and for just a moment, it’s just the two of them: two small people in this big world.

[ultradiplr]

First Impressions

A SFW Sigma & OC fanfiction

Tags: Sigma, OC: Uahi (H453), mentions of death and regret, sort of Talon Sigma mention?

A/N No fluff, no smut, just a little practice at writing Sigma, its been a very long time since I’ve written so go easy on me!

Sigma sat alone in his room, well his lab, well not entirely a lab. It was a studio apartment as well, lab and apartment, not much different from when he was….. It was his home inside of this building inside of the ground. Well partially in the… it wasn’t important. What was important was that he was mostly alone, doing work, and counting down the seconds until the next guard came to watch him.

Endless shifts of guards. Talon Guards. Here to keep him safe. Keep his research safe really. Whether they actually cared about his person however he’d never know or care particularly. They watched, behind a mask similar to his experimental one, with tightly layered kevlar and metal suits holding loaded guns, treating him neither coldly or warmly, regarding him like a job. And he was. He was not their company, not a friend to converse with or a stranger to regard warmly as even a coworker, he was simply him. Subject Sigma. A job.

He didn’t care really, the people from… before…. Treated him like a job as well. No… no they didn’t. They treated him like an experiment. Like a thing to be observed. A thing to be tested. To be strapped down and used and….. No, he can’t get into it, not now, not while he’s working tonight. Or else it’d be another lost night of spiraling. These people here, the guards, at least they weren’t watching him for scientific research, weren’t strapping him down and forcing that melody into his room, weren’t keeping him confined and broken. These guards were just… here, with him, casually. This was their job. At least he could be okay with that.

“H453, for shift change.” A voice cut through the silence of the room and the rambling in his brain, he looked at the wall at a digital clock, strange was it off-

“H453 you’re five minutes early.” Sigma turned to look at the area besides his door to his lab.

A small glass encased room within the room, very small, almost like an old gate attendant box, with a control panel within it. The guard sat on a stool looking tired from his posture, and the new one sent to relieve him for the night stood in the booth’s own doorway, separate from the lab’s real one.

“Are you complaining?” They asked, the one standing.

“Nope.” Said the one sitting as they stood and sidestepped the new guard, “He’s all yours.” 

Sigma turned away then, pulling his attention back to his research, or at least back to his mind where he could think for a moment. H453, that was new, what happened to O657? Usually O657 was here after J223, and when O657 wasn’t here T784 was. Was there new scheduling? He’d been told there were new staff earlier this week but he’d assumed it was for the technical team, and not the guard. What on earth happened to O657? He quite liked them, when they fell asleep they didn’t snore. And when they were awake they’d hum tunes. And there was that one time they warned him about instruments about to fall off a table and he thought that was rather nice. Who was this new person who-

“Good Morning” A voice, a clear voice, not spat out from the speakers of a mask, asked him from the box, and he jumped a little.

He looked back at them, or rather her, firstly surprised at being addressed so directly, and again at the disregard at protocol as he saw clearly her face, she had taken her Talon issued headgear off. She was mature, or at least looked to be, pronounced grey hairs filling her black tied back bun of hair. She looked tired, which was fair considering the time… the time! He looked at her and back at the clock, god, MIDNIGHT.

A hand rose to his face and pinched his nose and rubbed his eyes, he’d been working for a solid twelve hours since his last break, and hadn’t eaten in just as long. He sighed and looked back at her, giving her a raised brow, before staunchly ignoring her greeting and floating over to a kitchen of sorts in this cavernous room.

“Kitchen” being a generous term for it, it was a table with an electric teapot used to make hot water on it, a few boxes of various teas, and a handful of instant foods made with adding hot water. He was allowed to make his own food, though the pickings were slim, not a fresh piece of fruit, vegetable or meat in sight, processed and packaged meals were his whole life, though he couldn’t complain really, better than the tube stuff… much better. 

“Or you can just ignore me.” He heard her mumble rather loudly, obviously meaning for him to hear.

He made a noise to acknowledge that he heard her, opening up a bowl of instant noodles, and pouring in hot water and flavoring.

“Instant noodles, I had the same dinner.” He heard her speak, again, as he watched the noodles cook in front of him, “You’d think they’d splurge a little more on at least name brands.” she attempted to joke.

Truth be told, he was surprised at her attempts to be somewhat friendly, more than the last few, though he did remember some of them being friendly… before…. Before a large hiring of new guards…. New guards….. Every few months there were always new people, all more quiet than the last.

He cut his thought off early from that, not wanting to say to himself why that was, best to move on from that. Sacrifices could reasonably be made in the name of science after all…

“You always this quiet or should I be alarmed?” She asked casually, but the tone of annoyance was not lost on him.

“I am tired.” He answered without turning toward her, fixated on the bubbles rising between the instant noodles breaking up, though he was afraid it came off more intense then he meant for it to be, considering he heard it echoing in the room, his voice louder than he realized.

He heard her scoff and then the squeak of the stool as she settled more back, “Sorry, i’ll be quiet.” she said, and though she sounded sincere, no doubt she was a bit…. Annoyed.

He frowned to himself, squeezing his lips into a thin line and wearing an intense expression as he mixed the now softened noodles around. He disliked how this first impression went, how awkward it must be for her to be stuck in a room with a giant floating man who refuses to talk to you. Though that wasn’t his fault, was it? She should have known he wasn’t the “talkative” type...  well he used to be…. He used to be a lot of things…. But he wasn’t anymore was he?

He shook his head as memories of summits and meetings and lunches began to flood his mind, he disliked thinking of before in such personal detail, in ways where he can feel like he was there, because sometimes it feels like he is….. And that scared him.

“You are fine, I am just tired, I have been up all day.” He says softly, noting the lack of echo, good, he’s at an acceptable volume, “Though I would think you know that.” He said, trying to make light of the situation as he picked up the warm bowl in his hands and floated back to his work table.

“Something like that, the briefing for this station is pretty long.” she said plainly, it seems he’d have to do better if she was going back to her previous tone.

“I would not be surprised, it seems they send a new guard here every other week.” He sat above his work station, comfortable lounging as he picked and ate his food slowly, hunger not overshadowing hard set eating habits.

“Considering the casualties, I wouldn’t be surprised, they’re down to pulling veterans.” She yawned with a stretch, the metal, plastic and kevlar scraping together, much too loud for his liking, even above his slurping.

The word casualties hung in the air, although she said it so nonchalantly, it stuck to the inside of his skull. He disliked the word greatly, murders would be more fitting a small voice in the back of his head would whisper, bodies another would say, fools yet another would say, roadblocks, the price of success, the price of science, the price of humanity….

Before he knew it he was staring down at an empty bowl, completely empty, no soup no noodles, he blinked and then he felt a splash of hot to warm water splash his face as his bowl was suddenly full again.

He yelped as he got drenched with his own floating meal and suddenly touched the ground, standing tall on his own two feet as he trudged over to the meager sink and dumped his food in it, frustrated and upset.

“Get out, I will be going to bed.” he said harshly, his echoing voice barely puncturing his own racing thoughts, already stomping to his bed within the same room.

He stood beside his bed, focusing on the object, grounding himself as he touched the soft fabric to make like he was getting in. Some part of him noticed the sound of the shifting of her suit gear as she got up and the sound of the guard box’s door opening and shutting.

He got into bed and listened to the murmurings subsiding as he stared at the wall, the lights shut off about thirty minutes later, reasoned that him not moving was a sign of sleep while in reality he just focused on a small crack in the wall. Minuscule really, looks more like a dent, a chip in the paint even. Bigger than it had been during his first few weeks, a month ago he had focused hard on the crack and it had grown. The show of strength had scared him greatly and he had not attempted it again. But it stayed here, this crack, reminding him of how powerful he had become. More permanent than any guard, more permanent than the countless others he must have hurt, even more permanent than the fleeting memories and achievements he had made before… before he became this.

He blinked, one, twice, three times, slower and slower, and before long he drifted to sleep, his dreams filled with space and floating shapes and theoretical lines and vectors and math unknowable and incomprehensible. 

[50scentsofsoap]

Little Things

In a world where you’re trapped by what people expect of you and Jungkook is your boyfriend.

word count: 2k genre: fluff/angst/smut-y tw: depression

It’s the little things you know. It’s him sliding his freshly moisturised hands into yours, just to make sure you’re there next to him. It’s him playing with your hair because he’s bored and wants you to not work either. It’s him looking at your screen whenever you freak out about something new or fresh, to better understand what makes you tick and what you like. It’s him letting you take the last salmon bagel even though he likes them too. It’s him grabbing you by the nape as he wraps his ankles around your calves, to pull you in closer and to kiss you deeper. To get as much of you as he can, because this is the only time he’s allowed to be greedy… only in those stolen minutes.

It’s him looking away from you as you get changed, because he respects your boundaries and absolutely loves whatever you limit him to. It’s him waiting for you to initiate the kiss so he knows when to go as well. It’s him asking “no?” if you pull away from the kiss, to make sure you want to stop or if you’re teasing him. It’s him biting your lip with a tender pull, as to not harm you, although you wouldn’t mind either way. It’s him looking at you with those hungry eyes, with such ferocity and depth that makes you feel so lucky to have him. The glare that tells you loud and clear that he only sees you, only you. The passionate stare that you’ve only read about but know now it’s completely different to how they describe it in the books. It’s so much more raw… vulnerable… pleading… ecstatic, as if he just took a hit of all class A substances in one go. That one look that lets you know you’re loved, wholly and truly.

It’s him giving you a good morning kiss on your forehead, as you startle from your slumber. It’s him pulling you back to bed as you try to get some work done, because you both know alone time is very rare and so you’d rather make the most of whatever time you have. It’s him shuffling closer to you as you’re trying to fall asleep, just to be closer to you, to drink in your scent. It’s kissing him deeply and slowly in the dark as you try not to wake up your roommate. It’s waking up with your arm wrapped around his torso, as your fingers are intertwined as well. It’s him kissing purple galaxies onto your skin, biting the soft flesh as he elicits a soft gasp from you.

It’s him stopping you walking just to pull you to the side of the road to kiss you because “you’re so damn cute when you sing like that.” It’s him pushing you onto the wall in the hallway, whispering a small confession of “I love you” before his lips collide with yours. Tongues trying to dominate one another, grazing each others teeth, lips locked with no room to breathe out. It’s pulling away from the kiss suddenly as you hear the lift doors open, trying to keep your cool. It’s losing your control and giving him a hickey on his neck, a no go zone. It’s him caressing your cheek as he looks deep into your eyes before going in for a soft peck, just to reaffirm your beliefs that he still likes you and knows you still like him.

It’s him asking you to be more forceful with him, as he wants to test his own limits and try to grasp an idea of what it is you like too. It’s scratching his back just hard enough to cause a response but not so hard as for it to hurt. It’s suddenly pulling his hair back to get better access to his neck, as he slowly exhales, lips parted, shallow breaths, a look of shock laced with excitement in his eyes. Lust, that’s what it is. It’s so much more powerful to view it right in front of your own eyes, but also so painful. You want to touch him more, but you’re only allowed to go so far as you’re bound by religion and faith to be true to your beliefs before all else. Guilt washes over you, not because of what you’ve done but because of the things you imagine doing with him. Such pervasive thoughts should never be acted upon, and it is up to you to control your emotions as well as your flesh.

It’s you being difficult and a bit of a mess and him being able to tolerate your presence, even though you’re being an insufferable bitch. It’s him invading your every thought, permeating your walls and slowly breaking them down, one by one, even though he doesn’t even realise it. It’s being able to talk to him about pretty much anything, a task you’ve had much difficulty with your whole life. It’s giving yourself over to him emotionally and physically, one step at a time. It’s crying so easily at the thought of how easily he accepts your flaws and opinions, even if they conflict with his own. It’s being able to feel this precious concoction of hormones and neurotransmitters and know what it’s called, along with the fact that day by day it’s growing. It’s feeling scared that you’ll screw up and lose what you two have over something completely idiotic. It’s feeling your heart get heavier every time you think about the ‘inevitable’ break up, because you can’t help but think of the worst. It’s knowing that how much more you give into this, how much more it’s going to hurt if it ends. If. Not when. If.

It's him asking you to meet up as often as possible, so see each other whenever you can. Meeting in those stolen minutes during summer which you could account to 'train delays’ in order to walk with him to the tube station, hand in hand, step by step, glance after glance. It's messaging him the little 'good morning’s and 'good night's like clockwork, a working system that keeps on going. It's sending him the ugliest pictures of your face, only for him to react with the heart eyes emoji, causing you to wonder how on earth he could even like you looking like that. Then again, he's seen you at your worst behaviour and has begun to get accustomed to your habits. It's using excuses to go on a date with him, so that you can pretend for a few hours to be a normal person on a date with their boyfriend, not this being who is bound by familial duties and house rules.

It's pondering on the time differences during your travels and counting the hours until you have WiFi and can feel connected with him again. It's keeping the snap streak alive by sending selfies of bed-ridden hair juxtaposed with half done makeup, or him sending his face complete with puffy after food cheeks and his bottom lip slightly curled inward. His lips are so plump, you oft feel envious of them, but that soon dissolves away whenever you feel how soft and velvety they are on your skin. The way he absentmindedly grabs your hand, only to rub the back of your hand against his lips, get you as giddy as a teen around her first crush. The way he rests his hand on your thigh, halfway encircling it, makes you feel at ease and a sense of calm washes over your. His cologne reminds you of morning dew, sugary drinks, and butterscotch, quite an intoxicating concoction.

It's getting angry at him for the smallest of mistakes, and yet not telling him he's made you feel this way. Rather, bottling it up and letting your frustration simmer away until you've had enough, so you ignore him, the only way you know to behave if you're angry at someone. It's forgiving him in an instant as soon as he apologizes, because you know you can't stay mad at him for so long, but the anger you felt gets stowed away, ready to erupt. It's working together as an excuse to be around each other more, despite the fact that you're both really stressed out from everything piling on. It's you feeling guilty about not being a good girlfriend, because you can't make time in your schedule for a date, a movie or even a cuddle session. It's the fear of your mother finding out about this too soon that keeps you from being more bold about spending time with him. It's the fear of what you'll do if you're in bed with him again, as you know each time you stay over, both of you go a bit further every time. You want to stay loyal to your faith and your beliefs, and you know giving into your flesh prison requests aligns well with that, yet you feel scared of accidentally betraying your identity if you do so.

It's feeling the weeds of doubt grow in your mind, and your anxiety saying he'll leave you soon enough. It's being tempted to leave him before he can leave you, so that you feel more in control of where your relationship is going. It's messaging him constant “I love you”s and “I appreciate you” to remind him that you care deeply for him, and also to convince yourself of the same, in order to remove those weeds. It's realising that the doubts are a mixture of the manifestations of your own insecurities and an imbalanced brain chemistry. It's convincing yourself that you are not depressed, when you know you are and it's causing you to sabotage your relationship with him. It's about this being a good thing, which may not always have good times, however that is something to work on and build together, not something which stays constant throughout the course of your relationship. Feelings change, but you must put in the effort of making sure your relationship changes with it. It's homeostasis after all, and this relationship is still infantile. You need to see a doctor about you, it's not healthy or normal to be this volatile, still pondering about death or dragging him into your own mess.

It’s about getting intimate under the covers. A sense of familiarity and comfort washes over you when you’re near his body. It’s his scent consuming your senses, drinking him in. It’s about following through all the motions leading to sex, but never actually daring to go any further south with him. It’s about controlling your desire to do more with him. To him. For him. The control is what keeps you in check about your faith. It’s about him also doing the same, not crossing your boundaries, not even an inch. Hair tugging, neck kisses, ear bites, cheek schwomps, bear hugs and so much more. You are drunk on his essence, and you would not have it any other way. It’s the morning alarm snoozes and convincing the other to get dressed. It’s the morning burritos and the morning cuddles. Wrapped up and comfortable, just enjoying the seconds tick by. It’s him wanting to spend minutes just looking at your face, as you enjoy his features too, taking in every detail of his complexion. This level of intimacy is beyond physical pleasure, and what you enjoy building your mutual affection upon. The sensual and the silly, all things you enjoy and bring a warm smile to your face.

Yet, the age old testament proves to hold true once again: All good things must come to an end. In the blink of an eye, it had ended as abruptly as it had started. A blip in the grand scheme of life but a lifetime of bittersweet memories to carry around. You shared a lot of firsts, and you’re grateful for this opportunity. However, you do need all the jealousy, agitation, contempt, disgust, rage and resent in order to overwrite all the good memories. Akin to taping over an old home movie with a twelve season tv show. The If turned into a Did and you turned into something other.

[beckzorz]

Blood Bank (one-shot)

Pairing: Winter Soldier x f!Reader Words: 8007 Warnings: Death, blood, needles, murder, swearing, mentions of past torture... And angst, in case all the other warnings didn’t give it away. Summary: Your captors ask you your blood type. Your answer changes everything. A/N: Written for @connorshero​’s song challenge! My song was “Take Me To Church” by Hozier, I was particularly inspired by these lines: “I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Good God, let me give you my life.” Thank you so, so much to @prettyyoungtragedy​ and @jewelofwinter​ for beta reading at different points for me :3 So much appreciated! I hope you enjoy :3

There’s a rattle at the door. Low voices hissing, arguing. You know those voices. They’re the voices of the people hurting you.

You groan and force your eyes open. Who is it now? Another bout of torture? Another round of tests? More foreign substances pumped into you? The last pills they gave you made you hallucinate for three days straight. You’ve only been clean—as clean as one can get in a place like this—for a few hours.

Unless the whispers are hallucinations, too.

At least you know the cell is real. It’s small, dark, the same it’s been since you were first thrown in. It’s not too cold right now, or at least, you’re not shivering despite the fact that your only protection is a thin gray jumpsuit. You don’t even have socks, let alone shoes. But still, you’re not cold.

Is it daytime? It’s not like you can tell. The whispering has ceased, but you can hear the key sliding into the lock with its customary grind.

The guard who barges inside is breathing heavily, his eyes wide and face pale. You cower into your flimsy mattress, but the guard—Vasilyev? Vasilev?—doesn’t grab you just yet.

“Your blood type!” he barks. It’s not a question. You answer anyway. He sighs, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Thank fuck.”

He storms out, slamming the door behind him, but it doesn’t catch.

You sit up slowly.

The door is open?

Is this freedom?

You leap to your feet, head spinning, heart pounding. Before you can take even a single step towards freedom, Vasilyev bursts back in. You throw your hands over your head with a whimper, waiting for the inevitable blows, but all Vasilyev does is grab your wrists and drag you out into the hall. You stumble at his brisk pace, limbs aching in protest. His grip is too tight, and after three days in your tiny cell your legs are sore.

He yanks you along. The concrete is rough against your bare feet, more so when you stumble again, feet dragging on the ground.

“Keep up.” Vasilyev’s voice is rough, but there’s an edge of panic to it that leaves a long string of question marks in your hazy mind.

What’s going on?

You haven’t been imprisoned long. It all happened less than two weeks ago, the man in black and the blood and the blindfold…

In that time, they’ve taken you around their little complex, but it’s all been with a lazy interest that’s sent shivers down your spine every time. Nothing they’ve done to you is important, not really. Whatever they’re testing aren’t things they need. Experiments, not necessity. They’ve barely scratched the surface in the torture department, at least in your opinion. No pulling fingernails, no American handcuffs, no brands in your skin.

But the panic in Vasilyev’s voice is different. It’s new. You’ve never heard him so unnerved before, not like that. The only other time was when you got your hands on an empty syringe, and were about to jab it into your skin—

You’d gotten a beating for that, before they injected you with hallucinogens. Even now, there are bruises on your thighs. But they hadn’t hurt you enough to break anything. Or even break you. Not really.

The second turn clues you in to where Vasilyev is taking you. The infirmary is the only place at this end of the building, at least that you’ve been to. You assume the dark room across the hall is a morgue.

Maybe they’re bringing you there.

But no, Vasilyev thrusts you through the swinging infirmary doors shoulder first. The same nurse, doctor, whatever, from your syringe escapade jumps up from his seat and rushes towards you.

“Here she is. Where do you want her?” Vasilyev’s grip is bruising, but for all that you can still feel his trembling.

“What’s going on?” you blurt.

“Strap her down, over there,” the nurse says, ignoring your question entirely as he points towards two gurneys sitting side by side. “It should work.”

Vasilyev drags you to the closest gurney and pushes you down. You bounce on the thin mattress; the bruises on the back of your thighs are so tender you cry out.

“The other one, you idiot,” the nurse says. “What, you want me to stab his left arm?”

“Shut up, fuckface.” Vasilyev drags you around to the other gurney and slams you down so hard you see stars.

By the time your vision clears, your hands and one foot are strapped into cuffs hooked to the railings. You kick at Vasilyev with your one free leg, but he grabs it easily, strapping it down just like the others.

“Now keep still, or else.”

Vasilyev jabs his fist into your stomach. You wheeze, doubling up as far as your bindings will let you. Your eyes burn, and even after the initial pain fades to a dull throb, you can’t keep the tears at bay. The nurse is busy at his station at the other end of the room, the tinkle of instruments and the sloshing of liquids all sending fresh shudders up your spine as you collapse flat on your back.

Your mind reels. What is happening? What could possibly be so urgent? Why are they stabbing someone’s arm—is someone else being brought in? What are you doing here? It had all started with Vasilyev asking for your blood type.

Blood, needles, arms, liquid—rubbing alcohol?

The nurse hurries over, his steps light and quick and the little cart squeaking against the floor until he wheels it to a stop at your left side, between the gurneys. You lift your head, heart racing, but all you see is a syringe hooked to a tube.

Arms. Needles. Blood.

“Come here, Vasilyev, hold her down.”

Vasilyev grumbles, but he obeys. He leans across you, holding your left arm down in a bruising grip at the wrist and shoulder. You hiss, try to shift, but you’re weak and he’s too strong. He smirks down at you, but there’s still worry lurking in his eyes.

You swallow, almost ready to ask, but then the nurse swipes the inside of your elbow with rubbing alcohol. You tense.

Blood.

“Please,” you beg. “Please just tell me what’s going on!”

“Relax your arm,” the nurse says. He wiggles the syringe by your face. “Otherwise this will hurt.”

You try to relax. You really do. But the needle is thicker than you’re used to, and Vasilyev’s weight digging into your arm is already giving you pins and needles, and you’re more scared than when the walls started crumbling around you during your hallucinations, and—

A scream rips from your throat as the nurse slides the needle in. It burns; it’s like a whole knife shoved up your arm.

“Oh, please,” the nurse scoffs. “Calm down, won’t you? You’re giving me a headache.”

Vasilyev snorts.

Your scream dissolves into sobs; every one exacerbates the ache in your stomach, but you’re powerless to stop. The nurse tapes down the needle, pats your shoulder, and starts to hum off-key. Vasilyev lets go of you at last. They leave you.

You lie there, shudders racking your body as you slowly come back to yourself. Every movement of your arm shifts the needle, shooting fresh pains up and down your arm. You hold as still as you can.

Arms. Needles. Blood.

A commotion starts in the corridor, silencing the nurse’s humming. Echoing shouts, bangs… Vasilyev and the nurse jump to their feet; Vasilyev rushes out into the hall. The nurse inches towards you, pale. You twist your head to look at the door, brows pinched and neck twinging.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Time to do our part,” the nurse says with false cheer. “We mustn’t make our little outpost look bad now.”

The door bursts open; the nurse skids back. Two guards, led by a stony-faced Vasilyev, are supporting a third man dressed in black whose feet drag along the floor, leaving trails of blood in their wake.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

The man in black’s head is lolling on his neck, his chin tucked against his chest. His clothes are shiny with blood. Behind his curtain of matted dark hair, a long scrape along his cheek is dotted with blood too.

The guards are breathing heavily. The man in black is barely breathing at all.

“Stand up,” Vasilyev barks, but there’s a hint of fear behind his order.

The two guards step gingerly away from their—prisoner? He has to be a prisoner, the way Vasilyev is barking and the way the blood is just leaking out of him. The man groans as he rights himself, barely able to lift his head.

Vasilyev slaps him.

You flinch. The man doesn’t react at all, except that his head falls to the side, giving you the first clear view of his face. He hasn’t spotted you yet, but he’s white as a sheet behind the blood.

“Get on the gurney,” Vasilyev orders. He shoves the man, who stumbles and barely catches himself.

At a look from Vasilyev, the two other guards help lift the man in black onto the gurney. He’s tall, broad; he takes up more room on the gurney than you were expecting from his pathetic entrance. He’s oddly quiet now; has he fallen unconscious? No—he shifts under their prodding hands, hair falling around his face to reveal a chiseled profile and barely parted lips. Vasilyev pushes one of the guards aside and starts to strap the man in. He works fast, too fast; his fingers slip on the second cuff and he swears.

The nurse, puttering around, sniffs with disdain.

“He’s lost too much blood to be a threat, Vasilyev,” he murmurs. “Just look at him.”

“You spend too much time at this godforsaken outpost. Trust me,” Vasilyev says, strapping the man’s chest down with a grunt, “he’s always a threat.”

Always a threat? You stare at the man beside you as Vasilyev adds yet another strap, this one across the man’s black-clad thighs. Who is he?

All he does is moan.

Now that the man is strapped down, the nurse steps between the gurneys. He’s holding another syringe, but he hesitates.

“Should we remove the sleeve, perhaps?”

“Don’t waste our time,” Vasilyev snaps. “Get to it!”

“I can’t get to it if I can’t find a vein.”

Vasilyev positively growls. He yanks a knife free from his belt and none too gently slices up the thick sleeve, baring the man’s arm to the elbow and nicking a fresh cut on his upper arm. A drop of blood wells up against ghostly pale skin. “Happy?”

“Mm, it’ll do.”

The nurse doesn’t bother to clean the other man’s elbow before he presses the needle in. That, at last, is enough to prompt you to speak.

“What about the alcohol?”

The nurse sighs. He rolls his head along his shoulders until he’s giving you the most bored look you’ve ever seen. “Do I tell you how to do your job?”

You tug against the cuff on your right hand, the one that won’t move the needle. Vasilyev takes a step towards you, a warning. You go still, but the nurse is still watching you expectantly. You glance at Vasilyev, but he rolls his eyes and gestures for you to answer.

“Yes,” you tell the nurse. “You told me to calm down.”

“Ha. So I did.” He slaps his knee. “Good advice, if I say so myself.”

“I don’t know,” you say shakily. You turn your head further to your left and flinch.

The man beside you is staring at you with blank blue eyes. His rapid, shallow breathing fans the few hairs caught on his lips. Tears sting your eyes. What have they done to him?

“Did they kill your family too?” you whisper.

Not softly enough.

Vasilyev and both other guards storm your gurney. You pull your limbs as far in as you can, but there’s no curling into a ball now.

“Lighten up, boys,” the nurse says loudly. The three guards come up short, Vasilyev’s hand inches from your throat and the others shoulder-to-shoulder at your feet. “She won’t last, he’ll be wiped, what’s it matter? Let them talk.”

The guards back away as the nurse turns back to you, fitting a clear plastic tube to the syringe lodged in your left elbow.

You won’t last?

The man beside you is frowning now. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. A tear leaks out of your eyes. Poor soul; he looks half a corpse. Is he going to be fed whatever they’re about to put in you?

What do they mean, wiped?

Suction in your veins draws your eyes down to the needle in your arm.

“Whaa?!”

The nurse moves away, and suddenly you can see. They aren’t putting anything in you.

They’re draining you dry.

“No no no no no no no!”

Blood is being sucked out of you through the needle into the tube; you shake your head, terror clamping down your throat, as you follow the path of the snaking blood through the tube hanging in the empty air between the two gurneys.

The man beside you hisses as his right arm sucks up your blood. His eyes squeeze shut; the veins on his neck stand out in sharp definition over his collar even with the streaks of blood painting his skin. You look down, pulse racing, and rattle your left arm, but the syringe is taped down too tight, and every bend of your elbow sets it further in.

Scant feet away, the man’s rapid breathing eases. You whip your head back to look at him, shudders racking your whole body.

“Who are you?” you whimper.

He meets your eyes again, but his expression is as blank as before.

Enough. If he can’t answer with words, what’s the point in talking to him? You tug at three of your bindings, keeping your left arm still, but there’s not enough give to do anything more than sit halfway up. You glance back at the man, but he’s not looking at your face anymore. His gaze has landed on the plastic tube dangling between the gurneys. Just as you had moments before, he follows the trail from your arm to his.

He frowns. Looks back to you. You’re still shaking. Will you ever stop shaking?

You close your eyes and take deep breaths until they’re almost smooth. Then you look back at the man, bypassing his confused face to study the rest of him. There’s the ruined sleeve, baring a pale, muscular forearm. Blood dotting his uniform…

Uniform?

You suck in a breath, eyes wide as you finally grasp the whole picture. He’s armed. Armed to the teeth, or he would have been, if all the holsters criss-crossing his body had been full. Most are empty, but you know what’s missing. Pistols. Knives. Instruments of death…

As it is, the wide holster against his thigh is still sporting a knife. Your eyes snap back to his. His gaze wanders almost lazily down to his leg; he runs his fingers along the hilt of the knife at his side as he looks back to you.

Why have they left him armed?

“Who are you?” you rasp.

Confusion clouds his face. He licks his lips, blue eyes struggling to focus. When they finally do, his expression clears. “They took you.”

What?

You open your mouth, but the question lodges itself in your throat. The knife… The guns, the black uniform, the fact that he’s armed—that he knows they took you—

“Oh god!”

You try and scoot away, but the bindings on your arms and legs only let you go so far.

“You—you killed them! My family, they’re dead!”

He just stares. There’s no remorse in his eyes, no denial.

“Oh god…”

Your eyes burn, your stomach quakes. You jerk harder with your arms and legs, rattling the gurney and doubling up as much as you can against the wave of nausea. The gurney skids inches across the floor, the harsh squeal of locked wheels against cold tile echoing through the infirmary. The needle taped into your elbow shifts; you cry out, but you don’t stop. How can you stop? You’re literally being forced to give life to the man who killed your family.

“Hey!”

Vasilyev bears down on you, brandishing a scalpel.

At that, you freeze.

“Keep still or I’ll pin you down!” he growls. He jabs the scalpel next to your head, yanking hard until the fabric tears, the sound unnaturally loud so close to your ear.

“I’ll have to clean that now,” the nurse says drily. “Isn’t the whole point to not waste her blood?”

Vasilyev snorts. He pulls the scalpel free and pushes you even closer to the other gurney than before. The man—the murderer is within reach, even with the cuffs. You bite your tongue to contain your whimper, but the man beside you makes no move in your direction.

All he does is look.

You can’t hold his gaze. Your eyes fix on the tube connecting you. There’s a break in the bloodstream from your struggle. It oozes along, slow as molasses, until it’s sucked into him.

You close your eyes.

Are they dragging this out on purpose? Is this ever going to end? You crack open an eye, but the nurse is lounging on a wheeling stool, the picture of inaction. The guards are huddled in easy reach, but too far for you to make out their hushed conversation. The room is cold now, colder than before. Goosebumps break out along your arms.

Meanwhile, the man beside you is regaining color. His breathing is steady; yours is a mess. Your stomach is more curdled than sour milk. Bile rises in your throat as you stare at your family’s killer.

“Why did you do it?” You swallow hard. “What did they do?”

“They were in the way of freedom.”

“What?!” you gasp. “They were fighting for freedom!”

You know what your parents were up to. They’d always left you out of it, but you knew. You’d known all along. Your hands were always clean, but you’d never been ignorant. Of their methods, perhaps, but you knew what the pamphlets were for, even if you never had a chance to read them before they were whisked out of sight.

No, you were never involved. But here you are, strapped to a table, giving life back to the man who took everything from you.

“What about me, then?” you ask, voice and hands shaking. “What did I do?

“You?” His eyes dart around, but they don’t land on anything. After a heavy moment, he shakes his head. His brow darkens. “You know what you did.”

“Do I?” The laugh that comes out of you isn’t recognizable. It’s painted with horror. “The worst things I’ve done—they don’t merit this.” You shake your left arm at him. The plastic tube wavers in the air.

“What did you do?” he asks, voice low. His gaze flits to the doctors, but they’re ignoring you still. “Tell me.”

Your stomach churns. You’ve never told anyone… But this is it, isn’t it? This is your last chance.

“I stole from my parents. I burned a flag. I tried to kill someone, once.”

His face contorts with shock at that. “You?”

You can’t blame him for his incredulity. What a picture you paint now, with sweat beading on your brow and your hands shaking, rattling the cuffs against the metal railings. But you’d been alive once, really alive, with as much vigor and feeling as anyone.

“Who?” he asks.

You swallow. The guards and the nurse are watching impassively.  One of the guards leans over and whispers something in the nurse’s ear; both of them snigger. Hot anger surges in your breast, and you fix the man beside you with a harsh stare even as you shiver.

“Someone who tried to hurt me.”

The man frowns. “Is that all?”

“Wha-what else do you want?” You laugh weakly, but it quickly turns into a cough. Every hack jolts your aching head and sets your stomach roiling.

The man’s blue eyes slide around the room. His fingers glide along the knife at his thigh. You whimper.

“Enough,” the man says, loud enough for the guards and nurse to hear.

“We’ll see about that,” the nurse says, hurrying over. He pushes the gurneys farther apart and stops the flow of blood, leaving the needles in. He turns to examine the man behind you. The nurse hums as he looks the man over, seeming satisfied with what he finds. “Alright, he’s stable.”

The nurse takes the needle from the man’s arm, taping down a gauze pad to stop the bleeding. He does the same for you. The second the hole in your elbow is taped up, you curl your sore arm as much as you can. You hiss. God, it hurts. And every bone feels like a hundred pounds. Your arm collapses back to your side, bouncing on the mattress.

“Well, soldier, what’s the damage?” the nurse asks.

Soldier? Is that what he is? He isn’t dressed like the others, who wear uniforms with red berets like normal soldiers. The man beside you is dressed like a shadow, or a ghost.

Like a murderer.

Vasilyev looms over you, his eyes sharp and mouth pressed in a thin line. You roll your head aside, away from him. Your skull is throbbing hard now. Vasilyev’s hands are hot on your skin as he undoes the cuff on your right arm. If you had the strength, you’d try to hit him. As it is, you’re as helpless as a rag doll, your gaze fixed on the man lying beside you. He’s watching you, something like sorrow in his blue eyes as the nurse prods at his ribs.

“No more,” you whimper. You don’t know whom you’re pleading to. “Please.”

Vasilyev ignores you as usual. The other cuffs are gone in seconds. He forces you to sit up, but the second he lets go of you, you topple back with a wheezy grunt. Your head pounds from the impact.

“For fuck’s sake,” Vasilyev groans.

The nurse tsks. He swivels on his stool to look you over. His acrid green gloves are stained with blood. “What did you think was going to happen, Vasilyev?”

“No more,” you repeat.

The nurse pats your cheek. “There, there.”

Blood clings to your face. You glance to your left again, eyes wide and wet. The soldier’s lips, pink now, part as he takes you in. Your blood is in him, and his blood is painting your skin.

“Make it stop,” you beg. “Please, soldier.”

His mouth sets in a line. His blue eyes harden.

“Just use the gurney,” the nurse tells Vasilyev, and then he turns back to the man at your left.

The soldier drives his knife into the nurse’s gut. The nurse freezes, gurgles. The soldier yanks the knife across the nurse’s belly; blood spurts out of the wound, splattering the soldier’s black uniform with a fresh coat of red.

You gape. Your weak pulse pounds in your ears.

The soldier sits up, the bindings across his arms and chest tearing as though they were butter. The nurse topples to the ground. Vasilyev is shouting, pulling out his gun; the other two guards rush over, but the soldier twists to his left, toppling his gurney. Vasilyev’s first bullet pings against the metal frame; the second tears through the mattress, but the soldier’s already rolled away. Four more bullets whizz through the air, inches from you, but none hit their mark.

Your heart skips a beat. Is this freedom? Bullets, blood, bile in your throat—is this freedom?

Vasilyev drops to his knees at your side as the soldier carves his way through the other two guards. The air moving past you sparks a fresh burst of goosebumps. Vasilyev props his gun on your knee, taking aim.

“Don’t move,” he warns.

You freeze. Your heart sinks. Not freedom, then.

Every shot sends shudders recoiling along your leg, and you clench the gurney’s handles in an attempt to keep still. There’s an empty ferocity on the soldier’s face, one that doesn’t dissipate when his eyes pass over you.

Fresh blood is spattered on his cheeks.

Are you next?

Vasilyev swears. He reloads his gun, but before he can take aim, a bullet whizzes through the air over your legs and hits him square in the forehead. Vasilyev topples backwards, gun soaring through the air.

Only then does the soldier turn back to you. He’s not even panting. The work of barely a minute—four men dead, himself freed from bondage—hasn’t winded him at all.

Vasilyev’s gun clatters against the floor.

“No more,” the soldier says.

Your words, in a quiet, thoughtful baritone. Your words, in his mouth?

Is that better or worse than your blood in his veins?

You don’t know. All you know is that lying helpless and freezing on a gurney, your family’s killer standing over you, half your life sapped away to fuel his—none of it feels like freedom.

The soldier tucks the stolen gun into one of his holsters. His blue eyes rove across your prone body, from your face to your bare arms to your bare feet. You curl your arms across your chest. Your left elbow is sore, but the scratchy gray jumpsuit is far too little protection. Under his intense gaze, you feel exposed.

His inspection complete, the soldier kneels over the bodies of the dead men littering the floor. You don’t have the energy to lift your head to look, but you can hear rustling, and the jingle of a keychain. Is he going through their clothes?

A thump at your feet makes you flinch. You finally prop yourself up on your right elbow and stare at the pair of military boots at your feet. Two footwraps come next.

Oh.

The soldier is stripping the bodies.

Why? You can’t imagine. Everything is foggy.

You can hear the dull sounds of the soldier moving the bodies around. Is that an arm hitting the floor? A leg? You close your eyes and lie back down. Closing your eyes does nothing to shut out the sounds of the dead.

Your body feels so heavy.

“Here.”

You open your eyes. The soldier is standing over you again, holding out one of the dead guard’s jackets. You can clearly see where the knife had gone in, come out. There’s a dark patch of blood around the tear in the fabric.

The soldier shakes the coat at you. You push yourself up, breathing heavily from the effort. He grips your shoulder in his left hand to help right you, and you stare in shock.

His left hand—is metal?

“Here,” he repeats impatiently.

You tear your eyes away from his hand, mind reeling as you look back at the coat. It’s for you? Are the shoes for you, too?

“Why?” you ask.

“It needed to stop.” His face is passive, save for a tic in his jaw. “Wasn’t—” He cuts himself off, but he’s said enough.

Tears well in your eyes. Somehow, even though he thinks your parents had deserved death, you don’t.

What would your parents think of their killer saving you?

You sniff, and nod. It doesn’t matter now, does it? Whatever comes next, you’re too helpless to go on alone. And you know perfectly well there are more people here than the four lying dead on the ground.

He drapes the coat over your shoulders; you stick one arm through, then the other. It takes an eternity, and by the time you’re done the soldier has torn the ripped sleeve off his uniform, baring his sculpted pale arm, and you’re exhausted again. The extra weight of the jacket is no comfort against the chill. Your chill is from inside, not out. You clench your knees tightly, locking your elbows to keep yourself upright.

“They drained me dry,” you whisper; it’s as loud as you can manage.

The soldier doesn’t answer. He grabs the footwraps and boots from the end of the gurney and kneels at your feet. You stare down at his blood-matted hair as he wraps your feet—in another life, you might have laughed at the sensation of someone else’s hands there. Right now, all you can do is watch. Your arms shake a little; the left one is still too sore to keep perfectly still.

The boots slide on easy—whichever guard they’d belonged to had bigger feet than yours, apparently. The soldier stands.

“You can’t walk?” he says. It’s barely a question, but you shake your head anyway. The brief movement makes your head spin. He steps back, looks you over. He does a button up on the jacket, near your collarbone.

Then he slides his left arm under your knees, the other around your back, and hoists you into his arms.

It’s a painful jostle. Your arm aches in protest, and your limited energy means you can’t even shift to find a more comfortable position against the myriad straps over his chest. And while your upper body is protected by the army jacket, the thin jumpsuit pants are no barrier at all against all the blood yet to dry on his uniform.

The soldier strides out of the infirmary, pushing the swinging doors open with a well-aimed kick and ducking through.

Voices ahead.

He pauses.

“You need to hold on,” he says, voice flat.

You wriggle your arms around his neck. Your skin is too clammy to get a good grip, and you end up gripping your covered elbows instead of your wrists. If you’re choking him, he makes no comment. All he does is pull the stolen gun out.

A gun in his hand, grim determination in his eyes, blood splattered across his face—is this how he’d looked when he’d killed your family? You hadn’t seen the face behind the mask, but now…

You shudder and bury your face in the crook of your shoulder. Whatever comes next, you don’t want to see. If you’re about to die—

Well. You’ll die without giving anyone else the satisfaction of seeing you frightened.

What comes next is a blur of movement and gunshots. Something pings off the soldier; is that his metal hand, deflecting bullets?

How much of his flesh has been replaced?

You just hang on around his neck and let him swing you around as he dodges and moves through the corridors, bending here and there to grab a fresh gun. Time moves slow as molasses, but in the back of your mind you have the strange sensation that things are moving all too fast. You adjust your grip, and for the first time your face brushes his skin.

It’s scorching. You suck in a harsh breath in shock; you’re still so cold. Are you so cold? Has he got a fever? Or did he just take all your warmth?

You don’t lift your head until you feel fresh air on your face. It’s dusk—or dawn? You’re not sure. But the light is gentle, and the air is cool, clean. Fresh. There’s a few cars parked near the door, but beyond that is a forest. Birds chirp, bugs chitter, leaves rustle—

Tears stream down your face. It’s beautiful.

Freedom never felt so sweet.

The soldier pulls out a keychain and heads for a black van. He opens the passenger side first and sets you down. It takes a moment to unwind your stiff arms from around his neck. Your left elbow aches, but at least you’re free to move it. If you can muster the energy.

The soldier pulls the buckle across your chest. He’s quick but careful, polite—not groping, or harsh, or leery.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

The soldier pauses as he finishes strapping you in. His haunting blue eyes fix on yours from inches away. Your breath catches.

Despite everything, despite the blood on his face, despite what he’s done to you, what he did to the four dead men in the infirmary just minutes ago and however many others in the corridors, you’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.

Maybe it’s just that you’re free now. Everything is beautiful in this half-light, even a murderer.

In this half-light, the murderer might almost be a man.

You grip the seatbelt and swallow. His eyes dart across your face. Your heart thumps in your chest.

In this half-light, the man might almost be your hero.

A harsh caw shatters the quiet. The soldier pulls back and slams the door. In the space of seconds, he’s in the driver’s seat beside you, keys in the ignition and engine rumbling to a start. He doesn’t look at you as he drives into the woods, but you can’t take your eyes from him. You’re on his right again, just like before. His dark hair hides the scrape on his cheek. Your eyes train along his bare arm. It’s so still you might mistake it for a sculpture, but then he turns the wheel and the illusion breaks.

He’s real. He’s very real.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

His hands tighten on the wheel. The plastic creaks in protest. He lets out a low breath.

“Dunno,” he says.

You open your mouth to ask, to protest, but then think better of it. What use is it, to ask a man about things he doesn’t know?

How much of him had they taken away? His hand, his identity, his freedom…

His freedom?

You bite your lip. Is he as trapped as you had been?

“Are you… free?” you ask.

He frowns. “Dunno.”

Your parents had kept you out of their politics. You don’t understand their caution now. Surely they’d realized you’d be at risk no matter what. Risk or no risk, your politics aside, you know what freedom is supposed to be.

“If you don’t know, then you aren’t.”

He doesn’t answer. All he does is set his jaw, his shoulders.

You look away from him at last, gut clenching. How can he have done so much yet know so little?

How much of him had they taken away?

You lean against the window, the glass cool against your clammy skin. The trees whizz by; the road is gravel and dirt. It’s jostling. You’d been too caught up to notice before.

Strange. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d been desperate to get away from him.

Not anymore.

You turn to gaze at him again. For the first time since he’d gotten in the car, he glances your way. There’s nothing of the monster left in him. He’s just a man now. Yes, he’s done terrible things, but all for reasons. Not his own, it would seem, but there’s a logic to it nonetheless.

If he really was a monster, you’d never have gotten through to him. He would have let them kill you. He might even have killed you himself. As it is, he’s taking you… where? Even if he’s saved your life, he’s still a stranger, still a ghost.

“Where are you going?”

“Hospital,” he says.

“What for?”

“You need a doctor.”

That’s certainly true. You twine your cold fingers together and sigh.

“What about you? What do you need?”

“I need to finish my mission.”

Your blood—what little is left—runs colder than ever.

A mission?

Is that what your family had been? A mission?

You shift closer to the door and squeeze your stinging eyes shut. “You don’t need to finish it.”

“I have a mission,” he snaps, brow drawn low and mouth set in a hard line. “That’s what I know. I’m going to see it through.”

“They’ll kill you!” Your eyes pop back open. You grab his shoulder; he stiffens, but otherwise doesn't react. “What you did—you killed all those people—”

“They weren’t doing a good job anyway,” he says drily. His expression softens. He doesn’t shrug your hand away. “They’ll understand.”

“Will they?” you challenge.

“Yes.” His tone brooks no argument.

Even so, you don’t believe him. What had Vasilyev said? Always a threat? Is a threat worth forgiving? Worth understanding?

He’s a threat to you, though, whatever his current quixotic impulse and whatever your strange, sudden fascination. How fast had he turned on the nurse, the guards? Your words had pushed him to save you then. Would the wrong words now push him to kill you instead?

You don’t know.

You let your hand fall from his shoulder. You don’t dare touch his bare skin, much though you long for the warmth. You’re still too cold. You press your trembling hand to your chest; the phantom feeling of him lingers.

How long has it been since you touched someone of your own volition? Fifteen, sixteen days? Two weeks, give or take. Is two weeks a lifetime? It might as well be.

Your head tips forward.

“Hey,” he says. He reaches out and adjusts your head until you’re leaning against the window. His hand is warm on your face. “You okay?”

“No, soldier,” you answer. You close your eyes and huddle into the jacket. The only warmth you have left is what lingers from his hand. “I’m not.”

—

Long before you open your eyes, the road evens out. The car is zooming now. A highway, maybe?

Even behind your eyelids, you can tell it’s getting darker. You sigh, and let true darkness claim you.

—

A hand shakes you awake.

You cry out, flailing at the unexpected touch, but someone gathers your hands in their own, gentler than you’d expected.

“Hey, hey, calm down.”

Your eyes focus at last—the soldier is still sitting beside you in the driver seat, the dried blood flaking on his face but his expression unthreatening. It’s safe. He’s safe.

You’re safe.

The car is stopped on the side of a main road god knows where, but there’s little traffic. You’re between streetlights, the car cast in shadow and the blue of his eyes barely visible. There’s no one else on the street, save for the shrinking headlights of a car already passed by. For all intents and purposes, it’s still just the two of you. You relax your hands into his hold. Your fingers tremble, but it’s outside your control. He seems to understand. He folds your hands together, then lets them go.

You clasp your hands to your chest. God help you, but you wish he hadn’t let go.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

You look around more closely. “Wh—where are we?”

“By a hospital.”

Your heart drops. None of the buildings look like hospitals…

“Where—”

“Around the corner.” He’s unbothered, looking at you almost blankly, left arm propped on the steering wheel so he can face you. “Can you walk?”

You test your limbs. Your left arm is still sore, but the fitful rest had conserved a little strength.

“Maybe.”

He frowns, glances at the street as another car zooms past. There’s no one else on the road, but he clenches his fist. He’s not calm anymore. Tension is building—in the set of his shoulders, his jaw.

“You have to walk.”

“What if I can’t?” you counter. Your heart is racing, pumping too-little blood through your veins. It sounds hollow in your ears.

“You don’t have a choice.”

The soldier reaches across you and opens your door.

“Get out.”

You gape at him. You clench the seatbelt still securing you in and shake your head.

“I—no!”

He yanks your hands away from the seatbelt and unbuckles it. “You don’t have a choice.”

“You can’t make me!” Your voice rises dangerously. Tears well in your eyes; panic swells in your chest. For the first time, you grab hold of his arm. His skin is hot, smooth. His muscles clench under your desperate touch.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps. He shakes his arm, but you don’t let go. His metal fingers tighten on the wheel. The plastic creaks; he swears under his breath and lets go, leaving an imprint of his hand behind. He glares at you, angry and confused. “You gotta go!”

“Not without you!”

The words burst out of you without thought, and the sudden admission leaves you staggered. The soldier’s eyes widen; he’s more shocked than you are. The anger melts from his face, less so his confusion. There’s something strange in his eyes now—an echo, maybe? You don’t know. You don’t know. All you can do is stare into those blue eyes, heart racing.

Why did you even say that? How could you? This man—he’s not your friend. He killed your family! He killed all those men at the base without a second thought. You haven’t seen an ounce of regret for any of the murders.

Not that you regret the deaths of the men who tortured you, and all the others there who took part in whatever wicked work they were pursuing. Knowing they can’t come after you—it’s a relief.

But the soldier, the man beside you, he’s part of that wicked work too. He killed your family! He killed them, not even knowing them, not even knowing himself…

You shut your eyes and press your forehead against his shoulder. Tears roll down your cheeks. The soldier stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away.

The work of a few hours has transformed him in your eyes. Monster and murderer to your only hope. To your savior. The murders haven’t gone away, but there’s more to him now—more, less, you don’t know; how much doesn’t he know? His own name, taken from him…

Like your family was taken from you.

By him.

It’s a sick circle. But he’s the only link back to them, and to the weeks you spent imprisoned for no good reason at all. He’s the one who believed you, who freed you—all that death, just for you.

To save you.

And now he wants you to walk away, so he can go back to murdering innocents. Even now, with your body half-drained, your mind is sharp enough to know the wrongness in letting him go.

How can you let your savior become a monster again? How can you let the man whose life you saved with your own blood go back to whatever hell he came from? Even if he doesn’t know the wrong in what he’s done…

You do.

You take a deep, shaky breath. The metallic scent of blood and his own smell flood your senses. The reminder of his realness is an instant comfort. You run your hand down his arm until you can bring his hand to your cheek.

Forget the morals. Forget the monster. Beneath it all, you’re terrified of being left alone.

You press a kiss to the back of his hand.

“Please don’t abandon me, soldier.”

You lift your head from his shoulder, still holding tight to his hand. As tight as you can, at least.

The soldier lets out a breath that hisses between his teeth. He studies you, eyes flitting over your face, from your shining eyes to your quivering chin.

“Alright.”

You stare at him, lips parted and heart pounding. There’s a resignation in his face, but he’s serious. He—he’s serious. You let out a little cry and litter kisses on his hand, on the back of it, over his fingers curled around yours.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The barest hint of a smile ghosts across his lips. He takes the keys out of the ignition, carefully untangles his fingers from yours, and gets out of the car. You’re practically bouncing in your seat.

He saved you, and now you can save him. Together, you can find freedom.

You take a deep breath to compose yourself before he comes around the front of the car. He offers a hand to help you out.

“Can you walk?” There’s a dry humor to his question, and you smile.

“If you help.”

The soldier tucks an arm under yours as you step down from the van to the sidewalk. With his support, you feel light as a feather.

He locks up the van and starts to walk.

“You can’t give them your name,” he says, voice low and fast. “Pick a fake one, or don’t give one at all. And don’t tell them where you’ve been. Just tell them you were lost in the woods.”

“That hardly explains all the lost blood,” you retort.

He pauses, looks down at you. His eyebrow goes up. “Right… well, then forget everything. Don’t hint at it.”

“Okay.” You laugh breathlessly. “Like you.”

He flinches.

“Maybe we can get new names together,” you continue, gentler.

The soldier doesn’t respond.

He leads you around the corner. There’s the hospital, the sign dim but bright light spilling out onto the walkway halfway up the block from the doors into the emergency room.

That light is freedom.

You grasp the soldier’s hand, your throat tight. A lifetime ago, you had always hated hospitals. But now, that stark light is heaven.

You quicken your steps, surprised at your sudden burst of energy but not questioning it for the world. The soldier keeps up without trouble, and soon enough you’re on the walkway to the hospital.

“Remember,” the soldier murmurs, breath warm on your ear, “forget everything.”

You nod, jaw set. “I remember.”

“Good.”

The automatic doors slide open. You pause and turn to say one last private thank you.

Your thanks die in your throat.

The soldier’s face is in stark relief in the bright light. He looks dead. He looks terrible. Like the wrath of god.

“Soldier…?”

He lets go of you—you stiffen in surprise—and shoves you through the open doors.

You cry out, sprawling to the floor inside the emergency room. Your teeth rattle in your skull with the impact. You catch a glimpse of a few people jumping to their feet from stiff chairs, a woman rushing around a desk, sterile walls.

But you ignore it all. You surge to your knees, twisting to stare outside.

“Sold—”

The path is empty.

He’s gone.

“No!”

You collapse back to the ground, sobs tearing from your hollow chest. The woman from the desk runs to your side, calling for a nurse. You barely hear it. You’re dizzy, head swimming. All the warmth that had settled from his arm around you vanishes.

“No,” you whisper.

He’s left you. You’re alone—abandoned.

Why?

You spread your hands flat on the floor. The cool tiles feel miles away. All you can feel is the emptiness of the soldier’s absence. He stole your blood, and now he’s stolen that unnameable piece of you that had settled with him.

Gentle hands cradle you, sitting you up.

“Miss? Miss?”

You blink through your tears. The room is spinning around you. Nothing is clear, except what you’ve lost.

Forget everything.

Your heart squeezes painfully. No, soldier, I can’t.

A nurse's face clears in your vision. She’s got a hand on your face, checking for a fever.

“Miss, what happened?”

The soldier’s face is branded in your memory, but his final direction rattles through you. However impossible forgetting will be, you know you can’t tell anyone here what’s happened to you.

“Please help me,” you gasp. “They did things to me—I’m just so cold, and scared, and I don’t know—I don’t know—”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” she reassures you. You hiccough, swipe away your tears with shaking hands.

“I don’t know,” you say again.

But you do.

Within the hour, you’re being fed back more blood to make up for what was taken from you. The nurse and doctor seems to believe your fragmented tale, even with so little detail. Trauma, they say, can make a person forget. And it’s not like people hadn’t disappeared and reappeared before, shaking and traumatized and mind—memories half-gone.

But you remember. You remember blue eyes, a thick needle in your arm, blood on your skin. Death, a metal hand, burning skin against your face. A monster, a man.

You remember.

You always will.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :3

[katedrakeohd]

One Handsome Devil (TRR)

Masterlist

Chapter 50 : Part 2

_Recovery_

Kate opens her eyes to a world of grey, feeling groggy and disoriented. The oxygen mask hissed as she breathed, the rubber bands that hooked it behind her ears pinched her skin. As her eyes focused she realized she was in a hospital room. The soft beep of her heart monitor filtered in as her other senses came awake. Lifting her right hand she sees the IV tube in the back of her hand and the electronic sensor clamped to her finger. When she tried to move her other arm it wouldn't budge. Oh my God, what's happening? Why does my shoulder ache so much?

The monitor attached to her finger starts to beep rapidly, registering her growing panic and the thumping of her heart. Her warm breath clouds the mask as she gulps at the cool air filling her lungs, her tears sting her eyes and her cheeks.

She hears the hurried footsteps of someone approaching and then the curtain surrounding her bed is ripped aside. The kind sympathetic face of a young female intern swims into view.

"Easy there Miss Darling, everything is going to be ok." She says, soothingly.

Adjusting the bed and pillows so Kate can sit up, she gently pulls the mask off her face and then dabs at her face with the corner of the bedsheet.

Kate gives her a weak smile of gratitude as she looks up at her nametag.  "Th-..thankyou...Dr. Maloney." she whispers.

Kate's head was full of questions, Where am I? Where is Drake?  Is he Ok?  What happened to me in the accident?

"Where am I?" She asks as she looks at the sling on her left shoulder and the cast on her arm.

Dr. Maloney smiles, "You're at Portavira General Hospital."

Kate frowns, looking around for anyone familiar, suddenly feeling very alone. "Portavira?" where the hell is that?  "I'm not in the Capital?"

The intern shakes her head, picking up her chart. "You were brought here by helicopter."

Kate has a vague memory of being strapped to a stretcher and being lifted. Then the airsick woozy feeling of being moved around randomly like a bad amusement ride.

Sliding her hand over her belly, it feels bloated and there are bandages that scrape against her hospital gown.

"What..what were my injuries?" Kate asks nervously, scared of the answer.

The doctor reads her chart out loud, bypassing the medical jargon and putting things in words Kate would understand, "Uh let's see, a dislocated shoulder, a fracture to the forearm, and a minor tearing of the uterine wall from blunt trauma. You were bleeding out pretty badly, but with a minor surgery they were able to stitch you up and stop the bleeding."

Kate gasps, "A tearing of my what?" 

Terrifying thoughts of future infertility and miscarriage race through her mind, causing a deep feeling of dread. She and Drake had just talked about how much they wanted children.

Dr. Maloney looked up from the chart, noticing that Kate has gotten a little paler, and her eyes were wide with worry. "Don't worry, the womb is very resilient. It takes a beating from the inside for several months while it holds onto a fetus. You'll heal just fine and be able to try for another baby in a few weeks."

Kate grips the sheet over her belly, scoffing with denial, "Another baby? I wasn't pregnant."

Sure I was late, but that was nothing new. But then again the last time I was late I didn't have a boyfriend. Oh my God no..

"According to your bloodwork and a urine sample there was a slight elevation in your hormone levels, and the presence of HCG. But there was only a trace amount so we can't be totally sure at this point. I'm sorry to alarm you. The nature of your bleeding prompted us to assume a miscarriage, and we tested for signs of pregnancy in your bloodwork. Were you and your husband trying to conceive?"

Kate shakes her head trying to swallow, her throat was dry from the oxygen she had been administered. "Can..can I get a drink of water please?" She whispers.

The doctor lays the clipboard on the foot of the bed, "Oh sure, sorry about that. I know this is a lot to take in all at once."

Dr. Maloney pours her a cup of water from a nearby pitcher. Kate accepts it, her hand shaking slightly as she sips. "Thanks."

Picking up her chart again, Dr Maloney looks over her information. "You're a mystery  'Kate Darling, 25'  We have a lot of gaps to fill in. When you arrived we only had your name and age."

Kate takes another sip of water. "I was wondering how you knew my name. I don't remember telling anyone."

"I'm not sure who identified you, that's just what they were calling you when you were wheeled in."

Pulling over a chair, Dr. Maloney clicks her pen and then sits down with her chart. "Ok let's fill in the blanks. Your birthdate?"

"December 17th, 1992." Kate says, guessing that the fresh faced intern was around the same age based on the slight turning up of the corners of her mouth.

"Your address?"

Kate gnaws on her lip, "That's a good question, because I really don't know. I live at the Royal Palace with King Nicholas."

Dr. Maloney chuckles, "Yeah right. Seriously where do you live?"

"I'm not kidding. I live at the Royal Palace with the King and I'm engaged to his best friend." Kate insists, knowing that her story sounded crazy to the average person.

"Okaaay, we'll leave that space blank for now." The doctor says, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head. Seriously how hard did this girl hit her head?

"Who do I list as your next of kin?"

"Umm, well my parents live in the U.S. and Brazil so there's no point in listing them. I should probably say King Nicholas, where he's technically responsible for me being in the country, but there's no way I'm allowed to give out his personal phone number. If I told you any other name than my fiance he'd probably be mad, so list Drake Walker as my next of kin."

The Doctor scribbles his name on the form. "And his phone number?"

"He doesn't have a home phone, just a cell, is that Ok?"

The Doctor nods, waiting.

Kate rhymes off Drake's phone number. Damn I wish I could talk to him, tell him I'm Ok. Looking around the unfamiliar recovery room again, Kate feels incredibly lonely. She could really use a familiar face or voice right now.

"Before we can admit you we need to contact Mr. Walker to let him know where you are. As your next of kin he should know your condition as well."

Kate gives the doctor a grateful smile, "Is there any way I can talk to him? I don't have my phone with me."

Dr. Maloney nods, "Your condition is pretty stable. I'll go get you a wheel chair, and then I'll take you out to the nurse's station to call..." she looks down at the paper again to find his name.

"Drake." Kate replies, smiling.

"Yes, thanks." Dr. Maloney gets up from the chair. "Be right back."

Kate settles back against her pillows, looking down at her arm in its cast and sling, she smooths the blanket over her bandaged sore belly. Did we really have a baby in there? It's only been a few days, probably not. I was just late that's all. I hope the surgery doesn't leave a big scar.

She sees the Doctor coming back with the wheel chair. "Ok Miss Daisy, your chariot awaits."

Dr. Maloney drops the side of her hospital bed, disconnecting her pulse monitor from her finger and switching off the machine when the alarm goes off. Placing an arm around her back, and scooping her arm under her knees she carefully helps Kate turn to sit up on the side of the bed. "You're stronger than you look, Dr. Maloney." Kate laughs.

"I've had plenty of practice. Compared to moving a full grown man, you're light as a feather." She says, blushing at the compliment.

Kate eyes the smooth vinyl seat of the wheelchair and then looks down at her bare legs. "I'm guessing my fancy chariot doesn't have heated leather seat cushions."

Pulling the thermal blanket off the bed, Dr. Maloney folds it in half on the diagonal and lays it across the seat and back of the wheelchair. "That should help. Once you're aboard we can wrap the extra blanket around you like a shawl to keep you covered and preserve a little dignity."

"Awww, thanks Doc, that'll be perfect." Kate says with a grateful sigh of relief.

Once Kate is bundled up in her wheelchair, she wheels her IV pole along while Dr. Maloney pushes the chair. "What's your first name Doctor? If you don't mind me asking? You've been so nice to me I'd feel better if I could refer to you by your first name."

"Denise." She says, navigating Kate out to the nurses station.

Kate cuddles her blanket around herself as Denise talks to the nurse behind the counter. After they update her file in the computer the nurse picks up the receiver on the phone.

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[blackcatkita]

The Consequence of Secrets- Chapter 22

The Fear of the Unknown

Liam x Jennifer(MC)

This is it everyone, we finally find out what is wrong with Queen Jennifer... This chapter, like those before it may be difficult for some people to read and I urge you to read the warning below. I don’t think I can say anyone will “enjoy” this chapter per se, but if it moves you, please like comment or reblog! I appreciate every single note! Tag list is at the end, if you would like to be added or removed you need only ask. Angsty af moodboard made by @darley1101 Word Count-3931

For all other works, please see my MASTERLIST.

WARNING- This chapter contains serious medical conditions, vivid descriptions of fear, and dialog of possible pregnancy loss and death.

“We don’t know…”

It had been hours since they first heard those words, long before the moonless night painted the sky black and a hush fell over the hospital. In that moment, he wasn’t the King hindered by propriety. He was a husband and a father, a man angry and terrified that the doctors were unable to provide a diagnosis. “What do you mean you don’t know?! This is your Queen!” He had bellowed, forgetting himself in his rage. It was Jennifer that brought him back, gently wrapping her small hand around his much larger fist, telling him to calm down and that they were doing the best they could. It was incredible. There was a woman who was suffering unimaginable pain, riddled with fear not just for herself but for the child she was carrying as well… and she was comforting him, as she so often did.  

“We don’t know…”

Seemingly endless ultrasounds had been taken, each one focusing on a different area of her abdomen and carrying with it the hope that this one would provide answers, bringing with it a fresh wave of heartache when it didn’t. Helpless, Liam could only watch as she became sicker, weaker, more tired, and her pain level increased. Though it wasn’t enough, he did whatever he could to comfort her; rubbing her back when the pain flared, feeding her ice chips when her throat was dry, holding her hand through every test, and promising they were going to figure it out, she was going to be okay, she just had to stay strong for a little while longer. 

“We don’t know…”

As the hours went by, he began to fear he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise, but it wasn’t until the fourth ultrasound came back with nothing, and he overheard the doctors quietly discussing the possibility of cancer that he nearly broke down and had to excuse himself, calling Drake of all people because he didn’t know what else to do. For a moment, he was back on the beach, listening to his father tell him he was dying, and to hear that word spoken about Jennifer… it was too much to bear.  

Now, sitting in the chair beside her bed, Liam watches his beloved, her face relaxed in merciful slumber after finally succumbing to sheer fatigue and the increased dose of morphine necessary to dull her worsening pain. The nighttime lighting mounted to the wall casts shadows in the hollows of her cheeks and eyes, stark against her pallid skin and giving her an almost skeletal appearance. When she told him she didn’t want to die, that she was scared, he did his best to assuage her fears… but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t begun to share them. Not even his father looked this close to death as he took his final breath, and he can’t help but wonder how much more she could take.

Feeling his throat tighten, he leans forward, pinching the bridge of his nose against the stinging in his eyes. He couldn’t allow fear to take over, couldn’t allow his anguish to consume him. Not yet. As long as he could hear the steady sounds of her breathing and their child’s muffled heartbeat through the monitor strapped to her belly, there was still hope and he could remain strong. He had to. For her, and the baby.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he opens his eyes, studying her again. Despite the sickness marring her features, she’s still the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, and he’s unable to stop himself from reaching out, cupping her cheek in his palm. “We were dancing…” She sighs, a ghost of a smile touching her lips before she opens her eyes, taking a few moments to focus on him. “Do you remember that? When we danced at the Masquerade Ball?” She asks quietly, her voice weak.

“Of course I remember. The moment I first saw you in Cordonia, I feared I was dreaming.” He smiles softly, picturing her standing before him in her angel costume, the image so clear it was as if it happened yesterday.

“I loved you… even then I loved you.” Her eyelids slowly close, and a tear spills over, wetting his thumb as he traces it along the dark purple shadow beneath her eye. Her skin feels warm against his hand… too warm, and a fresh tinge of worry twists his stomach.

“We have a lifetime of dances together still ahead of us My Love.” He tells her, unsure if he’s saying it to assuage her fears or his own.

Her eyes flutter open briefly, only to close again. “I’m so tired Liam…”

“I know Baby…” His breath hitches, and he takes a moment to compose himself, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear. “Go ahead and rest. I’ll be right here.”

The corners of her mouth twitch in the briefest of smiles and painfully slowly, she reaches for his hand as though it took every ounce of effort she had left to lift her arm. Squeezing his eyes shut to stop his beginning tears, he presses a kiss to her hand, feeling his lips tremble against her skin as he holds it in place. This isn’t right… none of it was. If only his father had warned him that it could be agonizing to be a devoted husband and a King… to be the most powerful man in the country and yet be utterly powerless to help the woman who was everything to him. Perhaps his father felt the same anguish as he watched Liam’s mother die a slow and painful death and that was a factor in his support of Madeleine. His father knew how much he loved Jennifer, and he wouldn’t have wanted his son to feel that pain, to love someone so completely that he would be willing to lose everything to save her. He would lay down his very life for her, would take her pain for the rest of his days if it meant she didn’t have to bear it for another moment.

Hearing the door open, he glances up to find Lucy approaching, still on duty as Jennifer’s nurse. “How is she doing?” She asks quietly.

Liam clears his throat, attempting to steady his voice. “She’s in and out but when she is awake she’s very weak, and she seems extremely warm to me.”

“She’s had a trying day.” Lucy replies, giving him an understanding look before taking the blood pressure cuff from it’s hook on the wall.

Trying to gently wake her, Liam rubs his palm against the top of Jennifer’s hand. “Love… Lucy is here to take your vitals.” Groaning with her eyes still closed, she rolls over onto her back and Liam stands, getting out of the way so the nurse can do her work. After watching Lucy take Jennifer’s vital every thirty minutes like clockwork, he knew the routine inside and out.

The thermometer beeps and Liam catches a brief look of concern flash in Lucy’s eyes as she looks down at it before excusing herself and walking quickly from the room. Moments later, she reappears and rushes back to Jennifer’s side, taking yet another tube of blood. “Her Majesty has developed a fever, and Dr Brooks wants another set of labs done to see if anything has changed. The results will only take a few minutes, and Dr Brooks will come speak to you as soon as he has them.” Unable to fully process what just transpired, Liam nods in understanding and Lucy dashes back out of the room.

“What’s going on?”

He can hear the weariness in Jennifer’s voice and he turns to her, taking in the line of sweat that has formed at her hairline before sitting on the edge of the bed. “You have a fever and they took more blood to see why.”

“It’s hot in here, and I don’t feel good.” She whines, her pouting lower lip trembling.

“I know Baby.” Frowning, he presses a kiss to her forehead, hot and clammy against his lips before picking up the cup of half melted ice chips from the counter next to her bed. “Here, this will help you cool off a bit.” Using the spoon he left in the cup, he scoops up a few chips as she lifts her head slightly, parting her lips to allow him to feed her the ice. Breathing out a sigh of relief, she relaxes, giving him an affectionate look as her head sinks into the pillow. “Good?” She nods, opening her mouth for him to feed her more. “The baby’s heartrate is still okay… it hasn’t gotten higher.”

“I know. I can hear it.” She struggles to stay awake, each blink taking longer than the last and just as Liam thinks she’s drifted off to sleep, they open again. “Liam.”  She swallows hard, gazing up at him pleadingly. “If it comes to me or the baby, promise me you’ll…”

“Don’t.” Squeezing his eyes shut against the look in hers, he shakes his head. “Don’t ask me to choose Jennifer.”

He feels her fingers graze his cheek before she presses her thumb into the furrow between his brows, and he draws in a shaky breath, relaxing under her touch. She always did that, when she was telling him not to take things so seriously, or anytime he was upset or stressed, and she was worried about him. It worked without fail, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in whatever issue he was facing. “I’m afraid you may have to… my love.”

Taking her hand from his face, he stands, turning away from the name he used for her. She speaks his name softly, her voice dripping with emotion, imploring him to face her and make the promise that he would save their child’s life over hers. Doing so would be the compassionate thing to do, to bring her comfort and ease her mind that no matter what happened to her in the coming hours, their child would have a chance at life. Perhaps if he were the husband she believed him to be, if he were a stronger man, he could turn around and make that vow… but it’s a promise he knows he wouldn’t keep, and he won’t lie to her. His decision would weigh on him for the rest of his life, potentially destroying his marriage to the woman he was desperately holding onto, but he would choose her. In a heartbeat he would choose her. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his unborn child, he did with all his heart, and with every pregnancy milestone that passed, he felt more and more like the father he became when he saw those two little lines on the pregnancy test. But Jennifer meant everything to him, she was his world, and he couldn’t bear a life without her by his side.

“I know it’s not an easy choice for you to make Liam…” She continues behind him as he cravenly remains facing the other direction, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t know what’s worse, not being able to give his wife the comfort she so desperately needed or being such a coward that he couldn’t face looking at her as he told her the truth. “…but I also know what a good man you are and if it should get to that point… you’ll make the right decision.”

“Jennifer…” Sighing heavily, he rakes his fingers through his hair before turning around to see Dr Brooks return with urgency. “Have you found something Doctor?” He asks, grateful for the interruption.

“I have.” Dr Brooks replies before dropping his gaze to speak to Jennifer directly. “Since your last set of labs, your white blood cell count has become extremely elevated, indicating a significant infection, and we must perform an exploratory laparoscopy posthaste to find the source.”

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Liam runs his hand across his lips, pinching his chin as he considers the doctor’s words. There was no doubt that they needed answers, and a first hand look would certainly provide them, but he did not relish the idea of her undergoing surgery while she was pregnant with their child. “Would there be any benefit in trying to find the source of the infection through other diagnostic means first?” Liam asks, watching Jennifer’s brows draw slowly together as she stares blankly between him and the doctor.

“Unfortunately we no longer have the luxury of time Your Majesty, and there are no other diagnostic means to try. Because Queen Jennifer is pregnant, our diagnostic imaging options are quite limited, and the laparoscope will allow me to see what can’t be seen on ultrasound. When I have a better understanding of what’s going on, I can determine what steps need to be taken, but I’m afraid this is the only way I can do that.”

For several seconds, Jennifer continues to stare at the doctor before turning her confused gaze to Liam. “I don’t understand… What is he talking about Liam?”

“You have an infection My Love, and Dr Brooks is going to take you into surgery to find where it is.” He explains, stepping forward to rest his hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t want to have surgery.” Her chin puckers, and her eyes flit to her abdomen before meeting his again. “What if he cuts the baby?”

“Surgery is performed successfully on pregnant women every day Your Majesty.” Dr Brooks assures her. “We have the best anesthesiologist on board and Dr Colle will be present the entire time monitoring the health of the baby.”

“But…” She argues.

“You don’t have a choice Jennifer. They have to do this to fix you.” Giving her shoulder a light squeeze, Liam catches Dr Brooks’ eye. “Give us a moment please.” The doctor bows, taking his leave as Liam sits halfway on the edge of the bed, his thigh pressed against Jennifer’s side with his other foot anchored to the floor. She watches him, wide red-rimmed eyes swimming with tears and her trembling lip tucked between her teeth. Understandably, she’s scared. He is too, and he wants nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and tell her she doesn’t have to go, they will try something else... But he knew in his heart the doctor was right, they were running out of time. Forcing himself to ignore the gripping pain in his chest, he reaches out to cup her chin in his palm, tugging her lip free with his thumb. “Don’t be afraid My Love, everything’s going to be fine. The surgery will be over before you know it and I’ll be right here waiting for you when you get back. You just have to be strong for a little while longer… can you do that for me?”

Jennifer nods rapidly, sniffling with her lip back between her teeth, “Okay…” She whispers in a squeaky voice, her breath catching as she attempts to reach out for him, too weak to raise her arms more than a few inches.

Slipping his arm beneath her shoulders, he lifts her into an embrace and she burrows her face in his neck, trembling as she grasps the fabric of his shirt tightly in her hands. “You’re the bravest person I know Jennifer, you can do this.” He assures her, rubbing her back until she stops shaking and her breath evens out. From the direction of the open door, he hears Lucy softly clear her throat and he knows it’s time for her to go. “That’s our cue…” He whispers, trying to control the emotion in his voice as he pulls back, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips before gently lowering her back down.

“They are ready for you, Your Majesty.” Lucy smiles comfortingly as she begins unwrapping the bandage around Jennifer’s stomach that holds the fetal heart monitor in place, while a male nurse crouches down at the foot of the bed, presumably unlocking the wheels.

Reluctantly, Liam begins to stand, but is stopped short by Jennifer, gripping his arm as she cries out his name in a panicked voice. Placing his hands on either side of her to support his weight, he leans down, resting his forehead against hers. “Be brave.” He whispers against her lips. “I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too…” She cries, her eyelashes wet from her tears. “I love you so much.”

Her hold on his arm relaxes as he kisses her again, first on the lips then her forehead before he stands, following beside the bed with her hand in his until the two nurses wheel her out of the room. Following them into the hall, he watches until they’ve turned the corner and she’s out of sight before turning to Bastien, standing at his post outside the door. “I trust the surgical area was secured?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Bastien affirms with a nod. “Only medical staff is allowed in the operating room, but Mara and Patrick will be standing guard outside.” Bastien clears his throat, looking at Liam as though he’s mulling something over in his mind. “Sir, may I… may I trouble you for an update on Her Majesty’s condition?”

“I’m afraid we still don’t know, but I’m hopeful the surgery will provide some much needed answers. I must thank you for getting her here Bastien, without you and Lord Maxwell, I don’t know what might have happened.”

“There is no need to thank me Sir.” Bastien holds up his hand, shaking his head. “Queen Jennifer has become very dear to me, as are you. I will be praying for your family.”

“Thank you, Bastien. We are very grateful for your friendship.” Liam assures him, forcing a smile that surely looks as pitiful as it feels. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Bastien nods, his steel grey eyes already sweeping the hallway.

Closing the door behind him, Liam’s gaze locks on the empty space made by his wife’s absence and he feels a tightening in his chest, like a fist squeezing his heart. Every moment of sadness, fear, and frustration he’s pushed down since learning of Jennifer’s distress adds to the crushing wave of emotion, threatening to consume him as he presses his fist firmly against his lips to stop himself from crying out. His vision blurs and he staggers across the room, barely making it to the couch before his knees buckle and he collapses onto the seat. Silent tears flood his cheeks as he leans forward, trying to control his breathing as he holds his head in his hands. Please God, make them find what’s wrong. Don’t take her from me. She’s all I have. The only thing that matters. She’s my angel, a beacon of light in a world that’s all too often dark. I love her more than life itself and I can’t bear to lose her. Please save her God… please save my wife. I’m begging you to save her.

Bastien’s deep voice, muffled by the closed door reaches Liam’s ears, startling him out of his silent prayer. “What the hell are you doing here? Have you lost your damn fool mind?” There is no mistaking the shock and anger behind his words and Liam knows exactly who he’s talking to... Drake. “He doesn’t want to see you Drake, especially at a time like this.”

“He’s the one who called me!”

Grabbing a few tissues from the box on the table in front of him, Liam wipes the tears from his face as the men in the hallway continue their conversation in voices too low to make out more than a few heated words. “Let him in Bastien.” Liam calls out. Drake enters immediately, taking tentative steps into the room before stopping several feet away, averting his eyes as he slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Thank you for coming.” Liam mutters, dropping his gaze to the floor. There was so much that needed to be said, so much to atone for, but he wasn’t capable of doing so at the moment. Not when his entire being was wracked with worry for Jennifer and the baby. He could barely form a coherent thought, let alone have an uncomfortable conversation that was long overdue.  

“Yeah man… of course I would come.” Drake pauses, scuffing his brown leather boot on the floor. “Thanks for calling me… you didn’t have to do that.”

“She would have wanted you here.” And I needed my brother… The thought surprises him. He had long since let go of the anger he held over what Drake had done but the hurt was still present, and he doesn’t know when he started to think of Drake as his brother again… or if he ever truly stopped.

Time passes in awkward silence, Drake’s pacing footfalls the only sound as Liam remains seated, pitched forward with his forehead resting in his palm and his eyes closed, feeling the raw burn of acid in the back of his throat from the thoughts running through his mind, each one worse than the last. They were only supposed to be looking… Why is it taking so long?  Lifting his head to check the time on the inscribed watch Jennifer had given him, Liam sees Dr Brooks turn into the room. His pulse quickens as he leaps to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his shin from its impact with the table as he assaults the man with questions. “What is it Doctor? How is my wife? Is she going to be alright?”

“Her Majesty is still in surgery with Dr Colle.” Dr Brooks’ eyes shift to Drake and he forcibly clears his throat.

Taking in the doctor’s grave expression, Liam draws in a slow breath, squaring his shoulders to steel himself against the blow that he knew was coming as his father’s words echo in his mind. Focus Liam, only you are in control of your emotions. “You may speak freely in front of Mr. Walker.”

“Very well. King Liam, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be here, but being who you are, and who we are performing surgery on, I felt it prudent to give you an update myself.” Dr Brooks pauses, reaching up to adjust his wire rimmed glasses and Liam waves his hand, urging him to continue. “Her Majesty has peritonitis, caused by a perforated appendix. Peritonitis is an inflammation of the peritoneum, the tissue that lines the inner wall of the abdomen and covers most of the abdominal organs. If not treated properly, it can rapidly spread into the bloodstream and she could become septic. To prevent that from happening, I need to go back in there, remove any infected or damaged tissue and essentially clean the inside of her abdomen.”

Liam’s heart thunders in his chest, so hard he can hear it in his ears and he feels a coldness spread across his cheeks and around the back of his neck before it trails down his spine, almost making him shiver. “And what about my child? Has the baby been affected?” He asks, swallowing hard against the lump that has formed in his throat.

“The baby did well in the first stage of surgery but at this point it’s unclear how extensive the tissue damage is and what organs may be involved. Dr Colle and I will do what we can to save the pregnancy, but please understand, our priority is the Queen’s health.”

“I understand. Thank you Dr Brooks.”

_____________

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[ausp-ice]

Apparitions, Scene 5: Robert Characters: Raffle/Wenzel ( @the-valiant-valkyrie​ ), Wavelength/Robert L. Wagstaff ( @tinkering-survivor​ ), Incisura/Wren (me) Words: 2697 Archive | 1 2 3 4 5 6

And now, we have the appearance of another character! Behold. Wagstaff. Non-canon edition. 

A little walk or... Or something might have done him some good, part of Wenzel thought. Sort of jarring to see someone who came sorta close to killing you once- who had been proclaimed dead and buried- suddenly... Exist. And attack. Only to die again quickly afterward. In not too pleasant or normal a fashion. Perhaps he should walk. Clear his mind. A couple breaths of fresh air could only do him good.

Too bad he hadn’t the sense to do that, though, carefully slipping inside the little inconspicuous store before common sense forced him to do anything other than that.

A string of bells rang as the door to the humble little store creaked open. The owner and sole employee of the establishment was nowhere to be found, but there was clear rustling noises in the back room - then a clattering, followed by hushed exclamations of frustration, and finally the crash of plastic something hitting the ground. More grumbling, and then a holler from behind the curtain separating the two rooms.

"Hold on, I'll be right with 'ya!"

The curtain was pulled back as an older fellow, curiously wearing sunglasses, made his way to behind the counter. He didn't even look up at his visitor; evidently brushing the remnants of some kind of food off the front of his shirt was more pressing than paying attention to a potential customer."Alrighty, what'cha need, stra-?OH." His expression softened as he caught sight of Wenzel. "If it isn't my favorite little loiterer. What's up, kid?"

He shrugged, finding the nearest ledge to prop himself up against as he began to indulge in his salted, toasted, bacon accented turkey swiss on rye,

“Oh, nothing much sir, I’m sure you can imagine. The usual, is all.” He wasn’t even sure if his hands had stopped shaking or not, but at the very least he could string his voice along as though he were just as casual as any other pedestrian on this lovely Tuesday (Tuesday? Wednesday...? T... Thursday?) afternoon, and not someone who had just seen a woman declared dead melt into strange, uncomfortable black goo,

“You’ve got a bull back there, or something? Sounded like a tussle.”

Rob took a seat himself behind the counter. He eyed the sandwich longingly, bet refrained from asking for a share; if his "work clothes" were any indicator, Wenzel didn't have much cash to his name and he didn't want to take what little he had.

"Mm-hmm. 'The usual'." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms behind his back as he reclined back. If it weren't for his dark aviators Wenzel would've caught an exaggerated wink. "Y'know, if you're gonna pal around with that Insecura person you oughta bring 'em by sometime. If you're both gonna be out there getting your asses kicked it'd be nice to know who I've gotta put feelers out for if something goes sideways."

At the inquiry his whole demeanor changed, relaxed posture peeling away as his posture straightened up. "Well uh, you kinda caught me in the middle of... " He hastily closed his jacket to hide the spot on the front of his shirt. "-But that's enough about my day! How'd 'the usual' go?"

Wenzel was always very... Not good at being casual. Lying, maybe, but not being casual. His throat improperly closed around his salted, toasted, bacon accented turkey swiss on rye, and he coughed a few times, before taking a second to compose himself. His face twisted from surprise and fell straight to unamusement, but he still... Didn’t stop eating,

“We didn’t get our asses kicked, sir. And nothing's going any which way- it's not sideways, it's very straight." He paused to chuckle, "Well, maybe not, but we did good, we did a good job, and last I checked you weren’t there so you shouldn’t... Know anything about that in the first place-“ Another bite. He still didn’t feel good at all. Damn him and his stubbornness, he guessed,

“And if you want to know we did great. We solved the case and saved the day, it was great, we did very, well, sir.” For the circumstances.

Rob leaned against the counter, propped up on his elbows, as Wenzel went about defending himself and his friend. Mild concern settled over him, but for the most part he looked rather relaxed. "C'mon, kid, don't be like that. Getting kicked around isn't anything to be ashamed of. Some folks even think that's part of the fun." He shook his head as he said that last part. "Never understood that myself, but if you're gonna get beat up on a regular basis you might as well have fun with it I guess. ᶜᵃˡᵐ ᵈᵒʷⁿ, ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵍᵒᵗᵗᵃ ᶦⁿʰᵃˡᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ."

"'Case'? Now, that sounds interesting," he chirped, settling into his seat. "Go on, don't leave me hanging; it's been a while since I've been part of any kind of caper."

"The case..." He echoed, finally forcing himself to slow, folding up his lunch and placing it on his lap,

"Yes... Yes, our case, okay. So you've seen the news, haven't you? The news? A few weeks ago? The news? Because I barely watch the news, right, but it was on, so I sat through it for a little while-" He had a god awful habit of gesticulating every time he spoke too long. He looked more like a dragonslayer recounting his most recent quest than someone recalling any prior events,

"There was this one villain recently, Snow, or Winter, or something like that. And the news, right? The news said she'd been... Permanently apprehended. Found her body and stuck it in the ground and everything-" and then he added on, far quieter, "And I'd probably care a little more if she didn't almost skewer me in the heart-"

"I work with televisions and the like all day; you think I'd wanna plop down in front of one at the end of the day?"

He listened intently to Wenzel's accounts of recent events, humming along to more or less express how he felt about each point without needing to interrupt. "Wouldn't be the first time someone came back from the dead," he remarked when Wenzel was through. "That's just how things seem to go out there. If this is the first time you've dealt with that I guess that explains why you're shaking like a leaf over there." He thought he heard the kid mumble something, but figured it wasn't too important. "Was there anything... different about this 'Winter' gal after she came back?"

"I'm not shaking like a leaf..." He muttered, quietly, examining his shaking hands with scorn,

"But that's not the point- not the point. So we ran into her again, right? She was absolutely assaulting my new pal, so I came through and saved the day like a champ, for the most part. I figured Incisura had things taken care of, so I began to make my way down from the construction site- don't ask why I was up there it's fine- and then... I get down to the ground level and I..."

He hesitated, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to find the best phrasing of words with which to continue,

"She... Winter- or... She gave herself some dumb new name, I think; Permafrost, or something... She... She had run herself through. Just like that. She was dying on her own weapon- but not just that, she... She was melting. She just sat there on the ground and turned into a bubbling... Black puddle... No gore or anything, but I've never seen anything like it... Never felt anything like it- have you?"

Rob once again leaned back against the wall, this time deep in thought instead of relaxation as evidenced by his knitted brows and pursed lips. "So," he began after a minute or two, "You're saying she attacked you, failed, and then killed herself when she lost the upper hand? Hmm... My best guess would be an of L.M.D. of some kind - though I haven't seen any that melt into black goo before." He paused, rubbing his chin. "That might explain why she self-destructed, but generally L.M.D.s don't name themselves..."

He suddenly turned back to Wenzel. "Say, did either of you think to take a sample of that stuff? It's not exactly my style, but if either of you knows someone who does lab work that might narrow down what that gunk was. Tracking where something so distinct came from might help narrow down who made her."

"A sample, sir?" Sure, true, the man didn't quite see the occurrence first person. Didn't get a chance to feel the... Discomfort that came with approaching such a terrible substance. Still, though, it took him quite aback,

"What would I touch it with? My hands? I... Not only did that stuff look like it'd melt clean through my hand if i so much as poked it, but I don't know what it is... What it could do, y'know? It didn't feel right to even be near, let alone touch... I don't even know if it's still there... Or if it, like... Melted into the floor or something..."

"Of course you don't touch weird goo with your bare hands!" he suddenly exclaimed, shooting forward in his seat and slamming his hands onto the counter. "I know somebody who got turned into a sludge monster like that! He got better, but you wanna turn into a sludge monster? Or worse? No! You've gotta use a test tube or something."

He eased up a bit. "... Did it seriously melt into the floor?"

The loud sound clearly caught the kid by surprise, and almost instinctively his hands flew up to around the same height as his head and face. To protect himself, perhaps? Wasn’t quite sure. Wasn’t as though he’d do anything, or at least not to his knowledge. What he was certain of, though, is that not just his hands had been shaking now.

He swallowed before speaking, mouth suddenly a little dryer than he would like it to be,

“N-no sir... N... No I don’t wanna be sludge- I’m sorry, sir...”

Damn it. He was just trying to make a point; he hadn't meant to scare the kid. Now it looked like he was so scared he might not even remember. He sighed and slumped over on the counter a little, trying to look annoyed - though it was at least a little obvious he felt pretty guilty over frightening Wenzel.

"Look, kid, as long as you don't go around poking at weird stuff you'll be fine, okay? Just didn't want to catch some news that something happened to 'ya that could've been avoided, y'know?"

He thought about himself as sludge for a little while. Creeping along the floor like a slug, being generally mindless and discomforting. He didn’t quite like to think about that. He preferred being not-sludge, and sentient, and general the lanky, fleshy kid he was. However, the only thing he could pass down from his head to his lips is another gentle echo of ‘sludge monster...’ before his phone gave a loud buzz.

The screen lit up with a notification - it was from Wren. Wenzel. Are you feeling alright?

Honestly, looked like he could have jumped right out of his skin, but fumbled for it just to take a quick sort of glance at who would even decide to talk to him in the first place... Only to find Wren’s name. He tapped but a quick response before one could object,

Just shaken, still, but not hurt or anything. You?

The man at the counter was also startled by the sudden noise. If one had been paying attention they might've noticed a quick static charge go through his hair. He quickly recomposed himself, grumbling as he smoothed his hair back down, before addressing the matter.

"Hey, that's that li'l friend of yours, right? Tell 'em I said 'hi' and 'thanks for helping keep your butt safe'." He briefly looked away, taking his turn to mumble to himself. 'ᵏⁿᵒʷ, ᴵ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᵒᵘᵍʰᵗᵃ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵐʸˢᵉˡᶠ ᵃⁿᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ; ᵃᶜᶜᶦᵈᵉⁿᵗᵃˡˡʸ ᶠʳᶦᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵃˢᵗ ᵒⁿᵉ... -Anyways," he piped up after turning back to Wenzel, "I apologize in advance for being nosy, but is that about anything I can know?"

He opened his mouth to grant the man a response, before the phone buzzed again in his hands, and he looked down.

The "..." to indicate that Wren was typing started and stopped a few times. ... I've been feeling. Strange. Maybe you were right about that goo.

In an instant color was drained from his face, and he furiously began typing yet again, beginning to pace back and forth, muttering under his breath,

I told you not to touch that stuff I told you! What did you even do, taste it?! Aren't you a doctor can't you just go get some medicine juice or something??

He licked his lips, finally looking back up at Rob again,

"Okay, so don't freak out, but my friend... Likes to put things in their mouth sometimes, and I thi-"

"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF- SERIOUSLY?!" he barked, jumping to his feet and suddenly not caring if he terrified Wenzel. "RULE NUMBER ONE: DON'T TOUCH THE WEIRD GOO - LET ALONE EAT THE WEIRD GOO!”

He began pacing, infuriation giving way to panic. "Oh man, this is bad - really bad." He stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel to face Wenzel. "Please tell me you were talking about something else - or that they're not turning into some kind of mutant or something!"

"Listen- listen! They drink like, blood? I think? That's how they make their crazy swwwshswooshbsswwwrr powers work, right? So maybe they didn't eat the goo, but if they tasted the blood it could have also been bad news- but maybe not as bad! Maybe not as b-"

His phone buzzed again, I didn't eat the goo! But I did take some of her blood and it tasted... funky.

... Does that count? This is quite concerning. And there might have been some vapors, so I was concerned that you might feeling this... this. - I don't know how to describe it - as well. Perhaps I'll try to sleep it off.

And Wenzel was back to it again like a moth to flame, typing in the same rushed manner he had been previously,

GET TO A DOCTOR DON'T GO TO SLEEP THAT'S HOW PEOPLE DIE IN THE MOVIES. GO TO THE DOCTOR OR SOMETHING JUST DON'T BE AN IDIOT AND SLEEP. I'm FINE because I don't drink strangers' blood but YOU'RE probably NOT OKAY!!!

"Oh my God, you found a vampire, didn't you? Have you ever seen-?" Suddenly aware he was starting to get off-topic Rob stopped himself right there. "Y'know what? Doesn't matter."

"If you gotta run go ahead. I'll check in with some acquaintances in the meantime - see if I can dig up some dirt on these weird L.M.D.s."

A series of notifications popped up on Wenzel's phone.

You know I AM a doctor, right? And I don't think this is very.... precedented. I doubt anyone I know is an expert in the field. Anyways. I'm very tired. Maybe dissociating a bit. Things don't feel real right now...

"Oh god oh god oh god-" Wenzel swallowed, which was rather difficult what with the giant lump stuck in it, shoving his phone in his pocket with little delay,

"I have to go sir I have to go- my friend doesn't look too good... I..." He nervously licked his lips, "I gotta go-!" He dashed towards the door for a moment, before halting, as though he forgot something critical. He fished in his other pocket, producing a twenty and a couple of cents from his pocket,

"That's for listening to my dumb word vomit no take backs bye-!"

The older gentleman didn't say a word as Wenzel frantically made his way out of the store, only nodding in understanding. When the boy left he quietly locked the door and flipped the sign in the window to its "closed" position before slipping into the back room once more.

__

:3c