#i feel like the gunshots started at around the same time as getting flagged green on shinigami eyes?

[gracelandmp3]

was looking in the replies of a post I MADE and the person i was talking to in there blocked me ,,, who ARE you i don’t remember you at all also why am i blocked from seeing your comments on my OWN POST

[sleeping-on-cracking-ice]

Hey! Can you write something with Chishiya and Y/N when she almost died in game beacuse of Niragi but didn't tell anyone about this (he tripped her on purpouse or smth). Chishiya finds her up on the roof few days later really anxious+crying beacuse her visa is ending and she is scared that Niragi will come and play the same game as her and will try to do something bad. Chishiya becames really protective over her especially when he sees her bruised knees.

Here you go!

Comfort Zone | Shuntaro Chishiya

{Alice In Borderland Masterlist}

Character(s): Chishiya (ft. Niragi, OC’s, Hatter)

Summary: You came close to dying due to being attacked by Niragi, and you fear it will happen again during the next game. Chishiya notices your anxiety and tries his best to prevent it from happening.

Warnings: mention of murder, swearing, blood, violence (punching)

Word Count: 3.9k

*reader is female

“Just my luck,” you groaned out, lifting yourself to your feet by using a chair nearby for leverage. “Not only am I clumsy as fuck, I’m also stuck with a group of murderers.”

Hatter had suggested you go with a few of the militants for the next game, as he wished for them to test you to see if you were capable enough to join them.

It was a hearts game called Capture The Flag. It was very self explanatory. You had to capture the opposite team’s flag and bring it back to your base without getting killed by them. The game would continue until a flag was captured, and the losing team would have their small bomb strapped to their chest explode as soon as the flag was returned to the team’s base. So theoretically, you could die at any second. And if that wasn’t stressful enough, everyone carried weapons, ranging from machete’s to revolvers, so you were on high alert.

You were on the same team as a muscular militant woman named Ren and a much younger kid (he looked around fifteen years old) called Minato. But of course, Niragi had to be placed on your team, bringing you nothing but more trouble.

The room you stood in was dark and ominous. You managed to trip over a few shards of glass and impact on the ground heavily, causing your hip to throb in pain as you attempt to recover from the fall.

You had been separated from your group. You managed to sneak off without them noticing, just rather being on your own than with others. You thought you had a better chance by yourself anyway, as no one was there to betray you.

In the Borderland, you didn’t know who to trust, so you kept to yourself.

The brightness of your game phone flashed a light green, reminding you of what colour team you were on. You had to search for a base that was illuminated by a blue light and take the flag that was supposedly meant to be there. But so far, you hadn’t seen any indication of the other team. You hadn’t even seen any of the other players now that you thought about it.

You made your way out of the empty room you had just checked, peeking around the corner down the hall before stepping out of the doorframe. The small  bomb strapped to your chest over your shirt felt heavy on your frame, especially knowing that it held your life in its hands.

You sighed loudly and rubbed your hands together to relieve the tension in your muscles slightly. You had to be close, surely. You had been walking around the abandoned hospital for ages, as if you hadn’t at least walked past the enemy’s base and missed it somehow.

Just as you were about to turn the corner to the main corridor, a whispered grunt made you stop in your tracks. You held your breath and pressed yourself against the cold wall next to you, trying to listen to any movements they make.

The sounds of rustling met your ears, making you frown. It sounded like someone was trying to find something in their pocket, moving around the objects until they’ve found what they need.

You slowly peeked one eye around the corner, making sure not to accidentally hit the wall or fall forwards in fear of the person being an enemy player. Good news, it wasn’t. But seeing someone on your team wasn’t much reassurance either, as all three of them seemed to be clinically insane.

Niragi was crouching over a dead body. A game phone was thrown to the side on the ground a few feet away, emitting a bright blue light. The dead person must have been on the blue team.

The blood pooled around the body, Niragi’s boot being in one of the puddles.

‘Why didn’t I hear the gunshots?’ you asked yourself, watching as Niragi rummaged through the pockets of the guy’s jacket. He was probably looking for another weapon or perhaps something to assist him in the game.

Your eyebrows furrowed when you noticed a slight blue tinge on the fabric of Niragi’s shirt. You turned your head the other way down the hall, eyes lighting up at the sight of a bright fluorescent blue light coming from around the corner. That must’ve been the enemies base.

You glanced back quickly to Niragi, noting he was busy with the corpse, still searching through their pockets. Perhaps you could make it if you were quiet enough.

You slowly lifted a foot while keeping your eyes pinned to the man down the hall, ready to dive back behind the wall if he decided to turn around. When your whole body had left the comfort of the darkened hallway you came from, you turned and quickly shuffled down the hall towards the light, looking over your shoulder every now and then.

When you had turned the corner, you let out a sigh in relief. “Fuck,” you rasped out, wiping your sweating brow with the back of your wrist. “If only I came with Chishiya, I wouldn’t be so cautious.”

You entered a room a few steps in front of you that had a door slightly ajar with the blue light pushing through. You squinted your eyes as you opened the door at the brightness of the light, covering your eyes and hissing lightly.

When your eyes adjusted, you felt a euphoric feeling fill your body when you caught sight of the blue flag resting against the wall. You immediately scrambled over and gripped the wood, feeling the sweet ecstasy of victory and being able to live another few days.

You walked out of the room flag in hand. But as soon as you exited the door, your game phone rang loudly, making you freeze in your spot.

“Green Team has now obtained Blue Flag.”

Your breath became lodged in your throat and you felt your fist tighten on the flag pole. If the game announced it to the rest of the players, they were going to come after you.

Your fear was proven correct when you heard loud footsteps down the hall, making its way to your position. You knew it was Niragi, but the fact that he was on your team gave you slight reassurance. He wouldn’t hurt someone he’s meant to be working with, right?

You couldn’t be so sure, so you pulled out the fairly sized knife that you had sneaked into your pocket before leaving for the game. There was nowhere you could run. Down the hall was the only exit you had.

Before you knew it, the angered face of Niragi turned the corner and you locked eyes. He glanced down at the large knife you held at your side, then at the flag. A smirk painted on his face and he chuckled cockily.

“You think you can defend yourself with that piece of shit?” he asked you, taking a few threatening steps towards your frame. Your feet remained planted on the ground, trying not to appear as panicked as you actually were. “Everyone’s going to come here, and you’re going to fend them off with a kitchen knife?”

You felt belittled from his mocking, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. “The fuck else am I supposed to do?” you asked, pointing the tip of the knife in his direction.

Silence filled the air as you and Niragi had a stare down. The grip he held on his rifle tightened whenever you shifted, never failing to make your heart skip a fearful beat.

“Princess,” he started with a sickening pet name, “why don’t you give the flag to me? I’ll protect you.” His sudden change in mood gave you whiplash and you took a step back in confusion, still holding your weapon towards him.

“What?” you muttered out, a bamboozled expression on your face. “I said, pass the flag to me. I’ll make sure we’ll be okay,” he answered while slinging his gun to his side a bit too casually for your comfort.

You watched as he fiddled with the bullet compartments of his rifle. He seemed to have been checking the ammo, making you realise what he was intending.

You shook your head, trying to sound normal, but the slight shakiness in your voice made you quite obvious. “It’s fine Niragi,” you insisted, “I can get it to our base myself.”

He glanced up at your frame as he closed the bullet compartment to his rifle. His serious expression made your adrenaline kick in and your hands began to shake, becoming obvious from the way the tip of the knife was quivering.

“Fine,” he muttered out, basically snarling at you. “I’ll do this the hard way.”

His words made your expression drop and before you could even think, Niragi swung the butt of his rifle and socked you across the side of your head, making you fall to the ground abruptly and drop the blue flag. You groaned in pain, and yet you didn’t even get a second to recover before Niragi blew another hit to your shoulder, kicking you harshly in the stomach at the same time.

You suffocated on nothing, becoming winded from his kick. Gasping for air, you attempted to crawl away from the violent man, shuffling on your hands and knees. Another hit to your lower back brought you to your stomach and you gagged at the sudden feeling.

Luckily, Niragi had quit abusing you and reached down next to your bruised body to pick up the blue flag. “Maybe next time, be careful what you say to me,” he hissed into your ear before standing up and walking away from you.

You laid on the floor for a short moment, trying to compose yourself and control your breathing once again. When you finally came to your senses, you lifted yourself up from the ground while groaning in pain. You had to find a hiding spot, otherwise the Blue Team would find you at their base and kill you.

You used the wall for support as you stood up, bones cracking and blood dripping down the side of your face. You lifted your hand and pressed against your throbbing head, wincing as the pain rocketed from your action.

‘At least he didn’t kill me,’ you thought to yourself. A bright shimmer caught your eye and you turned your head to see your weapon laying on the ground. A grumble left your body as you leant down to pick it up, admiring the way the blue light reflected off it.

You leant against the wall and slowly made your way down the hall, searching for a small cabinet or anywhere that you could hide for the next ten minutes or so. You got a wave of relief when you spotted a cleaner’s cupboard just down the corridor, stumbling towards it.

When you pulled yourself inside the dark cupboard and closed the door, you allowed yourself to slide down against the cold wall, feeling a few tears slip from your eyes.

All you had to do was wait for Niragi to get the flag back to the Green Base and you would be fine, hopefully.

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

You dragged your exhausted body towards your hotel room, your legs throbbing in pain at every step you climbed. You had decided against going back to the hotel in the car with the other militants, as you didn’t want to deal with the tension of sitting next to the man who almost killed you. Plus, the car would hold half the amount of people it left the hotel with, probably making the atmosphere more eerie.

The door of your hotel room felt heavy as you pushed it open, stumbling into the cold room. You groaned in frustration at your past self. Why didn’t you leave your heater on before you left?

You let out a deep sigh before falling backwards onto your bed, spreading your arms out wide to feel the comforting blankets underneath you. Your eyes closed in content, trying so hard to ignore the pain on the side of your head and your knees.

The blankets shifted underneath your tired frame as you rolled over, pulling the duvet over yourself in the process. You didn’t even have the energy to turn your body so you could place your head on the pillow, so you simply slipped into unconsciousness in the position you laid in, hoping for a better day to come tomorrow.

Whilst you travelled to dreamland in your mind, a short blonde man stood outside your door, knocking lightly on the wood. When Chishiya received no response, he lightly turned the silver door knob and peaked his head into the room. A soft sigh of relief left him when you saw you safe and sound, asleep on your bed. He had been worried from how you were acting as you slumped to your room, noticing that you seemed more tired than usual.

Chishiya walked into the room and quickly shut the door behind him, holding the doorknob until it was completely shut to avoid the clicking noise. He tip-toed towards your frame and admired your sleeping self, his lips curling up at the sight.

“Get some sleep love,” he whispered, running the back of his hand softly down your cheek to sooth you. “You need it.”

Before Chishiya left the room, he tucked the blanket tighter around your body so you stayed warm and gave you a soft peck on your forehead. He glanced back once more before stepping out of the room. He headed back to his own hotel room to get some sleep, feeling content that the person he cares for most was okay.

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

As the days of your visa grew fewer, your dread grew bigger. Thoughts from your last game bounced around your head, continuing to come back to you in the most random of times. Sometimes you would feel an imaginary harsh kick to your back in your dreams, causing you to wake up abruptly, covered in sweat. You couldn’t escape the fear of Niragi attempting to kill you again. If you managed to run into him again like in the last game, it would be a guarantee that he wouldn’t let you off the hook again.

Just the thought of Niragi blasting a few bullets from his sniper through your head brought you the irrational belief that that was your future. No matter how hard you attempted to shake it, it found its way back into your mind.

The stars shone in the sky, glistening against the endless ceiling of darkness and winking at you from above. It felt foreign to see such sights in the world you lived in, where everything seemed to hold some kind of darkness behind it. Even the label of ‘Utopia’ on The Beach was a complete lie.

You huffed in a stressful tone, hanging your head low and rubbing your eyes with your hands as you leaned your elbows on the railing. The minutes before the next game were becoming less and less. If only you had one more day on your visa, you could potentially avoid all the bullshit that Niragi brought with him everywhere he went.

Hatter had informed you that Niragi was taking you to another game, as he didn’t get to properly assess your skills last time. He was making you go because that night was the night your visa ended. You didn’t have a choice.

Before you knew it, small droplets of tears escaped your eyes, cascading down your face and dripping off your chin. You felt helpless and scared. You could do nothing but wait for the fire alarms to ring to indicate Hatter’s speech before everyone left for their own games. It felt like your time on the roof was lasting forever, so you tried to drag out your time there as long as you could.

You closed your eyes and lifted your head high, letting the cold air swim around your face and bring you comfort. “This isn’t fucking fair,” you stated bluntly to yourself.

It wasn’t. Why did the world think you deserved this kind of stress? You never asked to be in the Borderland. You never asked to be involved with these people. Why did you have to be thrown into this mess?

The sound of light footsteps ripped you from your thoughts, causing you to whip your head around and lock eyes with Chishiya, who froze a few metres away. Your face visibly relaxed at the sight of your boyfriend, smiling weakly as he lifted his hands in defence from your paranoid actions.

“Hey Chishiya,” you greeted him, turning your back and wiping your tears from your eyes. “Sorry, I’ll be down soon. Just give me a minute.”

Chishiya frowned at your shaky voice, approaching your frame and placing a soft hand on your shoulder. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You turned your face to him and his eyes displayed concern as soon as they met with your teary ones. “Wait, baby why are you crying?” he asked, placing a hand on the small of your back and another cupping your cheek to make you look at him.

You shook your head and gave a fake smile, not wanting to tell Chishiya what had happened. “It’s fine. I’m just getting a bit stressed for tonight.”

Chishiya eyebrows furrowed at your answer, noticing how you bit your lip after your sentence. You only ever did that when you were lying.

His eyes glanced up towards the small gash on the side of your head. “How did this happen?” he questioned you, lifted his hand to run a gentle thumb over the injury. You glanced at him nervously as he waited for an answer.

“Oh that? It’s nothing. I just managed to trip over and smack my head on the wall during the last game. You know me, such a clumsy idiot,” you tried to laugh it off.

Chishiya didn’t buy it for a second. He moved his gaze to the rest of your body, searching for any more injuries. He had had enough of your lying when he saw your bruised knees, dried blood around the edges of small cuts from earlier when you accidentally reopened them.

“Y/N, what happened the other day? Who did this to you?” Chishiya asked in a serious tone, wrapping his hands around your neck and holding you protectively. “These look bad Y/N. I’ll have to treat them for you.”

You nodded, looking down at the ground. Chishiya lifted your chin with his finger to make you have eye contact. “You going to tell me what happened?”

You let out a big sigh, accepting the fact that you can’t hide literally anything from Chishiya. He knew you too well.

“Look, it’s fine Chishiya. Niragi just got mad at me during a game. You know how he is. I’m honestly glad that he didn’t do anything else,” you explained, watching as Chishiya’s face contorted into anger at your confession.

He fell silent, making you more tense. You knew Chishiya was really aggravated when he went completely silent.

“Niragi did this to you?” he asked scarily calmly, running a soft hand over the gash on your head again. You nodded, leaning against his touch.

“Alright. You stay with me tonight. I don’t care what Hatter has asked from you. You stick by my side and don’t let go of my hand,” Chishiya demanded you, pulling you into a comforting hug. You tucked your face into his neck, breathing in his scent.

“I love you,” he whispered out, giving you a soft smooch on your cheek. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

You shook your head in denial. “Don’t be baby. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Chishiya smiled happily at your words, pulling back from the hug and giving you a loving kiss on your lips. You both held each other close, moving your mouths against one another’s intimately.

You felt safe in Chishiya’s arms and he felt safe in yours. And that’s where both of you were intending to stay as long as possible.

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

You sat on Chishiya’s small bed, admiring as the young man wiped carefully over the dried blood on your knees. He was being so careful, holding you by the underneath of your knee and making sure not to press too hard on your bruises.

You had returned from the game you attended with Chishiya. Before the game commenced, you both hid on the roof so Niragi or Hatter wouldn’t come looking for you, wanting to take you to the game. You waited until most cars had left before making your way down to the bottom floor, climbing into the last car together that only held two other people you didn’t know.

Chishiya made sure to keep you by his side the entire game, not letting go of your hand once. At some point you were afraid he was going to sacrifice himself for you, as he wasn’t acting too far from it. His protective side had kicked in and he wasn’t taking your situation lightly.

At some point you both had to hide from an attacker. Chishiya had shoved you both into the corner of a small room, shielding your entire body with his with both of his hands against the walls, keeping you trapped in and hidden. The action alone was enough to make you realise how much Chishiya actually cared, how afraid he actually was of losing you.

“All done,” the blonde announced, breaking you from your thoughts. You grinned as he glanced up at you, giving you a cheeky wink. He shifted up the bed and leant against the headboard beside you. “Are you okay?” he asked once again, his fingers lightly running along your thigh soothingly. You nodded, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about Niragi,” Chishiya reassured you after a short moment of silence. You looked up at him from his shoulder. “Why not?” you asked.

Chishiya gave a cocky smirk and ruffled your hair playfully. “I’ll make sure to give him a piece of my mind,” he said in a monotone voice as usual.

You chuckled at his words before placing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I’m sure you will,” you laughed.

Chishiya smiled happily and turned his body. He picked you up slightly and made you lie down before placing himself next to your frame. You rolled over to face him, not even getting a chance to breath before his lips were on yours.

His kiss was passionate, running his tongue along your lips to ask for you to open them. You obliged, letting him have his way with you. You ran your fingers up underneath his shirt, feeling his warm skin shiver underneath you touch. He groaned at the feeling, pushing himself closer to you and placing one hand on the back of your neck while the other dragged lazy patterns along your bare hip.

You two held each other close, getting lost and drunk on the thoughts and feelings of one another. No one could make each of you feel the way you made each other feel. In Chishiya’s arms you felt safe and content, making all the terrible things around you disappear. And for Chishiya, you made him feel sane again. You made him remember that he was human, he was allowed to have human emotions and make mistakes.

You brought a sense of comfort to one another, and clearly Chishiya wasn’t willing to let anything come between you both.

[captainsimagines]

To Topple A Giant || Chapter One

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate. 

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 1 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Trope: ‘Enemies to Lovers’; mainly angst, mutual pining, fluff, and eventual smut

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. All trigger warnings will be listed before the chapter. This is purely fanfiction. 

Word Count: 4000+

A/N: Ooo, let’s hope this does numbers! I love myself some ‘enemies to lovers’ tropes. It’s been a while since I’ve written Steve fanfics. :)

~

Wakanda, 2018, 4:04 pm.

     The flash of bright white light temporarily blinded you, sending you back to the ground and cupping your face in self-defense. But as quickly as the initial crack, it was over. Eerily silent and loud at the same time. The birds whistled their same tune, some higher-pitched than others. The wind seemed to blow louder, rustling the leaves from the trees and landing all around you and your teammates. 

“Thor?”

You lifted your head at the sound of Steve’s voice and checked if the coast was clear. All that remained of the evil was a new blood-stained hammer - a hammer that Thor was watching intensely, as if the answer lay hidden there. It was the only remnant left and your mind was already wondering how to use it to bring that evil back to finish a fair fight. 

“Where’d he go?”

The birds stopped singing. 

“Steve?”

You whipped your head around at the sound of Bucky’s confused voice, watching as one of your best friends dropped his gun and looked up at Steve as his hands began to disappear. In a matter of seconds, Bucky - or what became of him - fell to the dirt below. No one spoke, and you watched as Steve tried to control his breathing as he took a knee to place his shaking hand over his best friend’s ashes. A life and mind brought out of the darkness to finally amend those knots he had twisted, now ceasing to exist. In the distance you could hear Okoye shout in turmoil and Rocket begin begging. 

“What’s happening?” you finally choked out, turning just in time to see Wanda lift her head to the sky, defeated and out of will, and succumb to the same fate. “No!”

You ran and fell beside Vision’s now gray and decaying body, reaching over and palming through Wanda’s ashes. You rubbed them between your fingers, inspecting them, and brought your hand to your chest. The pit of your stomach churned as you sat there, immobile and numb. 

“Sam!”

So many names were being called but soon everyone who remained fell silent. The trees were still guiding the wind, leaves falling into the ashes of your friends, a sign of a new and unwanted chapter. You felt Steve drop beside you, turning Vision around to see the damage to his body. You winced when you saw the gaping hole in his forehead. 

“What is this? What’s happening?”

Natasha ran to where you were seated, hand over her stomach as if she was ready to vomit. And once she took one look at Vision, that’s exactly what she did. 

You removed your hands from your chest to look at them, the ashes still there and practically mocking you into finally believing this as reality. “Did we just lose?”

Steve was moments away from a full-blown panic attack. He simply looked up at the trees, watching the way the sunlight still burst through with no disruption. “Oh god.”

You caught Steve as he tipped his upper body toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding onto something real. He had to believe you were real. Anyone. And you were the closest person to him. You shut your eyes and held him, running your hands through his hair, wincing when you realized Wanda’s ashes were now on him.

You held him tight, praying to any God you chose to believe in at that moment, that Steve wouldn’t disappear too. 

Unknown Location, 2025, 1:07 pm.

     The air was incredibly musty, as if each person who struggled for breath in this room at one point or another left a piece of their soul floating in search of last minute penance for their sins. And the man in front of you was no different, choking on the purple blood that dripped down his neck and onto his now unbuttoned, white dress shirt. His chest was rising and falling, his breathing becoming less labored with each blink of the eye. His hands were tied behind his back and to the chair he sat on, a flickering light in the corner of the dark, concrete room somehow mocking this man’s last remaining seconds of life. 

“I’m not an evil person,” you started, kicking one of the legs of the chair to startle the poor man. But your guilt was minimal - it’s not like you wanted to do this - but knowing this man did exactly what everyone said he did, hands red and dripping with young blood, you selfishly took pleasure knowing this man would look at you when he died. “It’s just my job as third in command.”

You gave the man a small smile as you bent down to his level, head hanging in shame, slow breaths now pausing in between each intake. You looked to the other party in the room, handing them the gun in your holster, and walked out the room as the sound of two gunshots rang out. 

Left twist. Sting. Breathe. 

You washed away any smell from that godforsaken room, giving extra attention to the roots of your hair and under your fingertips. 

Scrub. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. 

The crack of your neck frightened even you, and you stood under the burning shower for a few more minutes before deciding the sting was enough. You changed into the most comfortable sweats you owned, surprisingly calm for such a gruesome morning you had, and took your time with your skin care routine. 

Circle. Wash. Dry.

Soft music played in the overhead speakers, the classical sounds vibrating from one wall to another and surrounding you with something tranquil - something still. There was nothing to expect from such a sound, only the next repeated chorus, no words or drops - just tranquility. You could barely hear yourself breathe but you were at peace - or mostly - and ready to sooth your growing headache behind the eyeballs with more than just music. You slipped on a pair of comfy, forest green socks and bent them at the ankle to achieve an even fluffier look. You applied your favorite perfume, lotioned up your hands, and donned your tacky friendship bracelet. 

One for you. One for Bucky. One for Peter. And one for Wanda. 

You hummed the whole way to the common room, waving at the morning staff as they fixed lightbulbs, covered holes in the walls, and swept the floors. One muffin and a cup of coffee later, you were resting with your head in Wanda’s lap as she filled your thoughts with your chosen sceneries.

      “I can make you see anything you have already seen, so yes.”

“A miniature golf course, Peter’s high school graduation, a field of all kinds of flowers, and Natasha.”

Wanda stilled her floating hand, smile faltering for a moment before she nodded. “Okay… okay, I can do that.”

     They were images well-drawn out, slow and steady to make the atmosphere similar to when you were actually there. They seemed to float across your vision, comfortable in their positions and radiating the same warmth you had felt the first time around. A moving picture. Wanda really had excellent control of this. 

     “I won!” Sam leapt into the air, pointing at a disgruntled Bucky, who stepped off to the side to not throw Sam over his own head. “I won!”

“How is it possible for you to get a hole-in-one each fucking turn?” Bucky groaned, moping in Wanda’s shoulder as she held him and struggled to keep herself standing from her own intense laughs. 

“I think we got a cheater on the loose,” Steve grinned, pointing at the ring Sam was trying to discreetly tuck back into his pocket. A friendly gift from T’Challa, no doubt. 

“Nuh-uh, give me the fucking proof, Wilson!” Bucky roared, wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck and tugging him forward. “I will not admit defeat if there was foul play involved!”

Sam escaped the hold, climbing onto the rock located to the side of the flag and a sign that read ‘do not climb on rocks’. 

“It just helped me calculate all things geometry, Barnes. We’re good.”

Bucky looked as if he was going to leap on him again, but before he could even finish that thought, Sam slipped on the wet surface and plummeted into the rushing little river. 

Laughter erupted and did not cease until you were escorted out of the fairgrounds by four security guards. 

     A flick of Wanda’s wrist and a new memory began forming, colors blending like an oil painting, dried and covered with a glossy varnish, ready to hang. 

     “Don’t trip on your way up, kid.”

Peter swatted Steve in the side as the super soldier left the room, leaving Peter alone in front of the full-length mirror. He adjusted his tie and tried to lay that pesky dangling strand of hair over the top of his head.

You got up from the couch and made your way over, wrapping your arms around Peter and resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’ll do great. We’re all so proud.”

“It’s just high school…”

You frowned and turned him to face you. “No, you should already be in your second year of college. This is seven years in the making. We are all so proud.”

Peter could feel the slight burn at the corner of his eyes but he swallowed it down, giving you a small smile and a hug. 

“And can you trip? Don’t you stick to all surfaces?”

Peter scoffed and pushed you away, his tiny smile never faltering.

     You could feel Wanda shift her legs underneath you, searching for the most comfortable position as she continued her work. You sighed, already feeling the therapeutic effects. 

     “They’re all so pretty!” you yelled cheerfully, running through the field with your arms extended to the sky. Bucky and Steve followed close behind, leaning down every so often to pluck the flower of their choosing and adding to the bouquet in their hand. 

“Which did Tony prefer?” Steve asked, snapping you from your pollen-filled, ecstatic state. 

“Aesthetic beauty, Rogers! Natasha was a sucker for anything pink and sunflowers.”

Bucky nodded, seeming to take that information into consideration as he plucked the yellow and pink flowers only. Steve chose the most healthy looking flowers, his hand struggling to hold them together as he reached the two dozen mark. 

“I think we’re good. These are good.”

You smiled at both super soldiers and admired their bouquets, leaning over to sniff their masterpieces. “Awesome.”

     Wanda sighed as she neared your last vision, debating on showing you your chosen moment instead of another one. This moment always hurt Wanda as she wasn’t there to witness it, but it was special to you. There were so many others to choose from, but you insisted this was the one you always wanted to see. And Wanda was always hesitant at first - but when she lifted her hand slowly and dropped the memory back into the front of your brain, she couldn’t help but smile. 

     “Are we ready?”

Everyone was practically bouncing on their heels, both excited and terrified. Time travel was new to humanity and you were to be one of the first to experience such a thrill. You were going to get everyone back. 

You squeezed Natasha’s hand once more before you walked back over to Thor and Rocket. You all nodded to each other, saying ‘goodbye’ and ‘good luck’ with your childlike expressions. 

“See you in a minute,” Natasha grinned, her cheeks reddening with a friendly blush as she looked over at Steve. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, a braid you had helped her make, and she was carrying an extra pair of socks in case of a long hike. 

Then a blast of color surrounded your body and the smell of peaches as you landed on Asgard filled your overstimulated senses. 

     You opened your eyes and smiled up at Wanda. You didn’t want to see old memories with your friend, but the most recent. It was like you were grasping onto that last memory of her, not wanting to change anything about her last smile, her last laugh, her last shred of existence. It was oddly calming, and so you hoped Wanda would understand. 

You thanked her again and proceeded to the kitchen. It was bigger than the one before, the soft forest green color of the walls a nice contrast from the blue ones before. You laughed to yourself and your conscience as you silently thanked the explosion that obliterated the horrid blue walls, quickly backtracking at your dumb thoughts. Still, you chose to joke about everything that happened before to avoid falling deeper into yourself. The kettle started howling, smoke circling around the tip. You poured your tea, dropped two cubes of sugar in, and added a little milk. 

It was quite bizarre how quickly you could bounce back from the morning you had. A very bloody, order-filled morning. When one order was given, you had to come up with a plan on how to not disregard the other. You had to listen to Fury and your father, gaining a few feet on each side without toppling the other. Still, it took a physical toll on you. But with Wanda’s help in easing your mind and the very sweet tea you nursed, your emotional baggage was pretty minimal. It sometimes scared you how easy it all was. 

Your morning carried on quietly as you sat on the concrete curb, happily sipping your tea in your sweatpants. You could hear Sam and Scott arguing about something a few feet away from you and Bucky taking his afternoon jog around the track. Quite distracted, the sudden ‘thwip’ and superhero landing of a certain teenager scared you enough to spill a little of your tea. 

“Goddamn, dude!” you whined, looking up at Peter as he tried to control his laughter. 

 “I’m sorry, I thought you saw me!”

“Excuse me for being distracted by the hot super soldier just over there,” you joked, pointing over at Bucky. 

Peter rolled his eyes and sat next to you, immediately reaching over to take the tea from you and take a sip himself. You let him, as you had no other choice, rolling your eyes anyway. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you had classes today?”

Peter handed back your cup, “Nah, I’ve only got classes every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Ugh, that sounds great. I remember I scheduled my classes for every day of the week just to have more units,” you sighed, taking another sip of tea. 

 “Stupid.”

You pushed Peter’s shoulder playfully, both your laughter catching the attention of Sam and Scott. But as quickly as you had distracted them, they ignored you and went back to bickering. 

“I���m just here to see my friends, sue me!”

“Nope, you’re always welcome,” you smiled, holding out your wrist and bumping your bracelet with his. “How was your week otherwise?”

“Eh, nothing major. Just trying to navigate the world now that they know who's behind the mask.”

You gave Peter a look of sympathy, still mad at the sudden manipulation of the kid after such traumatic events. You had promised him you would protect him by any means possible, as did the rest of the team, but he seemed to be navigating the situation just fine. Staying away from reporters, scheduling his classes during the most isolated gaps of the day, and signing dozens of forms that promised to protect him, give him royalties, etc. After you had brought everyone back, it seemed the least the new management/orders could provide for you all. 

“We all have our days,” you muttered, handing your tea back to Peter. You two sat there for a while longer, enjoying the slight breeze and taste of sugar. 

An agent rounded the corner and spotted you, jogging up and handing you a yellow folder that was sealed in plastic. “For you, from Fury, from whoever before that.”

“Um, thank you?” you said as the agent walked away. You inspected the folder, turning it over in your hands and playing with the thin plastic. 

You lifted it up to Peter’s face, “Here, smell it and tell me if there’s poison.”

Peter scoffed, “I can’t do that!”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

Peter muttered to himself as he took the folder from you, sniffing it awkwardly. “Smells like paper, dude.”

“Cool, thanks.” 

You ripped the plastic off and unhooked the folder, dropping the single item onto your lap. Peter just sipped your tea and watched you open it. 

It was another envelope, but this one was white with custom-printed indents that swirled across the front and a big, red blob of wax smushed- with your initials- sealing it. You ripped it open and pulled the invitation from inside. You must have read it a thousand times, eyes rapidly scanning the small page with secret meanings. 

“You got invited to a wedding?” Peter asked, taking it from you and reading it himself. 

“Yeah, but this is so much more than that,” you said, snatching it back and standing up from the curb. You quickly went back into the compound, searching for the one person who needed to read it also.

You seemed to find everyone before you found the super soldier who wasn’t out for a jog, a line of somewhat concerned superheroes following behind you from room to room. Eager minds and yet, inflexible rib cages full of anxiety and worry, all ready (and quite not) to tackle the new evils of this new world. And whether they followed you blindly or with functioning minds, they were prepared. 

With the rest of the team behind you, you burst through the second floor with the invitation held over your head. Steve stopped mid-bite, milk dripping from his bottom lip as he stared at everyone in confusion. “Um…”

“It’s time-” you started, pulling the stool from next to him and sitting down. 

“Time for what?” Steve interrupted, his mouth still full of cereal.

“Time for this,” you motioned to the envelope you were handing him. “-to finally end.”

Steve read the invitation word for word, the wrinkles in his forehead becoming deeper as his mind worked. You couldn’t quite discern the feeling in the pit of your stomach, twisting and spinning into a tight coil, seeming to spread to the others as it grew in pressure within you. 

“All three?”

“All three,” you confirmed. 

Peter pushed through Bruce and Rhodey, “What’s happening? What’s gonna end?”

You looked over at Steve, his bowl of cereal now forgotten and soggy. 

His eyes were distant and rather cold, hands extended on his knees as if he was drying the accumulating sweat, shoulders building tension. 

“Steve, we can finally end this. We have to tell everyone. It won’t be enough if it’s just you and me.”

He wanted to explode, in both anger and anguish, to stumble over his intact persona and leave it behind - someone he hasn’t known for a long time. It ate away at him each day since Fury notified him of your selfish choice, burrowing into his now tarnished soul in the most sadistic way. But the prospect of finishing this chapter - a chapter that was unexpectedly halted when half the world disappeared - was considerably euphoric. A chance to move on. 

“Okay.”

Rhodey already had knowledge of your background, recruitment, and family but Steve’s initial involvement - the start of it - was still a mystery. You sat everyone down in the living room, making room for the others who arrived later, and clapped your hands together. “Story time!”

Steve groaned, face already pressed against a throw pillow. “Just tell them.”

You rolled your eyes at him. 

“You know whose spawn I’m from,” you began, snickers from your amused friends encouraging you. “To better transport their product, they sent me over to the states to attend college like the good little girl they think I am.”

Sam cracked open a beer and lifted his legs up onto the couch, sitting back with a massive smile on his face as he got comfortable for your story. He handed another beer to Scott. 

“Wait, product?” Scott asked, taking a sip from his drink. 

You smirked at him and tapped your nose twice, amused by his ‘O’ reaction. “Anyway, by then I already knew that I wanted out of the game. I didn’t like that life, I didn’t like the violence, I didn’t like my family.”

Steve knew that was an understatement, a cruel and restrained statement from your part, and he wanted to tell everyone just how justified you were in your words, how real you were being, and how much help you would certainly need for this. But like always, he remained silent. 

“But Fury got to me before I could leave. So, we made a deal. I would train as a field agent and he would promote me every other year to lessen suspicion on this whole ordeal. The deal being I would play both teams.”

By now, your whole team was intrigued. 

“I would do what I could for my father and still have my family’s trust, while feeding the information to SHIELD and our lovely star-spangled man over here,” you pointed over at Steve. He gave you a tiny but forced smile. 

“But after the collapse of SHIELD, my father only became more violent, more hard-headed, more suspicious. He- uh-” you stuttered, flashbacks suddenly filling your head. Wanda watched your eyes dart rapidly, sensing the rush of blood to your legs and tips of your fingers.

“He was power hungry,” Wanda said, immediately feeling your heart rate lower. Although you never actually said it, she could tell you were grateful for her intrusion. 

“Yeah, exactly,” you cleared your throat. “But Steve’s involvement all started when Fury asked me who would be the best front - the most reliable front.”

“So, with only Fury and the bad guys knowing - Y/N named me as her partner in crime,” Steve explained, head hanging low as if it was such a disgrace to do what you openly did. You knew his troubles with coming to terms with such an offensive role were multiplying daily, but you were now this close to stopping  every bad force involved. 

 “So, Captain America is the ultimate drug smuggler,” Scott spoke, somehow trying to comprehend the information all at once. You and Steve both nodded in confirmation and avoided the wide and questioning eyes looking back at you. 

“Yeah, he’s essentially the top boss.”

“Y/N-,” Steve interjected, but you beat him to  it. 

“And here we are! Him and I both invited to the wedding.”

Wanda stretched out her words, “The wedding?”

“Yes, the wedding - where three of the most famous and powerful drug lords south of the border will be attending and ready for our taking - including my father.”

Steve stood from his seat, posture straightening as he spoke to the group. “The invitation reads like a threat. No cameras, no plus-ones besides those listed specifically on the card, no speaking to reporters before or after. The trust Y/N has gained would unknowingly make us the contraband of the party.”

After going through more specifics about the whole situation, Bucky finally raised the question eating away at his mind this whole time. “Whose wedding is it, anyway?”

You grinned that stupid little grin Steve always prepared himself for. It was the grin you would display whenever you were going to make a serious matter a joke, or brush something serious off your shoulder as if it didn’t bother you. The sarcastic grin he always wanted to wipe off your face as you defied orders. 

“My lovely little sister’s.”

Rhodey stepped forward to take the invitation for personal inspection, “When is it?”

“A week from tomorrow,” you beamed. “Which means I got to get shopping for a wonderful little, red number!”

“Please, be more excited about this,” Steve groaned, sarcasm dripping off each syllable. 

You flicked your right hand up and in position to flash your charming little middle finger at him, a river of fluffed ego and delight flowing to your cheeks as he huffed and left the room in a stumbled march.

“So…” Scott’s voice ripped through the awkward silence. “We’ve been secret drug smugglers this whole time?”

~

Please let me know what you think! I listened “The Archer” by Taylor Swift and I was like... yes, I see this, lmao. Tell me if you would like to be tagged in later updates! xxMoni

[jennsmischievousmind]

Fucks not Found

Florence

Ch1 Ghosts | Ch2 Florence | Ch3 A Matter of Seconds | Ch4 I need a Backdoor | Ch5 Die Hard | Ch6 White Flag | Ch7 Haunt the Living | Ch8 One, but not done [end]

Who had this fucking idea?

One had refused that you got out the truck since Italy was were you lived. Apparently for Six it was okay, since he was in the car moving at 160per hour. That’s how you ended up in that stupid espresso truck Three had rented. Feet on the dash, trying to concentrate on your laptop, unfortunately Three was trying to learn Italian next to you.

“I’m gonna kill him!” You said through greeted teeth, he was shamelessly butchering your mother tongue.

“Be nice Eight.” Five chuckled over the comm. The mission was going smoothly at first, exchanging jokes with Six, Four sending pictures on the group chat from his view up there. 

Eventually everything went south real quick. It distracted you from the urge to shoot at Three.

“You hit one more person and I’m walking?” you heard Five in the comm link, your eyes widened.

“You’ve hit someone?!” you yelled at Six. 

“Grazed him really ..” he tried to convince you

“Totally smashed him, One added, 10/10!”

“Imbecille!” your Italian resurfacing when in stress.

Four scoffed in the comm link "How come she can speak Italian and you cannot?

"She's always been the better twin" Six hissed avoiding another walker

“Definitely.” Four answered in a hushed tone.  

Brushing away Four’s comment you got impatient "One, I need access to that phone!"

One growled  "Bossy, ever so bossy!"

“What did you guys do in there? Why are you covered in blood?” Six inquired, you could hear the disgust in his voice, between cursed and screeching tires, as obviously they were chased by the lawyer’s own TAC team. 

“ The head, neck, and face are very, very vascular. So it’s a lot of blood.” One vaguely tried to explain.

“Oh Eight I think they kill a mafia guy in Italy! You pressed your temples at your brother’s words. 

The lawyer’s phone needed facial recognition more specifically retina recognition… so naturally Two scooped his eye out. What a first mission!

“One for Four?”

“Yeah, go for Four.”

“ We need you.”

“ Of course you need me. I’m here.”

“Remind me, where the fuck is here?” 

“ Here here. Like, here?” Four continued, his evasive answers made you grin.

“Specificity.” One added

“ Here. Right effing here! Top of the Duomo, like we talked about. Look up. Where you going?”

“In the wrong direction. Please help them.” You sighed, Three spun his revolver your way.

“Get that thing away from my face Three!” he grimaced returning to his book

“Oh shit, coming down! Four announced… Coming up North, down on Via de ..via de ..there’s so many fucking vias in Italy!  

“Via De Cerretani.” you cleared

“Yeah, yeah” he sighed annoyed

At some point you momentarily removed your earpiece since your brother was screaming and cursing. Mammà would disapprove.

“You gotta lose that police chopper!” Four was perched on the Sagrestia Vecchia following the Alpha Romeo through Florence’s alleys.

You hacked the chopper on board cam “I have eyes, I’ll tell you when they lose you.”

“dov'è il bagno? …. dov'è il baaagno?..” Three repeated 3 TIMES, you glanced at him really annoyed, fingers itching to unsheathed.

“Buongiorno Uno” he answered at the sizzling talkie.

“Shit’s gone, we’re supper fucked, Four needs an Uber!”

“Way ahead of you, papi!” a loud bang coming from above the truck startled you.

“Buongiorno Quattro” Three started the truck.

His accent really made you cringe. Removing your feet from the dash you dip your head catching a glimpse of Four on the top on the truck.

After a few seconds, he got down and squeezed himself by the passenger window, you scout next to Three with a huff.

Gunshots, and cussing resonated in the comm link.Unconsciously biting your thumbnail, you kew your brother was a good driver but it was stressful. Four leaned in watching the chopper cam on your laptop. His blond hair falling into his eyes, you spotted brown flakes in the emerald green of his eyes. He was so close you thought your heartbeat had sync with his because you felt like adrenaline had rush in.

For a second you locked eyes, he smirked at you, immediately self aware of your agape state you nudge him away from your laptop. One was screaming at everyone in the car, Two was screaming back at him, her French accent even more pronounced. Five lost it in Spanish against Six and One. 

“Ok, the chopper lost sight on you, make the best of it little bro.”

All of sudden “Wannabe” blasted into your ear, you chuckled at your brother’s music taste, until Three announced two black suburban were tailing the green Guila Quadrifoglio. Four reloaded the grenade launcher, you eyed him apprehensive, he just smiled at you like a kid on Christmas day.

“Six fake ‘em out mate, I’m coming to you!” reaching for his skateboard behind you.

Few explosions later you urged them to make in on time at the rendez-vous point.

“You got a superhero on the squad!!” your brother praised Four, these two really got along real quick.

Focused on your next escape route aka arguing in Italian on the phone with the docker you didn’t hear the commotion in the car, the tires screeching, shattering glass.

“Whoa, shit!” Six screamed.

You gasped, feeling something was wrong, a deep pain in your chest you couldn’t explain, furrowing your brows you breathe in trying to chase it away, thinking it was the adrenaline rushing out.

Three stopped the truck at the construction site where you had to meet, him and Four got out gun’s at point.

You got out the truck a second later, your own gun in hand, still feeling weird “Ok let’s get the fuck out of my mother land bef..” you freezed, your eyes landing on the green car.

A deafening silence invaded your ears, the sound of you gun hitting the concrete resonating until your brain caught up, you understood the sudden unknown feeling. 

“NOOOOOO” you cried out running to him, feet skidding on the debris. “Come on baby brother, no, no, no, no” you cradled his face in your shaking hands, your vision blurry with tears, you pushed your forehead onto his, hands bloodied. “please, please” you begged sobbing, murmuring prayers.

 He was gone. You were unable to feel his presence, unable to feel his emotions through that unique bond twins have, you felt lost, incomplete.

 The harbor was the final way out, no one said a word as Four and One put Six in a transparent body bag.

The boat drifting away, Three came out with a bottle of booze and some pizzas, like, the fuck man pizzas right now? You denied the drink, if you were to drink you knew you were not going to stop until you black out. You sat on the edge of the stern, eyes glossy a blank expression on your face. One stood by your side, his behavior cold but uneasy.

“Here’s a toast to a kid I liked.” Three lift his glass

“Are you crying?” Two mocked him

“We didn’t even know his name.”

“We don’t know any names.”

“What was his name?” You didn’t want to say his name, you didn’t want to burst in tears just by saying his name. 

“It doesn’t matter. He was a good man.”

You didn’t expect One to say that, yes he was but in the end what did he knew about your brother.

“I thought I managed the risk. I’m sorry.” One softly concluded not looking at you

“Did you guys had anyone else...family?”

“I think you’re looking at it.” Two told her nodded your way cautiously

They all look at you gravely, please stop you screamed internally; I don’t need your pity, I need my brother.

“Risposa in Pace Fratellino” you whispered as they toss his body into the unforgiving Adriatic Sea. Here you were, the only one left of the Y/L/N family.

After giving One the last update on the phone they’d got, you went to the cabin, to steal a moment alone, cry without a bunch of strangers around. But you bumped into Four.

“Hey ..” he hesitate, searching his pocket he lifted his hand, showing the Cross necklace Six had attached to his stir.

Four didn’t know how much this cross meant to your family, and that did it, bawling you let all your sorrow out clutching at the cross.

Tears you hadn’t shed for your parents, as you try to be tough for your mother when papà disappeared, and then for your brother when mammà died. And now for him.

Carefully Four wraps his arm around your frame, offering some warmth and comfort. Something you thought you had definitely lost an hour ago. Muffling your cries in his white sweater, he held you tighter as he too felt his pain, you heard him exhale and breathe in trying to contain his own tears.

After that it was not the same with Four. Two said once that you did what she called a “transfer”. Meaning you were treating Four as your little brother, but it was definitely not like that, it was something else. Something One had prohibit.

Back at the Haunted House in the California desert, you hadn’t slept all the way ‘home’, you busied yourself packing Six stuff and bring them back in your trailer.

One was standing in the cargo plane, in front of the metal storage cabinet, in which each one of us had to store personal effects, will, things like that, if you happened to die.

He handed you Six’s key.

“Hold on to it, will you? he furrowed his eyebrows retrieving his hand, When that mission is over, I’ll open it. Well if I’m still here.”

He nodded understanding.

“I brought him into this, ...”

“… He said there was nothing he’d rather be doing with his life. That prick.” One was oddly compassionate

You shook your head trying to hold back tears, if you hadn’t hack that asshole back in your hometown, your brother wouldn’t be dead. Two’s French saying was in loop in your head, “Avec des si, on mettrait Paris en bouteille” “With Ifs, we could put Paris in a bottle.” but your guilt was still there, hanging tight.  

 Wally’s head on your thighs you couldn’t care less about his drool staining your jean, watching the nightfall on the California desert, the scolding sun giving place to the starry night, the sky virgin of light pollution you could see so much of the vault. Wally barked scaring you and made his way inside. “Ok big guy, good night.”

Passing by the empty pool you sat on one of the old lounge chairs, when you arrived it became your hangout with your brother and Four, even though it was mostly Four’s area. 

Sometimes Five would pass by on her way to the “gym cargo” as they called it. Four would settle on the edge of the bowl, while you lean on a lounge chair, your brother in the bowl tossing a tennis ball to each of you, tonight was the exception, your brother was not here, tears were, only Four didn’t stay on his side. 

He didn’t ask anything, he squished himself between you and the armrest. Wrapping his arms around your shoulders, face again his chest you sobbed. Being held by him was foreign at first, only used to your brother’s hugs since you’d left your hometown. As he brushed away your hair from your wet face, you looked at him, his mouth slightly opened, brows furrowed slightly, your hand reached for the crease between it, easing it with the pad of your index, his gaze locking with yours at your gesture. His hand brushed a last strand away, burying itself in your hair. He kissed the same spot on you, lingering, nose nudging his sharp jaw, his breath grazed your cheek. Lips hovering each other’s, there was a flash of hesitation that crossed his features, your lips closed on his before you could think. He tightened his grip on your waist, bringing you closer, your cold fingers brushing his cheek. Suddenly shame struck you.

Jerking away from him, stumbling on your two feet, you pressed the heel of your hands into your eyes. Kissing Four while mourning for your brother felt so wrong.  

“Eight..wh ?”

You cut him “If this is coming out of some misplaced sense of guilt, don’t bother.”

He opened and closed his mouth “What the.., you kissed me Eight ..!”

“I .., your voice wavered, I’m not myself right now… “ You had kissed him first, what were you trying to say, yeah he kissed back but argh the fuck was happening in your head. Avoiding his pained look you turned around, fleeing the situation.

“It’s not, just so you know, some misplaced guilt.” he watched you disappear into the night, your trailer alight few meters away.

Third chapter - A Matter of Seconds 

A/N: don’t forget to double tap if you liked it. 🙏

[eeveedel]

Praise the Mutilated World - Preview

A preview of the soon-to-be-published fic I co-wrote with @2ofusmp4​

More info here

**

It was one of Harry’s favorite days of the year – where everyone was together and celebrating, with the energy surrounding the city so vibrant that it was almost impossible not to be happy. The speakers lining the streets that were usually used only for announcements played music, celebration songs that had been created in the years since ALL was founded, with the national anthem playing between every few songs. People were singing along to the songs as they came on, and Harry hummed along to a few of the tunes, too.

White and blue flags hung from balconies off buildings and smaller versions hung from the hands of people as they made their way down the street.

All of this had been put together to remember the twenty fifth anniversary of their system bringing back the peace that had been lost for so many years. A celebration of their safety, of the happiness and comfort that everyone could finally experience without a second thought.

“Liam!” He called when he saw his friend standing a few people in front of him, and he moved himself forward to be standing with him. He turned to face Harry as he heard him calling for him, and he gave a small smile in response. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright, yeah, it’s a good day today right?” His voice sounded strained, and it was almost as if his attention was elsewhere. A small frown forms on Harry’s face as he looked at him for a moment, watched the way he fidgeted with his hands just a bit, pulling at a thread that had come loose on his sleeve.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Zayn is really sick, though, so I’m ready to just head home as soon as I can.” Harry’s eyebrows went up, and his frown only got deeper. He could only imagine how sick Zayn must have been for him to want to miss out on such an important day for their city.

“Oh, no. I’m sure he’ll get better soon. Considering you’re there to take care of him.” That made Liam smile, a light blush spreading over his cheeks. Harry had always loved their dynamic, the way the two of them just fit so perfectly together. It’s the kind of thing he’d always hoped for in a match – the love, the romance, the friendship. Now that he knew he was going to get matched one day, it only made the longing feel worse.

“Have you heard any news on your match just yet?”

“No, unfortunately. The doctor said it can take up to a year to find new matches,” He sighed. “I understand that waiting is important to ensure that my child is healthy, but I’m just so excited at the idea of having a family. It’s hard to think about waiting a year.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, I’m sure it will happen sooner than later.” He smiled at the idea, and they kept talking, a few others joining them for a few moments as the time went on.  The crowd filled in quickly, and the large clock at the top of the tower above the stage said that it was just a few more minutes before the event was scheduled to begin.

There was still music playing, and as he looked around, he saw a scattering of little handheld flags being waved. At the front, a stage was set up and the same flag, solid blue on it’s background with a single white stripe in the center, along with the ALL emblem in the center was bright and beautiful with the lights shining on it.

It wasn’t long before cheers erupted around them and he could see as a few peace guards guided President Jean onto the stage. She was smiling and waving at a few people as she walked, approaching the podium and letting the cheers die down.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” A woman’s voice said through the speakers. She spoke with a high pitch, voice lilting between perfectly enunciated words.

He couldn’t see her through the clusters of people, but her image was projected in holographic projections on each side of the stage high enough off the ground that he could see it perfectly. Her hair was long and black, with bright green eyes and a slightly upturned nose. She was one of the Founder Babies – one of the first ones born after the chaos struck, and she was quickly able to gain power within the ranks of people that wanted the peace to return.

“We are here today to celebrate a very special day. Today marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of ALL – the system that brings hope, peace, and salvation for all of us and for all of humanity, both today and in the future.” She paused as another roar of applause spread through the audience.

This one was different, though. It’s different as the pride of what they’d all created filled the atmosphere, as the happiness of a secure future fell into everyone’s thoughts. It was the kind of feeling he knew several generations before his didn’t have the blessing of, and he took the short moment of the applause to be thankful for it. He was a gentle person – and a part of him wondered if he would have been able to make it had he not been born into peace.

“In the last twenty-five years, we’ve more than doubled the birth rate, cured diseases that used to wipe out millions, completely reversed the adverse effects of climate change from the Old World. We have secured resources for the next eight generations and created tools to renew them as we use them.

Twenty-five years ago, there were less than ten babies born in the world per year. Today, every month, there are ten more people in our beautiful city alone.”

“Today and together, we make history. Each day, we are all working together to not only keep humanity alive, but to work towards a better future for us and for our children.” Another pause. “To help celebrate this beautiful day, we have brought out the omegas and mothers of all of the children in our city. Let’s show them our love and dedication for their help in creating our future.”  

In a quick, single file line, about a dozen omegas walked out onto the stage, dressed in suits and dresses and looking as beautiful as always. Harry had always had incredible amounts of respect for the omegas that were building their country back up, and he smiled, clapping along with everyone else as they each found their way to their spot on the stage.

President Jean started making her way back to the microphone when a sudden wave of smoke filled the stage, coating everything and completely blocking out any vision. Three gunshots rang out and the entire crowd huddled down to the ground in quick succession.

Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest as he looked up, looking for Liam to make sure he was alright, and he saw him moving his way through the crowd towards the smoke.

“Liam?” Harry tried to call, “Liam!” 

The man didn’t turn, and Harry started to go towards him, but he felt someone grab his arm, and turned to see a uniformed guard turned toward him; Harry’s own reflection was looking back at him from the glossy black visor covering the guard’s entire face. 

“Please proceed to the nearest checkpoint, sir, we’re evacuating,” the guard said, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. 

“My friend -- “ Harry got out, “He, um, I saw him going towards the stage, I need to check -- “

“If he is not a government official or medical professional he will be accordingly escorted to a checkpoint along with everyone else,” the guard said, “If you do not have family or a mate with you, please only worry about yourself as you proceed to the checkpoint.”

Harry nodded weakly, and slowly backed away. The guard was already looking to the rest of the crowd, trying to grab people and point them in the right direction. THe smoke was still thick, and some people were still screaming. Harry could hear the distinct, high sound of children screaming and crying, and his heart clenched, although he knew that parents with small children would be given first priority evcacation. 

He tried to go to the nearest checkpoint, marked by a flashing red light at the doorway of a nearby bank, which was usually unlit and only turned on in emergencies, like now. He could already see a tidy line of people waiting outside as a guard checked on them, and then they calmly proceeded inside the building after a guard unlocked it for them. 

As Harry kept walking, he glanced over his shoulder in spite of himself, trying to spot Liam again. It made sense if Liam had run towards the stage -- even if he usually took care of children, he still had a medical degree, and was perfectly qualified to assist people in need during an emergency. Still, he tried to look for any sign that his friend was actually assisting people in need, and not bleeding on the ground. 

He couldn’t see him, though; he could only see guards escorting officials off the stage, alongside some of the omegas from the ceremony, who had all been given blankets and who were being taken carefully, one by one and under individual protection from the guards, down the stage and into a series of black military vans. 

He was about to turn around fully and finish his walk to the checkpoint, when a fresh surge of movement caught his eye.

At first he thought it was another burst of smoke coming in, and he lifted the edge of his jacket to cover his face, until his eyes focused better and he cautiously lowered the edge of his jacket to watch the stage. 

One of the guards was bringing an omega to the edge of the stage -- or at least, they were trying to. The omega man -- or at least, Harry assumed it was an omega, from his height and his build -- was thrashing against the guard, digging his feet into the stage and shaking his head, his mouth open. The guard tried to put a blanket over his shoulders, but the omega shoved it out of the way, and then, when the guard tried to pull on his shoulders and hold him by the back of his shirt to get him to move, but the omega kept fighting him, at one point putting his head down and trying to thrust it into the guard’s chest. 

Harry stopped walking, and he was aware there were people running around him, trying to get to their checkpoints, but he just kept looking at the omega fighting the guard. Harry wasn’t sure if he had ever seen him before at any other ceremony. He was dressed similarly to the other omegas -- in a black blouse and a nice pair of trousers and shoes. His hair was long, too, shaggy over his neck and getting into his eyes, but he was clean shaved and otherwise looked nicely groomed. But most strangely, the omega was wearing a pair of black sunglasses, something that was almost never allowed at a ceremony, where everyone’s eyes needed to be uncovered. 

Why did he look like that? Why hadn’t he on the stage during the ceremony? Was he a new rescue from one of the lower Neighborhoods?  

The omega kept fighting, and another guard had to run over and held the first one. A few other guards were looking over, trying to see what was happening. Surely the omega was having a panic attack and wasn’t thinking right, and that’s why he was fighting. Eventually, a third guard, this one with a bright blue ALL badge marking their higher rank, came over, and pulled a sleek silver pen-like device from their pen. The omega thrashed even harder, but the third guard lifted a hand, trying to hold onto the crown of the omega’s head and calm him. As he lifted his hand, the glasses were knocked off the omega’s face, and Harry caught a glance of his startled, bright blue eyes. He could see the color of them from all the way across the square. 

The guard settled the pen-like device on the side of omega’s neck, and the omega’s eyes widened even more before his eyes fluttered and then closed, his body relaxing. A sedation, surely. Harry had seen them given all the time in doctor’s office. Once the omega was fully relaxed, one of the guards picked him up, and then tossed him over their shoulder and then jogged off the stage and into one of the vans. 

“Sir?” Harry heard, “Sir, please proceed to your checkpoint, it’s not safe.” 

Harry looked up and saw a guard next to him, slightly shorter than the first one had been. 

“Oh,” he got out, “I was just...I was checking on the omegas, that’s all.”

“That’s understandable. But they’re safe and good hands. Now please proceed to your checkpoint.”

Harry nodded, and then turned and put up the collar of his jacket. He went to the checkpoint, and presented his bracelet to the on-duty guard, who unlocked the door for him once his bracelet flashed green. 

He stepped into the doorway of the bank, and glanced over his shoulder, back to the square. The space was nearly empty, and the smoke had almost cleared out, and so had the black military vans that contained all the omegas, including the one Harry had seen. 

With nothing else to see, he swallowed, turned, and went inside. 

[thesandersinitiative]

Where did you guys find the Tesseract out of curiosity?

“I’m surprised you’re not more interested in this,” Thomas admits to Dee, waving a white flag of momentary surrender with his topic change, “We may not understand what’s happening down there, but it’s history being made. Opening a door across worlds.”

Dee snorts as he stares down at the little people below them, “Well, spectacular job opening door they doing. Three months and no progress. We not going to be ones opening it.”

Thomas frowns, “What do you mean by that?”

Dee blinks finally, peering up at his superior, “Its door.” He motioned downwards to the scurrying scientists, “We knocking. Loudly. What coming will not be friend.”

As if reacting to the vague, ominous comment, the Tesseract lets out a pulse of energy that thrums through the air. Thomas feels all the hairs on his arms raise and shifts his weight around. The scientists down below scatter with a few yells, and begin furiously typing, making notes, or scanning the screens before them.

There’s another pulse of energy, this time strong enough to blow the fuse on several computers and cause most of the lights to burst. Dee straightens, and turns fully around to peer down below, slipping the snake bite back onto his left wrist.

Thomas’s hand goes to his gun holster. The other waves off the camera–the new recruits don’t need to see this. 

“Talyn,” He calls down below, “What are you guys doing?”

The blue haired scientist throws their hands up, waving a clipboard. “Us? We’re not doing anything!” The cube crackles with blue energy enough that Thomas can see it even from up where he is. Talyn ducks behind one of the sparking computer frames, with a mouth full of curses. “That thing!” They yell, “Is doing this all by itself!”

“Shut it down,” Thomas tells them, but he kinda already suspects what response he’s going to get for it. “Turn it off!”

“It’s an Energy Source, Sanders!” Talyn throws their clipboard up at him (it doesn’t get anywhere close to them), “I cut the power and it turns it back on!”

The Tesseract hums with energy to the point where Thomas almost thinks it is alive. He grips the railing, feeling the electricity of the room, the tension building while the cube just glows brighter and brighter. Physically, Thomas doesn’t think the room is getting smaller, but somehow it gets harder to breathe.

Then all at once, the Tesseract stops: the light dims, the energy stops crackling, the air is suddenly breathable. The whole area is silent, staring at the alien thing they had in their possession.

“What the f–” Talyn starts.

And the Tesseract explodes.

Energy ripples off it in a wave so huge and crushing it knocks everyone in the vicinity off their feet and steam rolls several equipment racks. Thomas hits the floor of the grated walkway, and his gun skids from his holster. The entire rafter catwalk screeches with the threat to bring itself down on the lab below them. The glass bulbs over them shatter the rest of the way and Thomas feels the pinpricks of pain slice through his suit. Several people scream, and Thomas can’t pick one voice from another.

At least he couldn’t.

“Oh I just love that sound! It’s music to my ears!”

It slices through the clearing fog of shock in Thomas’s mind. He pulls himself upright with the railing, ignoring the ache in his back and stares down at the lab while he blindly grasps around for his gun with his free hand.

There’s a person down there.

Tall and thin with a rat’s nest of curly brown hair tamed sleek against the skull with a single curl of shining gray to bounce across the pale forehead. One hand is propped up against his hip, and the other dangles down, fingers wrapped around the shaft of a golden scepter set with a glowing blue gem. He’s wearing leathers—battle leathers, almost identical to the ones Roman had shown up in last year only in midnight black and putrid green.

Come to think of it, Thomas blinks, trying to get his vision to stabilize, his leathers aren’t the only thing that look awful reminiscent of the God of Honor. They have the same nose and cutting cheek bones; the same mouth, even if Roman’s never twisted up quite so maliciously; and would even have the same eyes, if the newcomer’s weren’t a piercing green to Roman’s warm brown.

Clearly, he’s not the only person to think so.

“Roman?” One of the agents—one of his agents, who was in New Mexico last year—asks. A second later she’s choking on blood.

“Mmm,” The figure says, suddenly standing in front of her, scepter thrust forward through the agent’s chest. Even up in the rafters, Thomas can see the flint of madness in his eyes, “Wrong brother! Try again!”

He violently yanks the scepter out of the agent’s chest, and she crumples to the ground, blood moving to stain the cement. He brandishes the spear outwards and turns in a slow, deliberate circle. Two dozen agents have guns pulled out on the figure.

He smirks, highlighted in the blue of the Tesseract and the warping violent energy that Thomas just now notices is physically twisting over their heads like a sun just minutes away from imploding right over them. If Remus is worried about the possibility of the several hundred tons of rock that is likely to come down on them, he doesn’t show it.

“See, I’m not the Prince of Assland.” Remus tells them all theatrically, nastily, vehemently, “Next person who messes that one up gets their tongue cut off and shoved up their ass so they can really taste the bull—” The man jolts, stumbles, and almost trips over the hem of his own jacket.

Thomas’s gun is suddenly slapped into his hand as Dee shoots off another electrical blast to hit the figure square in the back. His snake bites glow a sharp, electric yellow. Dee yanks Thomas up by the back of his jacket, while not-Roman shrieks and shouts, “Kinky!”

Dee pushes Thomas to the stairs, “I hate being right all times,” He says, accent thick with exasperation.

Thomas dismisses his comment, and shouts, halfway down the steps and watching his agents and half the science division stare, frozen at the armed figure who’d stepped out of the portal, and killed one of their own, “Sir, put down the spear!”

Not-Roman laughs, “Oh, I do love it when they call me Sir! Can you try Daddy for me? Daddy Remus!”

Ah. Thomas thinks, so this is Roman’s twin brother. Crown Prince of the Vanir. The God had mentioned he had a foul mouth, and a fouler sense of humor, but with the well worn exasperation of a sibling who had long since grown used to his twin’s quirks and was generally able to dismiss them easily. The homicidal tendencies had never quite come up though.

(Thomas is almost not surprised at all: Roman had shown up bragging about the enemies he had slayed with his magical sword like killing people was something to be proud of. And Roman was supposed to be “well rounded” and “adjusted” by Asgardian standards. Maybe Thomas can convince the Director of SHIELD to gift Asgard with a Dictionary for the next Norse holiday that came up.)

“Get cube,” Dee hisses from behind him, “I will handle our guest.”

Dee doesn’t really give him an option on the matter. Thomas only has a half second to vaguely wonder when the little prick had decided it was acceptable to give his Supervising Officer orders, before Dee had pitched himself over the stairwell railing, and trapezed himself to the lab floor with feet lighter than feathers.

“Move,” Dee says to the nearest scientist and powers up his Snake Bites for another attack.

Remus looks delights at the aspect. “Oh, all you mortals!” He laughs giddily, “You really have no clue just how breakable you all are!” His spear twirls in his hand, almost absently. It looks inexperienced, untrained, but Thomas isn’t a fool and neither is Dee: they both know that Asgardians, Vanirians, whatever the hell this God is, had been trained in all weapons since their births.

Then all at once, Remus’s hand twists and he spins leveling the tip of his spear towards a group of frozen scientists and does something. Thomas doesn’t see, can’t see, but the effect of it is instant: the glowing orb on his magic weapon bursts and explodes outwards like a laser beam from one of Logan Ackroyd’s repulsors.

Talyn is the only one fast enough to move.

Talyn is the only one that manages to throw themselves to the side, slamming their head against the base of a blown out computer and screaming as the energy misses them by mere inches.

Talyn is the only one that survives.

“So very breakable!” Remus laughs as the bodies (bodies, plural. Bodies, unidentifiable) hit the floor just as Thomas takes his last step off of the stairs.

Dee’s jaw twitches, tightens. His fists clench at his sides, reaching for a gun that’s not there, Thomas realizes, inching towards the Tesseract. Dee hadn’t returned Thomas’s gun to him; he’d pulled out his own Glock 26 and handed it over. Thomas doesn’t have the time to feel the horror rising in his chest, because Remus is leaning in with the tip of his spear and a smirk on his face, just as Dee times off one last electrical blast right in his face.

Thomas runs.

He grabs the closest briefcase and flings it open to dump all the papers. (It was someones life work, Thomas knows, someone’s life work and  he probably just watched that someone get flambeed alive.) Its not made to hold the Tesseract, but Thomas doesn’t think there’s a single thing on this planet made to hold the cube that just brought that murderer into their lab.

The sounds of gunshots, of his own agents yelling and several heavy things hitting the floor make Thomas’s heart jump straight to his throat. There’s a crash, and it sounds like one of the computers toppling over. Thomas doesn’t look, can’t look, please don’t make him look.

His boots clang against the metal platform, echoing as loudly in his ears as the thrum of his rapid heart beat. There’s an explosion behind him, one that sounds like the same thing that just killed half a dozen scientists and he wants to scream. But Dee had been right; he needed to get the cube out of here–

He chances a look up at the ceiling where the excess energy had colgerated and seemed to be fighting a war with itself.

–before they get buried alive. Because Thomas once watched Roman brush off being run over like it was merely a paper cut, and Remus could probably walk off a building collapse. Thomas doesn’t know if Remus even wants the Tesseract, but he doesn’t want to give him the option.

Thomas almost grabs the cube with his bare hand, but he stops himself at the last possible second and yanks up his shirt, twisting it over his head and leading it down his arm. The cool air of the lab stings his bare arms but at least he’s still got his vest and undershirt on. He grabs the Tesseract from its mechanical pedestal and winces as the mere touch of it sears through the first two layers of his shirt. He drops it into the case without much preamble and slams the lid closed.

He turns around just in time to see the outcome of Dee and Remus’s fight.

(He hadn’t realized the lab had gone silent. Not over the pounding of his heart and the rush of his blood and the screaming of his own thoughts.)

They’re twisted in an off balanced stance, like ballerinas in the middle of a dance. Dee is over extended, his arm pinched backwards with Remus’s hand pressing his elbow to an inversion that has Dee gritting his teeth against. Dee’s been in worst situations though, Thomas knows he has. Dee was a living weapon who knew how to make any limb in his body move incapacitate his opponent.

Except.

The tip of Remus’s spear is placed almost delicately over Dee’s heart: gold, glinting, and deadly. Thomas watches, transfixed and horrified, as he grips the handle of the briefcase. He can’t see Remus, but he can see the spark of fear glinting in his best, in his most dangerous agent’s mismatched eyes before darkness races over the sclera and turns them both black.

The scepter glows blue. The darkness washes out of Dee’s eyes and and leaves his irises glowing the same sharp, piercing color. Remus let’s go of Dee’s arm, and the agent lowers it back to his side obediently.

Fuck.

Thomas wants to scream, because Dee is a lot of things but not one of them is obedient, because Dee hadn’t lost a fight since Thomas had known of him and probably even before that too, because Thomas once promised Dee he’d never be a living weapon again but the blank look on his face suggests that Thomas just failed.

“Hey, Fuckface!”

And Thomas’s chest seizes when he sees Talyn leaning against one of their computer boards, looking three shades paler than a ghost and shaking from head to toe. Even so they have a pen in their hand and they throw it at the God.

Remus blinks, smile curled into one of disbelief, like he can’t believe the tiny mortal with the blue hair just threw something at him when they just watched him obliterate everyone else. (Thomas can’t believe it. Oh god, he can’t believe it.)

And Dee? Dee raises his snake bites right at Talyn with no hesitation, no recognition.

Thomas feels his blood freeze in his veins, his own breath trapped in his throat as he watches and wonders if he’s about to watch Talyn die right in front of him–

“Wait,” Remus says, as Talyn shrinks back, and Dee listens.

The God tilts his head from side to side, like he’s having some sort of playful debate in his head over what flavor ice cream he wants rather than about killing another person. He grins proudly.

“I like the spunk,” He decides and lunges forward with his spear, placing it right over Talyn’s heart.

They gasp for air, like they’re drowning right there in the lab. They try to wretch backwards, Thomas thinks, but the moment the spear touches them, their limbs stop responding, all except for their eyes.

Eyes that even full of panic and fear, flicker past Remus and Dee and go straight to Thomas.

Eyes that tell him to run.

Eyes that turn bright blue and sweep all traces of his friend from existence.

Thomas should have run. But he doesn’t. And Remus follows Talyn’s gaze right over his own shoulder and sees Thomas just standing there.

“Oh!” Remus says, “I was wondering where you went!”

Thomas is a better agent than this. At least he thought he was. He never used to freeze up like this, never used to be the one to hesitate, never used to doubt himself. But for some reason he’s still standing there, like some sort of fresh Level One agent in the middle of his first emergency simulation who didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

Any and all bravery that he might have had is gone, and in its place is just Thomas. Thomas who is mortal and very killable and is nothing compared to a god and the Energy Cube of Death(™) in the briefcase in his arms. Thomas who very quickly is realizing that he is the only agent of SHIELD left standing because the rest of his team, of the scientists , of the people who were part of this project, are either dead or– or– or whatever the rat man just did to them.

And honestly? Thomas doesn’t want to die. Its selfish though, because there’s so much he had wanted to do with his life, so many places to travel and people to help and things to see. Because he wanted to marry a cute guy some day and adopt a kid and grow old.

And honestly? What chance does Thomas have anyway? He doesn’t even have a shirt on anymore, just that bulletproof vest he’s supposed to be wearing at all times and an undershirt. He’s not sure how he’s still standing with the way his knees are shaking and how harshly his breathing is and how feverish he feels.

“Did you pack up my toy for me?” Remus asks, condescendingly, jokingly, “How considerate!”

And honestly? Thomas considers just handing over the briefcase.

But then he meets Remus’s gaze: those eyes that sit with a gross over-confidence, shining with a blue flicker from light show overhead of them that almost looks like some type of insanity breaking free. Its the gaze he’s gotten a lot over the years, from the vile villains who just kept showing up like they thought the world owed them something and then decided to take it from the innocent people they decided were below them.

That look, that gaze, that feeling, which was the reason why Thomas had joined SHIELD in the first place.

His hand curls around the handle of Dee’s Glock.

“Why don’t you come and get it!” Thomas yells and fires three times Remus and twice at Dee before he bolts off the platform with the briefcase in his hand and sprints for the side exit.

He knows this base like the back of his hand. Much better than a god from another world.

But Dee, who’s spent two weeks working security detail for the facility, knows it even better.

Thomas has a head start: He makes it out of the room just as Remus recovers, hears him bark orders to Dee and Talyn just as he’s swinging into the stairwell, and violently triggering the evacuation alarm by punching his gun through the glass to slam the button down.

Sirens ring in his ears, the glass cuts burn his dominant hand, and Thomas isn’t even half way down the first staircase before the stairwell door slams open behind him. He thinks of Talyn’s eyes, dark and desperate. He runs.

He doesn’t get very far. Dee shoots him in the back with those damned snake bites, and he goes tumbling down the stairs with the briefcase clutched tightly against his chest.

(When he first recruited Dee, nineteen years old and right after he’d demolished an entire SHIELD squad using a plastic snake as a makeshift garrote, everyone had told him it was a mistake. They had pointed to the black scales tattooed on his face and said, with absolute and utter certainty, that the kid would stab him in the back first chance he got. The irony of it, ten years later, tastes bitter in the back of his throat.)

Shit. His ribs are bruised now, definitely. At least one is cracked. Dee had nailed him between the second and third ribs, a kill shot, a death sentence, if only he hadn’t been wearing his vest.

His mouth tastes like metal as he forces himself to roll over, dragging the the case behind him and raising the glock. He pulls the trigger twice on the approaching form– sorrysorrysorry– but Dee moves like he doesn’t have any bones at all. The other agent hurtles the last step, landing so heavily on the platform Thomas is surprised it doesn’t break underneath the both of them. Thomas pulls the trigger again and again–

But Dee is already too close, inside the kill zone. Thomas’s shooting arm is wretched to the side by Dee’s iron grip and the shots explode somewhere behind them ringing as they ricochet off the metal interior. With a simple– far too simple– twist of Dee’s wrist, Thomas’s hand screams in pain and the he lets go of the Glock. Dee’s shoe comes up to meet his face, and Thomas falls back and keeps falling because its another staircase and he’s the broken slinky being used as entertainment.

The floor is freezing, he thinks, because its easier to think about the temperature of the floor than it is to think about the shrill shrieking of his shoulder or the crying of his wrist or the acidic burn of bile in the back of his throat that’s mixing with the blood in his mouth. He tries to push himself up, get up, go, but the mere thought of putting pressure on his arms has his eyesight blurring.

There’s thumping behind him. Slow. Dramatic. Thumping. Footsteps.

Dee crouches down in front of him. Thomas’s vision blurs and refocuses. He adds concussion to the list of potential injuries. The Glock is back in Dee’s hip holster, meaning he took the time to pick it up while Thomas was choking on his own blood trying to inch away. Even now he’s taking his time, with casual smooth motions, reaching over Thomas’s body for the briefcase. One by one, Thomas feels his fingers being pried off the briefcase and Dee’s smirk is burned into the back of his eyelids as the agent stands back up with Tesseract in his grasp.

“It was a nice try, Sanders,” Dee tells him cruelly, and it hits Thomas like a blow to the chest because suddenly the accent is gone and with it, part of Agent Dee Ekans. And if the eyes weren’t enough, then this is. Dee only ever drops his accent when he’s on a mission, and hasn’t around Thomas since he was still a junior agent on probation. It’s like a final blow against his heart: they’re gone. And I might not be able to get him or Talyn back. “But you’ve never been able to beat me before.”

“Liar,” Thomas wheezes, “That’s how I recruited you.”

If it was Dee he was talking to, mismatched eyes glinting with amusement, he would’ve tilted his head up and laughed. Would’ve shoved Thomas’s shoulder. Would’ve told him in his thick Russian accent, Think how you are wanting, Old Man. But we both know I kick your ass.

This is not Dee. This is a stranger living under Dee’s skin with sharp blue eyes and a nasty smirk. This is the living weapon HYDRA wanted, and not the traumatized teenager Thomas pulled out of their organization. “Don’t try to stall me,” He chides, “The Prince is already in the garage. If that portal destabilizes now, the one it’s taking out is you.”

“And you,” Thomas points out, each breath a sharp pain in his chest, “And…  the Tesseract.”

“You make a fair point,” Dee hums, glancing away, “But I still have ten minutes to escape. I doubt you can make it out in your—” Dee kicks him in the chest, hard, and Thomas thinks he tastes blood, bites back a scream, “—condition.”

Dee turns his back on Thomas. He turns for the stairs. He turns his back on Thomas, and it’s everything the other agents told him what would happen and everything he never feared. He turns his back on Thomas and walks away, walks down the steps with each clang of metal echoing in Thomas’s ears, walks away without a single glance.

Thomas is no longer available for asks.Dee is no longer available for asks.

End of Chapter One.

Previous Ask || Rules || Ch 1 Start || Masterlist || Next Chapter

[mlovesstories]

Feeling the Burn 4

Warnings: stalker, shooting, police, anxiety, depression

Words: 3000

AN- This one is a rough one, guys.  Enjoy! 

Tag List

Ask Box

Masterlist of Masterlists

“We need to talk about YN…”

“What happened? Is she…”  

“YN went missing at school today.  We aren’t sure,” the detective sat down.  

“What?  She never skips school.”

“The school called us when her friends heard her scream during their lunch break.  They don’t know what happened, but they saw her run out the gate and she dropped her phone.”

“What?  Was she hurt?”

“We haven’t found her yet, but her phone gave us a direction to work in.  She was on tumblr.  Looks like she was talking with an older gentleman.”

“Oh no.  She wouldn’t do that though,” Jensen ran his hand over his face.  “We’ve talked about how it’s not safe, especially since I’m famous and some people know she is staying with us.”

“Mr. Ackles,” the detective started.  “She refused his advances.  She blocked him, but it looks like he made another account.  She did what was right.”

“So YN encountered a stalker?” Jensen stood up, nervous.  

“Sir, take a seat.”

Jensen sat back down.

“I can’t- I can’t,” he hyperventilated.  

“We’re working on finding her.  I need you to stay calm.” The detective exited and walked back in with some water for him.

Jensen’s phone rang.  It was a number he didn’t recognize.  As it rang, a text showed up on the screen.

Answer, it’s YN.

Jensen pressed the green button.  

“YN?  Where are you?”

“I don’t know.  Come get me!” The girl cried into the phone.  Jensen switched the call to a video call so that he could see her face.  

“How did you get to where you are?”

“I don’t know! I’m at Lafitte and Singer Ave. You know where that is?”

“Sweetie, those are made up and from the show.  You seem confused.  Look at the street signs, YN!” Jensen wanted to shake her back to reality.  

“Kellips and Monroe, I think,” she wailed.  

“You know where that is?” Jensen looked to the cop.

“Yeah, let’s go,” the detective ran out of the room with Jensen following close behind.  

“YN! Don’t hang up.  I need you to stay there. Are you safe?”

“Yeah, I think so!”

“Good.  We’ll be right there.”

_________

“JENSEN! OVER HERE!” YN flagged down the police cruiser.  With blood on her clothes, she ran toward her foster dad.  

The officer let Jensen out of the backseat of the police car..  

“Come here, sweetheart,” he picked her up.

A man with a knife ran out of the bushes and toward the trio.

“Get down!” The officer yelled.  Jensen pushed YN into the ground and landed on top of her in protection.  Two gunshots were heard.  Jensen slowly looked over at the officer.  The detective’s gun was drawn, and the other man’s body was flat on the ground.  The foster dad returned his attention to YN.

YN cried tears into his neck.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.” Shaking, she gripped Jensen tightly as they sat up.

“We can talk later.  You’re safe.  You’re okay,” he whispered in her ear.  

“Okay.”

“Let’s get out of here. Close your eyes until we get out of here, okay?  You don’t need to see this.” Jensen watched her shut her eyes and guided her back to the police car.

“Is he dead?”

“Shh.  We can talk later.  Just hold on to me.”

________

After getting treated and released from medical care, Danneel met Jensen and YN back at the police station.  She frowned at the bandage on YN’s cheek.  

“I ignored this guy, and he just kept bothering me.  I stopped talking to him. I don’t know-“ YN stopped. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “I don’t know how he found me. I dropped my phone when he tried to drag me off campus. Some nice lady saw me in the neighborhood and gave me her phone after she scared him off. Really, I don’t know how he knew where I was.” YN turned to Danneel and cried into her shirt after finishing her story. Jensen passed Danneel the tissues.

“We’ll figure out what happened,” the investigator said.

“Is he dead?” YN said emotionless.

“Miss,” he sighed.

“I’m seventeen come on, man.”

“Yes.”

She gasped.

—————

“Hey,” Danneel nudged her foster daughter. “Don’t hide. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” YN sighed as she trudged up the stairs to her room.

A few minutes later, Danneel and Jensen sat down on the couch.

“What are we going to do?” Danneel whispered.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. I’m more worried about her. One day at a time, Dee. One day at a time.”

—————-

“You need to get out of your room, YN.” Jensen knocked.

“Go away.”

“Look-“

“No. Go away. Please.” YN begged, rolling away from him to face the wall.

“Fine. Check on you later.”

——————-

YN walked into work and put her stuff in her locker. Putting her badge on her shirt, she straightened out her uniform.

“You’re late,” Danneel walked into the room.

“Sorry,” YN sadly apologized.

“Third time in two weeks.”

“Yep.” YN agreed with no emotion in her voice.

“Baby,” Danneel started.

“I know the consequence. It’s fine. Whatever.” YN walked out to the play area.

“What has gotten into her?”

—————-

“What is up with you?” Jensen walked into the play area. “There is trash everywhere, and you’re sitting on top of the lunch table watching everyone. Pick up the trash.”

“Yes, sir.” YN blankly stood and grabbed the broom and pan with no emotion whatsoever

Jensen watched her from afar as she picked up napkins and wrappers.

“Dee, watch what she is doing.” Jensen caught his wife’s attention. She stopped.

“YN’s not even paying attention.”

“I know. She’s been late for work, staying away. YN’s withdrawing.”

“Yeah. We got a problem.”

—————

“We’re going out for date night. Don’t stay up too late. School night,” Danneel smiled to YN.

“Okay, have fun.” She returned the expression. “Love you.”

Later that night, YN’s bags were packed. An Uber driver waited in the driveway. Jensen and Danneel pulled up to the house. Having to park on the street, Jensen knocked on the driver’s window.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing at my house?”

“I got a request. I’m an Uber driver, sir. Not here to cause trouble,” the young man said timidly.

“What? No one needs an Uber here.”

“A YN asked for a ride. She here?” The driver asked.

“Damn. No. Here. Sorry for your trouble.” Jensen handed the driver a twenty dollar bill.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem, kid.”  Jensen heard the driver pull away from the house.  “ Dee, get inside.”

“YN!”

YN heard Jensen’s deep voice.

“SHIT.”

She tried to hurry with her things. A suitcase and backpack were by her door.

Jensen ran up the stairs.

“Where were you going?” He huffed as he got to her room.

“You don’t get it, okay?” YN screamed. She grabbed her things and tried to pass him.

“The Uber is gone. I had him leave. What is going on with you?”

“What do you think, Jensen? I’ve been a mess! I saw a guy DIE! In the middle of the street! After he kidnapped me!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he frowned.

“Just go away.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, sweetie.” Jensen slowly walked to her and cautiously pulled the items out of her hands. “You need to be here. With us. Don’t hide. You promised you wouldn’t hide. I’ve seen how you’ve been acting.”

“I can’t. I can’t do this,” she cried. “I can’t handle it. I need to leave so I don’t burden you.  He took me, and he changed me.  I’m not the same person.”

“No, no. Never.” Danneel walked into the room. She pulled them both to YN’s bed. “You’re never an inconvenience. Well, maybe when you eat all the chocolate,” Danneel giggled.

“Just let me go,” YN stood up and tried to take her things from Jensen.  “I’m just some kid who is messed up.  A charity case.  My parents were right about me being a nobody. All I do is mess up.  Thanks for caring, but I’m not worth it.” YN tried to pull her items out of Jensen’s grasp, but he didn’t let go.

“If I said what you just did, Dee would whack me on the back of my head.  She and I know how valuable you are, and we want you to see it too.” He took her hands and pulled her toward him so that they were eye-to-eye.  “You are so amazing. You saw something that was terrible.  I don’t think anyone doubts that.  You shouldn’t either.  I think we need to talk about how we can start making you feel better.”

“I’m not going to therapy,” she groaned.  

“Sweetie, this is not a punishment.  I’m sorry that you feel like it would be.  Do you want to feel better?”

“I mean. Yeah, I guess.”

“The real you cares.  You haven’t been caring much about anything lately, have you?” Danneel asked.

“No…”

“We want you back.”

“I’m doomed.”

“You’re so not,” Jensen chuckled.  “We need to do something, YN.  You’re not you.”

“Maybe I could go to the school counselor?”

Jensen and Danneel looked at each other.  

“For now, that’s fine.” Daneel nodded.

“Dee…” she whined.  

“School counselor- for now,” Jensen supported Danneel.  

“Okay,” YN shrugged.  

“Feel better?”

“Not really.  I’m embarrassed.”

Jensen pulled her onto the bed next to him.  

“No reason to be embarrassed.  You experienced something terrifying.  I’d be surprised if you weren’t feeling something.”

“Oh.  What about you?  You saw him get shot.” YN looked to Jensen. He took a deep breath.  

“I’m okay.  I was more focused on you.  I knew that you were scared.  I guess I’m just kind of used to protecting my family.  It was scary, not gonna lie.  I’ve actually been thinking I need to go to therapy too.”

“Huh? You?”

“You think I’m too good to work through stuff that hurts me?”

“Umm. No, I didn’t mean it like that, Jay.  I’m sorry.”

“No, no.  I know.  I just mean everybody should go to therapy.  Keep yourself healthy.  Mental health is-”

“Important.  I know.”  YN smiled.  

“Promise us that you’ll tell us when you’re feeling off. Please,” Danneel begged.

YN whined under her breath.  

“Okay,” YN turned into Jensen’s chest out of shame.  

“No, sweetheart.  Look, it’s okay,” Jensen tried to move her away from him.

“Nuh uh.” She groaned, leaning into him again.  

“Fine, come here,” Jensen smiled.  He wrapped his arms around her. “You’ll be okay.  We will all be okay.”

_______

“Ouch!” Jensen shrieked.

“Sorry, brother.” Jared looked him over.  He saw the scratches he left on his TV brother.  The two families had gathered for a weekend game day.  While playing Three Flags Up, Jared scraped Jensen on his left arm.  

“It’s fine, I should have worn a flannel to protect my arms.” Jensen tossed the ball back to YN across the yard.  

“It STILL hurts?  The fire happened like a year ago.”

“My skin is thinner.  It gets irritated easier.”

“You guys good?” YN called.  

“Yep! Give us all you got!” Jared yelled back.  The boys got ready to compete in catching the ball.  This time, Jared backed off so as to not hurt Jensen again.’

“You did not just go easy on me, did you?  Give me your flannel.”

Jared rolled his eyes.

“What? You’re wearing one, and I’m not.  I’m not giving up on this game just because you scratched me, and I’m also not wearing a long-sleeved shirt, so give it to me,” Jensen growled under his breath.

“Gah, you’re moody,” Jared chuckled. He quickly took off his outer shirt and offered it to the other man.  

“Playing dress up over there?” YN grinned.

“Just throw the damn ball!” Jensen groaned playfully as he fixed the flannel over his shoulders.  

“Think fast!” YN threw the ball as hard as she could.  Jensen and Jared ran into each other trying to reach for the ball.  Falling to the ground, they moaned.  

“YOU ASS!” Jensen stared her down with a hint of a smile.  

“Not sorry!” YN grinned.  

A FEW DAYS LATER IN VANCOUVER

“Jensen, I know we were going to have you roll your sleeves up for this scene, but it looks like your arm is scraped up, but you haven’t been in a fight, per the script.  You okay if we have them rolled down?” The wardrobe supervisor looked from the red mark on his arm to read the expression on his face.  

“It’s still there?” Jensen looked down.  “Yeah, that’s fine.” He stood still as she pulled his sleeves to his wrists.  

__________

“Mister Ackles?” The same detective they had talked to about YN going missing called Jensen back to the police station.

“Investigator, what’s wrong?”  Jensen and YN stood up in the lobby.

“I inherited your fire case from the brewery.  By the way, the Grackle is my favorite,” he shook Jensen’s hand and guided him back to a meeting room.  

“Oh, really? Glad you like the beer, but what? You found something?”

“Yes, sir.  Take a seat please,” The detective shut the door behind the three of them.

“It’s been a long time, I thought it went cold,” Jensen questioned.

“The investigation stalled because we couldn’t find anything for a while, but have you seen this person?” The detective slid a security camera photo across the table. A young male adult running across a field displayed in front of him. “We found this on a security camera from a business near yours.”

“No,” Jensen looked it over.  “I don’t think so.”

“DAMMIT!” YN slammed her fists on the table.  

“You know him?” The detective turned toward her.  

YN stared at the picture.

“YN?” Jensen turned to her.

“That’s my half brother.”

“Wait, what?” Jensen leaned away.  “You have a half-brother?  Since when?  How come you never said anything?”

YN scooted away from him, intimidated.

“YN, can you tell me his name?” The detective caught her attention.

“Kenyan.  My dad is his dad.”

“Okay.  It doesn’t sound as if you have the best relationship.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about-” Jensen asked her again.

“Mister Ackles, step outside please.” The detective motioned to the door.  “You’re scaring her, and I’m trying to help you.  I can’t help you if she is anxious from all of your questions.  Your questions can be for a conversation at a later time.”

Jensen stopped.  He closed his mouth before speaking again.

“Do you want me to leave?” Jensen looked to the girl.

“Umm,” she couldn’t answer.  “No, but please let me tell you about Kenyan later?”

“Of course.  I’m sorry, sweetheart.  Okay, let’s let him ask the questions.  I’m right here if you need me.” He took her hand and then looked toward the investigator.  

“Do you have a good relationship with him?  It doesn’t sound like you’re surprised that he would do something like this.” The detective clasped his hands together on his lap, giving her time to think.  

YN took a breath.  

“Kenyan and I have not gotten along for a while.  He’s always been the annoying older brother.  We have had a rivalry since I was born.  I think he thought my mom and I were the reason his life was so messed up.”

“What makes you think he could do this?”

“To get back at me? Maybe? He has followed me before when he wanted something.  He probably knew we had left my car in the garage, I don’t know.” She turned to Jensen with tears in her eyes.  “I’m sorry, Jensen.  I didn’t know he would get back at me like this.” She ran her hands over his arms without realizing it.  

“You didn’t know.  I’d do it again for you,” he said quietly.  

“Jensen-”

“Again, sorry, but I have some more questions.” The detective interrupted.  

“Right, sorry,” YN wiped a tear away.  

“Where can I find him?”

“I’m not sure.”

“YN,” the detective started.

“No, I’m serious.  I’m not trying to keep him out of trouble.  We always said he would cause legal trouble. Ever since I entered high school, he’s been in and out.  Mostly out.  Started getting drunk.  He’s twenty-one now, but he started drinking with Dad a few years ago.”

“Parents of the year…” Jensen said under his breath.

“Jensen,” YN whined.  

“Sorry, sweetheart.  Continue.”

“You could check my parents’ house.  And don't know if they even live there anymore.  I honestly don’t care. “Or maybe his friend’s house?  Nick Thomas.”

“That’s great.  Thank you, YN.”  The detective smiled.  “I’ll call you if I have any more questions, okay?” He stood and led them back out to the lobby.  

“Absolutely,” Jensen nodded. The detective asked Jensen for a moment of his time.  “Get in the car, YN,” he threw her the keys.  As she turned to exit the building, Jensen turned to the other man.

“If I may, please don’t badger her with questions.  In my professional experience, she is the type that needs less questions, more time to answer.  Obviously, you know her, but this is new to you.  Give her a minute.” The detective shook Jensen’s hand and wished him well.  

Jensen smelled the fresh cut grass as he walked toward the parking lot to arrive at his SUV.  

“You gonna chew me out now?” YN crossed her arms in the front seat.  

“No.  Your brother-”

“Half-brother.”

“Half-brother, is part of your story.  I need to let you tell it.” Jensen put the vehicle in reverse, pulling out of the parking lot.

  FEELING THE BURN

@supraveng​

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@a-magey​ @vicmc624​ @hookedinto-fictionalworlds​   @beatifuldisaster018​

_________

[whothehellisyn]

Cat and Mouse | Ch. 1

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Quentin Beck x Female Reader

Synopsis: You found out who Mysterio really is behind closed doors. You’re about to learn just how dangerous a man seeking revenge can be when you get in his way. He’s a predator on the hunt. And you’re the prey.

Warnings: Unreality and use of illusions, graphic depictions of (illusioned) death, one unsettling monster, dubcon, Dark!Mysterio, predator/prey sexual dynamics, general violence

The way Quentin Beck regards you now is a cat to a mouse. Like a cat, he keeps picking you up and slamming you back down, blow after blow after blow, to stun you over and over again. Unlike a cat, he’s sadistic. There is no pleasure behind a cat’s capture of a mouse. It is basic nature. Every part of this torture, all of it, is derived from a sick sense of entertainment at your expense.

He was once the sweet widower who kissed the top of your head and accidentally called you his wife’s name one night and never forgave himself. He used to whisk you away to restaurants when S.H.I.E.L.D. paperwork got boring and your administrative duties weighed heavily on your shoulders. But not now. You wonder if he ever actually had been. If the sweetness was ever real or if he hated pretending to be so every second. At this point, hours and hours into illusions, you’d wish he’d just use his hands and finally finish you off. An ending to the glorious story.

A giant, skinless beast has been chasing after you, feet pattering on the ground. You’re not sure what it’s supposed to be, but its build is vaguely humanlike. The limbs are long, spindly and slender likes spider. The way it moves, as if it’s not meant to be on all fours, it’s hindquarters raised. It snarls as it pursues you, a gaping maw with teeth like nails gaining proximity to your body. It makes horrific screeching sounds, a haunting call for blood.

It’s been chasing you since the beginning, but Quentin gave you a head start, or so he called it. But he also threw in a myriad of horrifying illusions to slow you down, to add to the terror. You, at one point, watched Peter Parker bleed out from multiple gunshot wounds, face pale and pink around his eyes, which were full of tears and terror. His young little voice trembling and raw. The stench of iron assaulted your senses, and you threw up at least once trying to convince yourself it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t until the monster caught up with you and tore him apart with its teeth that you were able to start running again. Away from his screams. Away from the ripping sound. That was an eternity ago, you think. You stink of bile and blood. Your feet, long ago rid of their shoes, are blistered from running. It’s getting harder to breathe from the dehydration and panting.

“Are you getting tired, Y/N?” Quentin echoes from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He chuckles softly, adding “Don’t let it catch you!” in a teasing tone. “We wouldn’t want the fun to end so soon.”

The tunnel you’re in is infinite, dark and wet and lit by white fluorescent bulbs maybe thirty feet apart and mounted along the wall. They aren’t buzzing, no comforting white noise to keep you sane. There are no exits or openings. It smells of mold and death. Part of you wants to just stop moving, maybe let the illusion completely and utterly destroy you. Another part wants you to keep running, the threat of a predator apparent.

It is gaining on you with every second. You can hear it’s weird, chittering respiration, you can smell the sickly-sweet breath it’s heaving onto your neck. When it moves a wet glistening sound emits from its joints.

You know you won’t be able to keep running at this pace, with your knees wobbling and muscles tired. You hope to whatever god is out there that you can keep going just a little longer.

“Why don’t we shake things up a little, huh?” He laughs, voice echoing through the tunnel.

The lights shut out. You trip over yourself in the darkness and collapse. Stupid. Clumsy. You flail desperately to get away from the monster that had been so close to killing you but the creature is gone. Maybe forever. It’s dead silent now. You can hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

A hand strokes the back of your hair, almost sweetly. Is it him? Is it real? Is anything real?

You’re too panicked to turn around, trying to catch your breath between swallowing spit to wet your throat. It’s too dry. It’s sticking. And it’s going to make you sick if you don’t drink something soon. You don’t want to throw up again.

“Poor, poor Y/N.” Quentin echoes, faux pity ever present in his tone. “So smart. So gullible.” The hand petting your hair grabs it by the fistful and yanks it, pulling you to the ground as you desperately scramble against the grip. It’s difficult with your legs being so weak from running so long. “Everything was almost perfect. And now I have to see that you make sure it still is.”

When you grab up against his hand to ease the pain in your scalp there’s nothing there. It’s gone just as sudden as it manifested. The loss of an upward force leaves you flailing on the ground, propped up on your elbow. You have to get him to see you. You finally break apart from the panic to hoarsely whisper into the darkness.

“Quentin...” You rasp, words catching in your throat multiple times. “Please, I’ll do anything.” It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. You gag once and try to keep from vomiting.

A circle of Mysterios surround you, each of them getting down on one knee. Every single one has a fishbowl clouding their face, and you don’t know which, if any, is the real Quentin.

“Oh,” They all say, with varying delay, “I know, honey.”

You let out a soft sob and one of them grabs your chin, but you don’t think it’s him.

“You’re going to be doing anything I want, when I want it soon enough.” Quentin says, voice behind you. “Or I’ll leave you here to rot. Let you get ripped apart by the monster in the tunnel, or maybe I’ll have sweet little Peter Parker miraculously rise from the dead and show you what your guts look like on the outside.”

Quentin speaks like he’s planning rather than threatening. You have no way to know what he’s capable of, but he may as well be.

“Do you want to die in here, Y/N?” He asks.

“No.” You whisper, in a little voice broken with tears.

Another Mysterio from your left grabs your face and forces you to look at him. This one is Quentin, you’re sure of it.

“How about you address me with a little more respect, huh?” The fishbowl dissolves and you’re forced to look him in the eyes. The same blue eyes that you wiped tears from just days ago. Were those fake too?

“No, Sir.” You respond, tears welling up. He still has you by your face, pinching your cheeks forward. He smiles victoriously and eases his grip on you.

His thumb slides over your bottom lip and you realize with a sudden anxiety that anything he wants entails a much, much more intimate demand. You brace yourself.

“Now, are you gonna be a good girl for me? Or are you going to die today?” He asks you, voice soft and dangerous. He’s looking at your mouth with a rather sinful glean.

“I’ll be a good girl, Quentin.” You manage to say. It feels dirty coming from your mouth. A white flag. He smiles at you, closed lips, and cups your cheek.

“That’s right.” He affirms. “But you’re not going to be a just any good girl. You’re going to be my good girl.”

“Yes... sir.” You whisper. You want to curl into a ball and die. You’re terrified by the thought of what he’s like sexually if he’s a fucking sadist on the daily like this. You wonder if maybe being gutted by a fake 17 year old is a better ending. You wonder how long he would have loved you as a widower or if he would have done this to you the first chance he got anyways. No use in pondering further now.

“Perfect.” He says, picking you up by the arm rather roughly. “It’s time for your first role. We’re going to play a game.” A little hologram lights up the darkness, a maze of some sort.

“You’re going to hide and run away from me. The point of this game for you is to not get caught.” A little blue figure hides, and when a green Mysterio rounds the corner, it runs to a new hiding spot.

“But if I catch you,” He says, as the virtual mysterio catches the virtual you, “I take you where you stand.” The Mysterio has you pinned against a wall, and it’s clear to you that what happens if he catches you is going to be damning.

“You have 60 seconds before I start looking.” He says, and the hologram becomes a timer counting down from one minute. You take a deep breath, and start running.

————

That’s the end of chapter 1! I’ve had this sitting on my desktop for months and figured I can post it now that the x reader tag for Quentin is dead now. I may update, who knows? I got time on my hands.

Edit: I fixed a bunch of continuity and grammar errors! I was tired as hell last night so forgive me.

[radstag-ghoul]

Chapter 1: The Alley Cat and Scarecrow

Wendy was definitely lost, of that she was sure. For the past hour she had been roaming the ruined streets of Boston, evading raiders, feral ghouls, Gunners andl Super Mutants, whilst trying to find Diamond City. The map on her PipBoy was no use now however, the screen having staticked out about an hour ago, leaving her to follow the crumbling highway above.

She was also sure she was as good as dead unless she found a better place to hide. Scarcely daring to breathe, the woman continued to cower behind the ruined truck, the tick, tick, tick of the Super Mutant Suicider pacing around on the other side just loud enough for her to hear.

"Where'd human go!" The mutated being bellowed. Wendy flinched, her grip tightening on the pipe rifle in her hands. Her luck at avoiding conflict had finally ran out it seemed. Just five minutes prior she had run into a band of five Super Mutants. Two of them she had managed to take out, though two of those that remained, she realized too late, were much more deadly. She had already seen what the first suicider had done, to one of its own comrades who had gotten too close, so she knew she had no chance against the remaining monster. She had been partially caught in that first explosion, thrown violently against a wall, and judging from the sharp ache in her left arm and side with each breath she took she'd wager she had broken a rib or two and her arm. Not to mention she was covered in numerous burns, her Vault jumpsuit riddled with scorch marks. She had also been seperated from Dogmeat in the blast, unsure if the faithful hound had even survived. Poor dog. I can't even look for h-shit! She looked around frantically, as the ticking grew steadily louder. "Gonna find you! Gonna kill you!"

Then, she saw it. Her salvation. From the corner of her eye, the glow of a neon sign. In her panic she hadn't noticed it before, but now it seemed bright as day to her eyes, beaming proudly the word "GOODNEIGHBOR" with an arrow pointing to the right. Don't know where that goes, but sure as hell better than sitting duck here. Saying a silent prayer to whatever god was listening, Wendy peeked over the hood of the truck, attempting to gauge if she'd be able to make it before she was spotted-just in time to look the angry Super Mutant right in its beady, dark malevolent eyes.

"There you are!" It bellowed, dashing towards her as fast as its thick, muscled legs could carry it.

"Fuck!" Wendy screamed, turning tail and running towards the sign and where it pointed. She could hear the ticking speeding up, practically behind her accompanied by the loud plodding steps. Up ahead she could see a door, with another neon sign above it. Though with a sinkimg feeling she realized she wasn't going to make it in time. So this is how it ends, blown to hell by the fucking un-jolly green giant. Never even made it to Diamond City. Shaun, I'm so-

The loud booming pop of a gunshot sounded off from somewhere atop the wall of "Goodneighbor", a bullet whistling over her head towards the monster behind her. Hearing a strangled grunt and a loud thud Wendy would wheel about, to see her pursuer lying dead on the ground, blood pooling from its ruined left eye, the mini nuke it had been holding having rolled a short distance away, no longer in danger of being detonated.

What in the goddamn...? Looking back to the wall, she saw no one there who could have fired the shot. Several moments later however Wendy heard a voice-distinctly masculine and somewhat annoyed- calling over the wall "Well? You gonna come in and thank me?"

"Uh...sure." She called back, Well, if he saved me guess that for sure means they're friendlies in there. I hope. Taking a deep breath, she would cautiously limp towards the door, slowly opening it and slipping inside.

The first thing she noticed was the man just clambering down from the wall, a sniper rifle holstered on his back-a thin wisp of smoke still wafting out of the barrel, indicating him as her savior. Bald with a patchy stubbly beard upon his chin, he wore the same style of black leathers and jeans she had come to associate with the bands of raiders she had tangled with. Which of course already made her uneasy, along with his sleazy smile. He took a drag from the glowing cigarette in his hand as he looked her over, taking in her current sorry state.

The second thing she noticed was the location she was in: what appeared to be a town of some sort-if it could even be called such. Two shop fronts stood across from her, and to her left a building she remembered from a middle school field trip-the Old State house. In the shadows of the building Wendy could see two people standing together, face to face, quietly conversing with eachother-the one with their back turned to her wearing a long red coat of some sort, and what appeared to be a tricorn hat. The one that faced her was decked out in metal armor, a woman, her head shaved bald save for a single, long crest of copper colored hair that fell in a wave over the left side of her head.

She continued to stare for several moments, distracted from the one who had killed the suicider-though her attention was jerked away from the pair as he spoke up, his voice just as sleazy as his smile "Now now, you can properly thank me, eh? Hows about some payment for saving your ass. And of course y'gotta pay for...insurance as well, being a newcomer and all."

Wendy blinked, "Um, excuse me? Insurance?" Is he for real?

"You heard me." He sounded more aggressive now, a more demanding tone to his voice. "All newcomers gotta pay insurance. And like I said, you owe me." He smirked.

Wendy felt the flush of red hot anger rise in her as she shook her head at him, "I don't have that many caps, and I need 'em!" She snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why even shake me down now? What was the point of saving me when you coulda just picked over what was left of me?"

"Caps have worth, irradiated, melted metal don't. That's why. Not very bright, are you?" He sneered, tapping ash from his cigarette as he started walking nearer, blowing the smoke in her face. "Now, I ain't saying it again...you hand over everything you got in them pockets or 'accidents' start happening to ya. Big, bloody accidents." He patted the rifle on his back, baring his teeth in a threatening grin.

"Fuck off," Wendy snarled, with as much venom and malice as she could muster, raising her pipe rifle to point at him, satisfied when she saw him flinch at the unexpected ferocity. "Or you're the one that's gonna have a big, bloody accident." In the back of her mind she knew it wasn't a good idea. She was already tired out and injured, practically on the verge of falling over right there, though she was doing her best to hide it as she glared unwaiveringly back at him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of red approach, accompanied by a voice- slightly gravely, somehow smooth, yet with a subtle edge of command to it. "Whoa, whoa. Time out."

Finn flicked his gaze to the man, taking a step back from Wendy as she too turned her attention to the newcomer-the red coated stranger who had been standing in the shadoss. Though as he now stepped out of the gloom, Wendy had to hold back a gasp as she saw his face. Beneath the tricorn hat atop his head, the man looked to be bald, the entirety of his face and the rest of his head and visible skin covered in burns and scar tissue. Half of his nose had fallen off, leaving two bare nostrils in place of a proper proboscis. The outer lobes of his ears were likewise missing, along with most of his lips. Dark brown, nearly black eyes bored into the man, seeming devoid of either white or pupil. The coat he wore looked extremely old fashioned-a colonial frockcoat, completed with black trousers, a frill collared shirt underneath, and most amusingly a tattered old American flag tied around his narrow waist like a sash. "Someone steps through the gate the first time, they're a guest. You lay off that extortion crap." That dark gaze fell upon Wendy, a slight worried frown tugging at his scarred lips, so quick she thought for a monent she was imagining it. "This one especially, look at her, she's shakin'. Must've been through some shit to get here."

Wendy blinked, realizing she was indeed shaking, trembling slightly, though neither from her ordeal or from Finn's threats. No, it was this strange, scarred man that now made her shake, much to her embarassment, as she fought not to look away from such an inhuman gaze, scarcely daring to blink. What is he? Is he one of those...things? He looked somewhat like the feral Ghouls she had fended so far, though much less zombie-like, decrepit and decayed looking, and clearly more intelligent and sane. He must be one of those normal Ghouls Preston mentioned.

For the briefest moment Wendy saw a flash of fear in Finn's eyes at the approach of the Ghoul, though he tried hiding it, puffing his chest out and crossing his arms "What d'you care? She ain't one of us!" He growls "'Sides, I saved her ass, she owes me!"

"What, no love for your Mayor, Finn?" The Ghoul huffed slighty, pretending to be offended. "Also I don't think she owes you anything. You were just being a good neighbor, right? So let her go." There was an edge of steel to his voice this time as he glared at Finn, never once breaking eye contact. If Wendy herself had been on the recieving end, she would have caved instantly.

Finn, however, wasn't as smart, as he took another step towards "the Mayor", dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it under the heel of his boot. "Y'know what, you're soft, Hancock." He gave a dark chuckle, staring right back unflinchingly at him. "You keep letting outsiders walk all over us, someday there'll be a new mayor." He cast his gaze at the town around him for a moment, trying to catch the eyes of those watching. Though everyone seemed to be carrying on with their own business, Wendy could see many people glancing their way every so often. The woman in combat armor was the only one who seemed to have her full attention focused on the scene, smirking as she leaned against one of the shop walls.

Hancock gave a small sigh, his expression softening some as he seemed to drop the "tough mayor" act. "Come on, man, this is me we're talking about." His lips curving into an easy soft smile, he started walking towards Finn. "Let me tell ya something..." He extended a hand to the man, placing it on his shoulder as if he were about to pull him into an embrace. Finn looked uneasy, though uncrossed his arms, letting his guard down at the Ghoul's familiar, friendly tone.

Wendy saw different however, as she saw the glint of steal behind the Ghoul's back. She didn't even have time to cry out in shock as Hancock drove the blade of a knife into Finn's chest, not once but twice, his smile twisting into a savage grin. Finn gave a strangled cry, his face frozen into a mask of shock, anguish, and betrayal. As the man toppled over, twitching and gasping as his life ebbed away and the blood pooled under him, Hancock uttered a loud tsk tsk tsk, wiping the bloodied blade on a rag he produced from somewhere within the frock coat. "Now why'd you have to go and say that, huh? You're breaking my heart over here." Raising his gaze from the dying man, those dark orbs focused on Wendy, that worried frown having returned. "You alright, sister?"

Wendy swallowed hard, struggling to find her words after witnessing such an unexpected, brutal act. "I-I, uh, th-thanks?" She stuttered stupidly, wheezing some. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off some, her side was starting to scream with pain, making it much harder to breathe. With alarm she noted her vision starting to swim, as her knees shook violently, threatening to give way beneath her. "Jus...need a mo'..."

Hancock blinked, walking nearer to her, reaching out a hand as if to steady her. A hand still spattered with Finn's blood. Already he sounded somewhat distorted and far away to her, seeming to grow and stretch further and further away "Shit, I'm gonna take...as a 'no'. Listen...a stimpak...y'need...it easy?"

Thats all she heard as she crumpled to the pavement beneath her, the stress and strain of her injuries and ordeal finally catching u to her. As her vision blurred and darkened, she heard a few last words before she slipped into unconsciousness

"Poor little Alley Cat..."

* * * * * * *

Hancock swore loudly, rushing forward to try to catch the woman before she fell-too late, sadly. He should have expected that to happen eventually given her current state. It was pretty damn impressive she didn't collapse as soon as she stepped through the gate. "Shit..." He sighed as he knelt beside her, calling over his shoulder to Fahrenheit as he heard her approach "Think she's gonna need more than one stimpak. Medex too. Also, got any radaway on ya? Feel like she's gonna need it. Poor Little Alley Cat..." He murmured.

The woman's right side was covered in burns, most second degree but several third, splotching her Vault jumpsuit with scorched holes. Judging from the faint glow that lingered around them, Hancock could tell they were nuclear in origin. Thought I heard a Suicider. But no boom. Must've ran into more than one. Amazin' she's still alive.

Fahrenheit scoffed as she stood beside him, tossing him the requested meds "Don't you think it's a little too soon for that?" She joked, refeeing to his...untraditional use of the chem when it came to 'spending time with his smoothskin friends' "Don't think she's exactly up for it either."

Hancock shook his head, tsking as he nimbly caught the syringes and Iv bag, scarcely having to look"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for that later, but it's for a much more practical use now. She's fucking coated in radiation burns." Taking the cap off the medex syringe, he'd slide up the sleeve of her jumpsuit, wincing in sympathy as the woman whimpered and stirred, the material rubbing against one of her burns. Sliding the needle into her vein, he'd push slowly down on the plunger, before slowly pulling it out, tossing the empty thing aside.

The woman lay still once more as the drug kicked in, seeming to fall deeper into unconsciousness. However, her eyes slowly fluttered open, glazed and unfocused, staring directly into his. Her trembling rosy lips parted, as she croaked out a single word. "Sc...are...crow..." Her eyes slipped shut again, as her breathing deepened, passing out for good.

Hancock blinked, not sure what to think of that. "Huh...alright then." This one's got "very strange" written all over it. Wait...111? As he continued to look her over he noticed the numbers sewn along her collar, announcing what Vault she hailed from. "Heya, Fahr, ya ever hear of a Vault 111? That even in the Commonwealth?"

Fahrenheit leaned in closer to inspect the Vault Dweller herself, silent save for a long hmmm before she'd straighten again, shaking her head "Can't say I have...she's a looker though, eh?" She joked, refering to the burn scar and white blotched skin that marked her right cheek. "Ain't the first time she's been burnt this bad."

"So it seems." Taking the radaway now Hancock ripped it open with his teeth, carefully pouring some over each of her wounds, confident there'd been enough time for the medex to put her out for it. After that he would stick her in the shoulder with both stimpaks, before he'd stand, motioning to two of the Neighborhood Watch who lingered nearby "How's about instead of rubbernecking ya make yourselves useful. You, carry her over to the Rexford, tell Claire she needs a room. If either her or Marwoski give ya shit, tell em I'm footin her bill."

He watched as the one he indicated rushed forward to scoop up the petite woman, grumbling under his breath as he hurried off towards the hotel with her. Hd nodded tothe other, jerking his thumb towards the still-warm corpse of Finn "You, take out the trash. Get that scuzzball out of my sight." Turning, he'd walk back towards the State House, not even bothering to watch the other Ghoul drag the would-be mugger away, making a note to check in on the odd woman later. "Now, Fahr, what were you saying about Pickman's Gallery ag-hmm?" The Ghoul stopped, his hand hovering over the knob of the door as he heard scratching at the town gate, as if some sort of animal were trying to get in. Then several moments he could gear barking, carrying over the wall from the otherside. Curious, Hancock strode over, throwing open the old blue door-his knife at the ready first in case of trouble.

A blur of brown and black fur tore past him, causing him to cry out in surprise as the beastie ran across his toes "What the hellM He blinked, watching the dog run further into town, heading in the direction of the Memory Den and Hotel Rexford. "...Huh. Well, betcha 50 caps that dog has something to do with her." Chuckling, he shook his head, closing the gate once more as he strode back towards Fahr and the Old State House. "Now, you were sayin'?"

* * * * * * *

Wendy awoke with a start, her eyes flying open to stare at the peeling, cracked, burned ceiling above her. Her mind spun in confusion, as she tried to process where she was and what happened through the clinging, groggy haze of sleep. Boston. The Super Mutants. Someplace called Goodneighbor. Hancock.

Suddenly something wet and cold brusher against her hand, accompanied by a soft whining sound. Uttering a small gasp, she turned her head to look beside the bed, to find a familiar canine nudging at her hand. "Dogmeat!" She exclaimed, scrambling to sit herself upright. The dog gave a small, happy bark in reaponse, jumping up on the bed. Laughing, Wendy flung her arms around him, not even minding the sloppy wet licks he gave to her scarred cheek "Oh, thank God...I thought you were a goner. Who's the bestest goodest boy?" She crooned, scratching him behind the ear. Dogmeat whined happily, squinting his eyes shut and leaning into the touch.

As she lavished attention on her canine companion, Wendy allowed herself to look around the room, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. She appeared to be in what was once a hotel room, reduced to decrepitcy and decay by the ages. The bed she lay in was nothing more than a lumpy old mattress on a rusted steel frame, with an old straw pilliw and a patched up blanket thrown over it. A wobbly old chair sat by it, upon which her pack and rifle rested-much to her relief. An old dresser was pushed against the far wall, with a smudged up mirror, covered mostly in cracks. Atop it, an old electric lantern hooked up to a small battery provided the only source of light in the room, casting all but the corners of the room in dim, flickering light. Those remained draped in shadow, as well as the area around the doorway-where she saw a glowing red dot, reflected by dark orbs above them: eyes, dark and inhuman, that watched her from the gloom.

Wendy's blood ran cold at the sight, the hairs on the back of her neck raising. With a snarl she reached for her rifle, fight-or-flight kicking in as she decided she would kill whatever was in the room with her, before it killed her. She raised the gun, pointing it right at those eyes, her finger hovering over the trigger.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there!"

Wendy faltered at the familiar, scratchy voice, as two heavily scarred hands appeared from the dark, raised palm-out in a placating gesture. A moment later, Hancock stepped into the lantern-light, a lit-cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth-the source of the red light she had seen. "There's no need for that. We're all near-civilized here, yeah?"

"Y-you?" Wendy sputtered, lowering the rifle. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Hancock shrugged as he dropped his hands back to his sides, taking a drag from his cigarette before speaking "Well, was here to check up on ya. Had some of the Neighborhood Watch bring ya over after you passed out, gave you a stimpak and some medex." Walking over, he carefully picked up her pack from the chair, placing it on the bed. He'd drag the now empty chair over to himself, turning it backwards before plopping in it, his thin legs straddling it and his arms crossed over the backrest. Smoke curled from the edges of his mouth and the remnants of his nostrils, the wisps slithering wraith-like along the skin of his disfigured face. "Didn't expect any of that Heh can't say I really blame you though," He chuckled "Wouldn't wanna see this mug after I just woke up. Either way, you're definitely doin' better than before I'd say."

Wendy took a deep breath, taking a moment to calm her nerves as she set the gun down on the bed near her relocated pack "Sorry...and, uh, thanks for bringing me here. Er, though I'd like to know where exactly 'here' is." She fought not to shudder at the almost unworldly sight before her, telling herself it was just a smoke trick. And of course the Ghoul's appearance in general.

Hancock tapped his fingers against the back of the chair, raising a hand to take the cig from his mouth, tapping the ash from it. She noticed that a couple of his finger nails were missing, those of his pinky and ring finger. "That'd be the Hotel Rexford, home of the best beds and best chems in Goodneigbor-well outside of my personal stash. Paid for the room myself, so don't worry about Claire coming to collect. Well 'least for another two nights." He didn't seem put off by her earlier reaction to his arrival. If anything he seemed amused, a smile tugging at the corners of his burnt lips.

Wendy snorted, quirking a brow "The best beds? I'd hate to see the worst..." Jokes aside, she was surprised at his generosity. Something's up here. "You treat all newcomers this nicely?" She scooted closer to Dogmeat, who appeared to have dozed off, curled up by her side. "Or am I special?"

The Ghoul chuckled, his smile widening "Heh, you're a sharp one. In a way, yeah, you are special. Not everyday a Vault Dweller comes walzting into Goodneighbor. And from a Vault I've never even heard of? Well, y'can understand why my interest's been piqued. Wouldn't do to have you croak in the gutter before you even answer my questions. Though honestly, even if you were just another dirty, desperate drifter? Still woulda done it." He shrugged "You needed help, so I helped ya. Simple as that."

"Yeah...I s'pose that's fair enough. So...what do you want to know?"

The Ghoul shrugged, raising his cigarette to his lips again, inhaling the pungent smoke. "Eh, was actually thinking I'd let ya ask your own questions first. Sure you gotta be curious too, Vault Dwellers always are. It'll make things smoother when it's my turn too. So shoot." He waved his hand in a 'go ahead' gesture, before crossing his arms over the chair again. He wpuld rest his chin upon them, watching her intently as she spoke, his tricorn casting his face in shadow.

Wendy blinked, not having expected that. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she decided to start with something she hoped wouldn't offend him, but she wanted to confirm, "So...you're a Ghoul?"

He nodded, seeming if anything pleased by the question, his smile widening to a grin. "That's right. Like my face? I think it gives me a sexy, king of the zombies kinda look. Big hit with the ladies." His voice shifted to a low purr, as he leaned in slightly closer, flashing her a wink.

Wendy swallowed, finding herself blushing, much to her surprise. She coughed and flicked her attention back to Dogmeat, scratching behind one of his ears. "Uh, y-yeah. Sorry, just you're the first I've seen that's not..."

"Feral?" He finished, smoke trickling from his nostrils. "Yeah, I guessed. But, listen. Lota walking rad freaks like me around here, so ya might wanna keep those kinda questions on the lowburner. Not everyones okay with em. Now, what else ya wanna know?"

Wendy looked back up at him, hoping the last of the redness had left her cheeks. Come on, he's a walking corpse... "What was with that Finn guy?"

Hancock let out a long sigh, shaking his head in disappointment "Ah, Finn. Well until recently he was one if our best fighters...could drop a Suicider from-eh, well, from what I've heard you already saw. Really gonna miss him next Super Mutant Attack that rolls around...eh, well, anyhoo, he was getting too big for his britches. Wasn't really leaving me any choice. Way he was challenging me, threatening newcomers, had to make a mayoral show of strength. Though, I hope that incident with him didn't taint your view of our little community." He smiled again, his dark eyes twinkling, "Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, ya feel me? Everyone's welcome."

"Thanks for that. Goodneighbor, eh? That's the name of this little town?" Wendy mused.

Hancock nodded, his voice full of an almost fatherly pride, "That's right. We cobbled this little neighborhood together out of the freaks and misfits that just won't fit in anywhere else." He flashed her another wink, (and to her embarassment she began to blush again) "You make enough friends here, you'll call this place home soon enough."

"Ah, well...I probably won't be staying that long." Wendy admitted, feeling somewhat guilty. Despite herself, the more she sat talking and joking with him, the more she was starting to like the Ghoul.

He shrugged, seeming none too disappointed at this news "So? Doesn't mean you'll be gone for good, right? You might come back someday. Life's weird like that." Taking one last pull from his cigarette, hed lean over to stub the glowing butt out in a nearby ashtray, smirking as he settled in his chair again "Anymore questions?"

She fell silent for several moments, pondering what to ask next. "Just one more...what's your story, Hancock?"

Hancock laughed, grinning widely "Ooo, how I love to hear you say my name finally. Well, it's my favorite subject. I came into this town like...a decade ago? Had a smooth set of skin back then. While I was busy making myself a pillar of the community I would go of on these...like...wild tears..." He seemed to gaze beyond her as he reminisced, expression unreadable before he'd sigh, soft and fondly "Ah, I was young. Any chems I could find, the more exotic, the better. Finally found this experimental radiation drug. Only one of it's kind, and only one hit left..."

Wendy's eyes widened slightly, quickly putting the pieces together "And that's what made you...y'know?"

He nodded, shifting slightly in his chair "Yep. Oh man, " He sighed again, his eyes losing focus for a moment as he chuckled "The high was so worth it. Yeah, I'm living with the side effects, but hey, what's not to love about immortality?" He smirked, his eyes glimmering from under the shade of his tricorn.

"Wait, you're immortal?" Wendy gaped, not sure wether he was pulling her leg or not. "But how?"

Hancock shrugged again, waving his hand in a wishy washy gesture "Well...not exactly. Ghouls just age really, really slow. Something about the rads, maybe? Who knows."

Wendy took a minute to let all this information set in, not sure what to think of it. "Huh. Well, immortal or not, you're a helluva risk taker, Hancock."

He chuckled again "Only have one life, why not try it all? Now then," He leaned in closer to her, his eyes focused intently on hers. "So hows about we start with a name?"

Wendy found herself lost for a moment in those dark pools, caught off guard by the direct eye contact. "W-Wendy," She stuttered, before clearing her throat, doing her best to steady her voice "My name's Wendy. Wiggin." She stuck her hand out towards to Ghoul, offering him a handshake. Damned if I make it seem like I'm scared of him.

Hancock smirked, taking her small, pale hand in his larger, scared one, giving it a hearty shake "Wendy Wiggin...heh, I like that. Wiggin. Pleased to make your lovely accquintance."

Just as she expected, it felt rough to the touch, ridges of overlapping scar tissue rasping against her palms. She tried not to shiver at the sensation, finding it not unpleasant but definitely odd. And as he called her 'lovely' she had to fight not to blush for the third time in her conversation with him. Lovely? He sees the thing on my cheek, right? "Heh heh, well I wouldn't call it that..."

As she was about to release his hand, however, her vision suddenly turned white, before several quick, dreamlike images flashed through her mind:

An old shack on the shores of a small lake, two young boys running beside it.

One of the boys, now a man, smiling in a disturbing way, inhuman and long.

A syringe, filled with a small amount of green glowing fluid, held by a trembling hand.

A body swinging on a noose, a crowd cheering below.

And Hancock, his back turned to her, as they both stood on the roof of an unknown building, a fiery mushroom cloud rising into the sky before them...

Wendy gave a small gasp, returning to her senses as she quickly jerked her hand out of his grasp. She could tell from thestrange unfocused look in his eyes, howenver, that she was too late. What did he see? Me probably, or something about me. Fuck!

The Ghoul shook his head as if to clear it, blinking it confusion as he raised a hand to scratch at his bald scalp "Eh...shit, sorry for zoning out there. Jet flashback," He offered an apologetic smile, chuckling sheepishly. "Now where was I...oh, right. Your turn to tell your story."

Wendy gave silent thanks to whatever diety had given her such luck, glad to have avoided a topic she didn't want to discuss. They'll all drive me out of here...know he said this place was for freaks, but they gotta have limits. "Alrighty...just fair warning, itsa little...wild. Not really expecting you to believe it "

Hancock laughed, gesturing to himself "I'm used to more than a little wild. Lay it on me, I'm all ears."

Wendy nodded, taking a deep breath, silent for a moment before she started. "The Vault I'm from...111...it was some sort of cryongenic storage-thing. To tell you the truth, I'm...pretty fucking old. Like, before the War old. See, when the bombs fell, we didn't know that, my husband and I. We thought it was gonna be yknow, a proper Vault. Seemed like it at first, when we all rushed in. Hell, I was still so stunned I didn't even notice all the red flags. They had us step into these 'decontamination pods', me in one and the husband and baby in the other. That's the last thing I remember, looking through the glass at them in the other pod. Then everything went cold and dark..." She trailed off, taking a breath to steady herself before she started the next part of her unfortunate tale.

Hancock continued to watch her, scarcely blinking, though she could see the displeasure and anger in his eyes "Lying to a bunch of people like that...that's seriously fucked up. And they had you on ice this fucking long?"

Wendy nodded "Yeah...and from some of the shit I found on the computers of the 'scientists' who were supposed to be 'studying us', they intended to never let us out. Theu were gonna leave us behind once the radiation cleared. Luckily fate was as unkind to them as they were to us...they all killed eachother before they could even be let out. Tore eachother to pieces like animals according tp the logs."

Hancock nodded approvingly, chuckling darkly "Bastards got what they deserved then."

"Heh, yeah. Anyways...we probably would have been frozen in there forever, but someone broke it

Though they didn't come to save us. They..." She found this part difficult to tell, turning her gaze to her own hands fidgeting in her lap "They thawed out mine and my family's pod. They didn't unlock mine though. Two of them, one of em in white suits...the other one bald. He...h-he tried to take Shaun from Nate...my son...my husband. Tried to trick him, but Nate knew something was up. Wouldn't give him our son. So he...that bastard he...he..." She growled, clenching her fists as she fought back tears. "...killed him." She finally managed to get out, holding back a sob. "Killed him and took my baby. And I couldn't do anything to stop em. Could only pound on the glass...and scream. Then they put me back on ice...until the pod broke, and I was free...though it was too late..."

Hancock's gaze had softened, one of sympathy as he shook his head "That's vile...no parent should have to go through that. And your husband...so, I'm guessin' be plan is your lookin to hunt down the sacks of shit?"

She sniffled, embarassed as she wiped a tear off her ruined cheek with the back of her hand. "Yeah...I'm giving 'em hell when I find them. But that's just the problem, I don't even know where to begin looking. I was pointed in the way of Diamond City, but got lost." She sighed, raising her arm and Pipboy attached- the screen still fuzzed with static, much to her chagrin"This thing keeps fritzin out on me. Map on it won't work. So I got lost...ran into some Super Mutants. Managed to take out the smaller two of them, but then...those explosive ones-Suiciders you called them? Came charging at me. One of them blew up, fucked me up, lost Dogmeat," She patted the snoozing pup's head, illiciting a soft grunt from him, "Could only run from the second. Almost got me too...but Finn got him first. Luck I guess, in a way. So....that's how I found myself here."

Hancock was silent for a minute, his head tipped down, face obscured by the brim of his tricorn "Well you're right about one thing, that's certainly one hell of a story. To think you're that old...heh, only people who can claim that honor are older Ghouls. I'm still a young whippersnapper." He shook his head, sighing as he raised it to look her in the eyes again "But speaking of these...vermin again, I think Diamond City is your best bet at finding 'em. I have an accquintance there whose good at getting to the bottom of shit like this. Nick Valentine. Bonus, he could probably give that Pipboy of yours a lookover. Guy's got a way with tech." He gave a wry chuckle, causing a brief moment pf confusion for Wendy.

There's a joke here I'm missing. "Do you know the best way to get there from here? A way that preferably takes me past as few...friendly locals as possible? Though think I need a little time before I head out. Really need to stock up...get a new outfit." She sighed, refering to her ruinied jumpsuit, poking at one of the holes on her sleeve.

He nodded again "Sure, when time comes I'll draw you up a rough map. Heh, almost wanna go out with ya myself, but sadly can't leave. Up to whats left of m'ears in 'mayoral duties'...bleh." He made a distasteful nose, uttering a short, bored sigh. "Speaking of, I'd best get to it." He got to his feet, the chair creaking loudly "Thanks for telling me your story...I sincerely hope you get justice. And find your son."

Wendy smiled, incliningh er head briefly "And many thanks to you for helping me.

*******

Hancock shook his head again, trying to get rid of the strange feeling that still clung to him, annoyed at the white that still lingered at the edges of his vision. Some flashback...if it even was that. As an experienced junkie, he was no stranger to weird side effects from chems. But that had been something entirely different.

Closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples, leaned against the wall of the hallway as he tried to remember what he had seen....

A young girl, a mere infant, ginger curls spilling from atop her head, a white blotch marring her right cheek, clothed in a black dress. She was held in the arms of a likewise dressed older woman, her hair the same orange shade. Both of them stood before an empty coffin.

The same girl, older, cowering in the corner of a school yard as children threw rocks and sticks at her, screaming "Witch! Freak!"

A man in an old soldiers uniform, golden haired and handsome faced, smiling as he held a ring out.

A red haired baby, smiling up as he lay in his crib, reaching for the spinning mobile above him.

The same man from earlier, but this time a single bloody hole in the middle if his forehead, his wide brown eyes forever open and staring in horror.

And finally, Wendy standing atop the Mass Fusion building, a savage grin on her face as a nuclear explosion occured before them, her eyes in contrast strangely pained.

Opening his eyes, Hancock shook his head again, cursing and mumbling to himself. It's probably just your fucked up brain making up shit based on what she just told you. Her husband, her kid....but...she didn't say shit about the stuff I saw of her as a kid...I'm guessing that was her. Or that last part. What the fuck? And even then...saw it all before she told me all that...Bah ..I needa drink. Shit's gonna do my head in.

As he sauntered into the lobby Clair shot him a nasty look from her spot behind the front counter, her arms crossed. “So when am I getting what’s owed for that stray upstairs? Your people said I’d get the money. Mowarksi’s gonna-”

“Alright, alright. Enough. Told you I’d fork it over when I was done here.” Sighing in annoyance, he reached his handinto his frock coat, fumbling for the hidden pocket he kept caps in. Counting out thirty of them, the Ghoul strode over, placing the money atop the desk. “See? Let it be known John Hancock’s a Ghoul who always pays his debts.” With a wink and a two fingered wave he sauntered out of the lobby into the street outside, pulling a pack of cigarettes from a different pocket. Sticking one of the smokes in his mouth, he’d light it with an old gold-plated lighter from within his pocket, taking a drag. Giving a small cough he began walking away from the hotel, steering his way towards the Third Rail.

What a day, what a day…

[boshaw-manor]

Atlanta

More John and Harlow drabble because I love them. Sorry about it.

Seed ranch was boring as hell. There was nothing to do and John was always busy with the Project. Harlow would hazard to stay she hated it sometimes when she snuck off to visit him for a few days but she couldn’t resist. There was something about John Seed that had a real hold over her.

After spending a good ten minutes sliding across the polished dining room floor in her navy woollen socks, Harlow wandered out into the living room. Yawning, she rubbed her tired eyes as the morning sun glittered through the window. Bored. Oh so very bored. She should’ve brought her old Gameboy to play Pokemon or something. Sliding to the floor behind the couch, she rolled her ankles around before letting out a long sigh. The sound of gunshots in the distance outside would’ve made any normal person bolt but to her it was just background noise now. The same as the birds in the trees, the whir of a plane’s engine or the bark of a dog. Smirking to herself, Harlow pressed her fingers together to form a gun.

‘They’ve got me surrounded captain. I might not make it out alive, but it’s a sacrifice I gotta make.’ Whispering into a pretend com, she leapt to her feet and shot the fake gun at imaginary enemies. ‘Pew, pew, pew!’ Harlow combat rolled across the floor and took cover behind the taxidermy wolf by the stairs. ‘You’ll never take me alive!’ She howled, vaulting over it and pretending to spray bullets

‘What are you doing?’ John’s cutting tone made her jump and she spun around, pressing her mirrored index fingers to the skin of his slightly exposed chest.

‘I’ve found him sir, the ring leader! I’ve got a point-blank shot!’ The Deputy grinned at the Baptist in hopes he’d play along but knew it wasn’t meant to be the moment he rolled his eyes.

‘If you’re bored come and help me clean out the office.’ John’s hands wrapped around her ‘gun’ and lowered it, tilting his head to the shut door across the room. ‘You’d be actually making yourself useful for once.’

‘Fine. Mission aborted.’ She grumbled, unclasping her hands and taking the liberty of skidding across the floor once more before opening the office door. Piles of paperwork littered the desk and boxes upon boxes of crap towered up to the ceiling. ‘You’re messy.’ Harlow stated, reaching for the first box on top of the highest pile.

‘I am not. I’ve just been neglecting my duties somewhat to spend time with you.’ He ran a hand through his distressed hair, pulling loose unkempt locks back from his forehead, before busying himself with a filing cabinet in the corner.

‘You coulda fooled me.’ She muttered, placing the cardboard box on the ground and rifling through it. It was all old contracts and legal stuff signed off with John’s dramatic signature. Shoving that hunk of junk out of the door, she motioned to take another one down. Teetering on the tips of her toes, Harlow’s fingers grazed the top of the box as she tried to reach it. ‘Almost... there...’

‘Wait-‘ John tried to stop her but it was too late. The tower began to waver, shifting its weight and toppling down on top of her. Books and papers buried her body as she struggled to free herself from the fragile binding now pinning her to the ground. Emerging, her head popped out first and a hand soon followed to rub at her temple.

‘You have a lot of shit.’ Harlow groaned, releasing her other arm to pick up a leather bound black book and wave it in the air. John frowned at the mess she’d made, slamming the cabinet draw shut and stalking over. Taking the black book into both her hands, Harlow smoothed a palm over the cover. A big white sticker had started to peel at the corners in the centre, reading ATLANTA in block capitals. Flipping it open, her curiosity was piqued at the sight of dozens of photographs.

‘Huh. Haven’t seen that in a while.’ John’s frown dissipated into an intrigued smirk, looping his arms under Harlow’s armpits and pulling her from the wreckage. Her attention remained focussed on the pages as he dragged her to his office chair and sat, practically yanking her onto his knee.

‘Looks like quite the life.’ Harlow remarked as he rested his bearded chin on her shoulder. One page was decked out with fancy cars littering a driveway, another saw a slightly younger John and a group of men in a casino winning big money. Flipping the page, a panoramic shot of a penthouse filled with people partying reminded her of a more expensive looking Where’s Wally? scene. The drinks were flowing, the people looked happy and right in the centre of it all was John. Turning the page again it landed on the Baptist, or in that time the lawyer, with his arm looped around the back of a young woman. Harlow’s eyes traced over the long red gown and sizeable jewellery clinging to her tiny frame. The next page was almost identical but with a different woman in a different outfit. And the next page. And the next page. And the next page.

‘Wow...’ She mumbled under her breath. They were all so opulent and luxurious and she was... not. She could never be that. Damn she’d tried it as a teenager but high school prom had been such a disaster that she’d decided maybe sticking to shorts and a novelty t-shirt was a safer bet. It was better than crying in the toilets alone. And rather than being sweet and smiling, she’d learnt to scowl and throw bitter insults at any guy who approached her in the university common room. It became easier for her not to be taken the piss out of that way. Insecurity washed over her as she leant back into John’s chest.

‘You okay?’ He asked, dragging a hand down her arm. She’d tensed up and was still staring at the same picture.

‘In the real world you’d never of chosen me.’ Harlow finalised quietly, snapping the album shut and tossing it on the floor with a thud.

‘Is that envy I see?’ He chuckled, squeezing her sides teasingly. But she wasn’t laughing.

‘No. Just honesty.’ Sighing heavily, the usually stone-cold Deputy scratched at her neck and tightened her lips to stop tears from forming in her green eyes. ‘I could never look like that.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’d look stunni-‘

‘No I wouldn’t.’ She interrupted knowingly. Trying to picture herself on John’s arm in a skin tight dress or sitting in the passenger seat of one of his sports cars made her want to barf. She’d look frumpy and out of place and just plain wrong.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t even remember half of those women’s names.’ John crept his hands soothingly up her back and rested them at the base of her neck. ‘Everything in there is fake. Fake asses, fake tits, fake smiles. All of it.’ Harlow wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

‘But if you passed me on the street, that’d be it. Just passing. You wouldn’t pay me an ounce of attention. I feel like...’ Incisors nipping into her lip, Harlow cursed herself out for getting emotional. ‘I feel like maybe I’m just convenient for you.’ Slipping off of his knee, she padded out of the office and shoved her hands in her pockets. Of course he’d pick the women with the perfect hair and the trim waistlines and the big beautiful smiles over her. She knew that. She was short, swore like a trooper and was still on a personal mission to complete her damn Pokedex. Trudging up the stairs, going back to her room seemed like the best option. Maybe she could cry for an hour and then resume her internal struggle as to which Star Wars film was the best.

‘She’s found me! Agent Fox has found me!’ Harlow’s footfalls paused, as she looked over her shoulder at John. He was half-heartedly holding his hands up like he had an invisible gun in them. Blue irises staring right at her, he nodded a little to try and coax her back down the steps. ‘But wait, she could be waving the white flag? This could be our chance to blow up the world!’ He mimed an explosion, even making booming sounds under his breath. John felt like a moron in this moment. But he knew he had to give her an inch. He had to try at least a little bit. Granted, she wasn’t his conventional type. She was mouthy, unfeminine and, to be honest, a massive nerd. But she was also calculating, perceptive and far smarter than most people would give her credit for. She was a challenge, willing to butt-heads with the Baptist just to get a reaction. He liked that. The way she wound him up pissed him off but turned him on at the same time. Being with her was the most fun he’d had with a girl for a very long time and he didn’t want to lose that. If the Project ended tomorrow, he knew he’d rather stay in Hope County with her rather than return to his flashy lifestyle. Because unlike everything and everyone else before her, Harlow was real.

He watched as her lip quirked in confusion before she warily turned around and lifted her hands back up to form a pistol shape.

‘Mission resumed captain. I’ve got eyes on the target.’

[everlastingdreams]

Dex x Reader: Sugar Crush Chapter 5

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Notes: This is one of the chapters where the trigger warning is for !!!! And btw did I mention I like to leave small clues in my stories for future chapters, have fun figuring those out. :) Also foreshadowing.

Summary:  Reader moves into the same building as one Agent Poindexter. A bond starts to grow between them. Can the reader move on after a traumatic past ‘relationship’ ?

Chapter: 5/?

Trigger Warning:  Mentions of physical and emotional abuse ! YES this one will come with trigger warnings. I tried not to post too much into detail stuff but this entire thing comes with a trigger warning !

Word count: 2196

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

After Dex had left, you decided to spend the day making waffles. And to do that you would need to go out and buy the ingredients. You didn't just want some random brand of butter or a random brand of sugar, no. The ingredients you needed had to be of a specific brand. The old brands your mother always used. You had found the recipe of the waffles in her old cookbook after she had passed, you even had the old waffle maker she always used and you took great care of it. Even though time had aged it visibly, it still worked amazingly well and fast.

You went to a few shops before you finally found one that had the things you were looking for. As you were reaching for the milk your hand bumped into someone else's. You quickly pulled your hand back.

“Sorry.” you blurted out at the same time as the other person.

The blonde woman next to you chuckled at the situation.

You took a jug of milk and handed it to her “Here you go.”

She looked at you in light suprise as she took the jug you were holding out to her “Thank you.” she was tapping her fingers against the jug and you knew she had noticed the marks around your eye. You had seen her eyes scan over it for only a second. “I'm Karen. Karen Page.”

Her introduction now took you by suprise considering you two were total strangers who just bumped into each other in a store. You reminded yourself that you could use more friends in this new city “I'm (y/n) (l/n).”

She held out her hand and you shook it.

Her voice was low in volume as she spoke to you again “I know it's none of my business but-”

“But your going to get involved anyway ? Doesn't suprise me to be honest, I bet most reporters would.” a small smile on your lips as you looked at her.

She let out a breath “I...how did you know ?”

“I read your articles in the newspaper on this uhm.. Daredevil guy.” you casually stated.

“Oh. That does explain things.” she let out a chuckle “I just..” She pointed at her own eye discreetly “I just wanted to say that I know a good lawyer if you'd consider pressing charges. He's a good guy, he helped me as well when I was in trouble.”

Your eyes fell for a moment, you appreciated that someone you didn't even know would care about your well-being. If only you had met someone like her earlier, perhaps you would have pressed charges against your ex. Perhaps you wouldn't have had to hide from him. Perhaps that would have been a mistake, yes, it would have been a mistake.

“Thank you, Miss Page. But this..” you pointed at the remainder of your bruised skin “Isn't going to happen again. I left him.. I am starting a new life, away from him.”

A smile appeared on her face “I am very glad to hear that. You have made the right decision. If however you would still consider to press charges against him..” she rummaged through her bag for a moment “This guy will help you out, I am sure of it.”

She handed you a card “Foggy Nelson?”

“Yes. He works for Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz now. He used to work for Nelson and Murdock.” she clarrified.

You gave a quick nod “Thank you. I'll... I will think about it.”

“Great, and uhm.. good luck.” she told you before she left you to continue your grocery shopping.

Past.....

The sun was shinning down on you as you walked down the street.

A smile dancing on your lips as you turned the corner and smiled to a person you had often seen around in the stores, always ending up chatting a bit together.

Life wasn't always perfect, but right now it did feel that way. You shared a cozy house with a nice garden with your boyfriend. You had met him about four months ago when you were sitting on a bench reading a text message on your phone when you became aware that someone had taken place next to you. It pulled your attention away from your phone and when you looked up into a pair of dark green eyes you felt your heart flutter. He was gorgeous, no, he was more then that. His raven black hair combed back neatly, dressed in a suit that looked like it was made especially for him. He was the epitome of confidence. The moment his eyes locked on yours, the moment he said “Hello” with a voice as smooth as silk, you knew you were lost.

He was the perfect boyfriend, and not long after you two met, you were living together.

He often worked late in his office, but when he came home he never spoke about work. Avoided it even, it should have been a red flag but you couldn't see that. You felt so lucky to have a guy like him. All you knew is that he worked for a security company that protected people who were wealthy enough to afford it.

You had decided to suprise him at his office, you had never been there before but it was easy enough to find the building. The fact that the door to the building was unlocked didn't strike you as strange, it was probably open for potential clients. You walked inside, making sure to close the door again quietly. You didn't want to ruin the suprise. A quick look around showed you that there was no one on the first floor. You had expected a receptionist or perhaps even a secratery, but there was no one. You made your way up the stairs, ignore the feeling in your gut that something was off. Second floor, no one. Third floor, no one. This place didn't just look abandoned, it was abondened. The rooms were empty, no one was working there.

The feeling inside you grew, this was wrong. Something is wrong. You heard voices coming from the floor above you, you listened and heard your boyfriend's voice but it was unclear what he was saying.

You brushed the strange feeling away, surely there was a normal explanation. Perhaps they used this building to ensure the safety of their clients, perhaps that's why there was no one else here.

You walked up the stairs to the fourth floor and the voice of your boyfriend got clearer as you neared the room he was in. As you got closer you could hear other voices, three other voices, all of them male.

Something inside you warned you, warned you to stay quiet, to listen. Your plan was to walk in his office and shout suprise and hand him the cupcakes you had baked that morning. But now you stayed around the corner as you listened to what they were saying. You peeked around the corner and saw your boyfriend leaning against his desk, relaxed as he looked at another guy who was sitting on the chair in front of him. Two others were standing at the side, as if they were guarding something or someone.

“Mister Davis, you must understand that my client is very upset about these unfortunate circumstances. He placed a lot of faith in you when he asked you to keep his shipments safe.” your boyfriend's silky voice cut through the silence of the room.

The man in the chair scoffed “I tried alright! Everything went smooth until Daredevil showed up. How the hell was I supposed to handle that situation ?! Not even Fisk could beat that son of a bitch! He's in prison thanks to him !” the man shouted in anger.

Your boyfriend sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose “I'm afraid that trying is not enough. You failed Mister Fisk, the shipments are lost because of your incompetence-”

“My incompetence?! Shaw, you son of a bitch, I've worked for Fisk for years. How dare you speak to me like that!”

“Let's keep this professional, Mister Davis.” a slight hint of annoyance was audible in your boyfriend's voice.

The other man slammed his fists on the chair he was sitting in “Damn you ! You think you're above me ?! Above the others !”

Your boyfriend only sighed again as he stood now, a hand smoothing out his suit jacket as he turned his back to the man “Mister Fisk has asked me to give you another chance. Do you think you will be succesful this time ?” his voice showed no interest in the man.

“You don't think I will ?!” the man stood up from the chair fuming now.

“Indeed, I do not.” he turned to the man, his expression was blank.

“Who the hell do you think you're talking to !” the man's voice was loud now.

Your boyfriend didn't speak, he looked at the man with little interest before he closed his eyes and sighed once more.

Then it happened quickly, your boyfriend pulled a gun from his jacket and shot the man only once. Sending a bullet straight into his head. The man fell backwards.

The sound of the gunshot made you jump, a short scream escaped your throat at the unexpected  situation. And you knew they had heard you. You didn't wait, you ran, back to the door that would lead to the stairs. And right when you put your hand on the door handle you felt someone yank your hair back, before they grabbed your arm and held it behind your back to push you against the door.

One of the men who had been in the room was now holding you against the door.

“Got them!” he shouted and you heard the others nearing.

The other man was the second to show up, and when he got closer to you he grabbed a gun from behind his back. The one holding you turned you around, slamming the back of your head against the door as he did. And soon you were face-to-face with Shaw “Easy, gentlemen. This one belongs to me." he walked over to you and the guy holding you let go.

“Sweetheart, you must forgive this man for handling you like this. But you did give us a reason to distrust you. Why are you here ?” he was calm as he spoke, as if nothing had happened. And that is when a feeling of dread washed over you, this wasn't the first time he killed someone. You were shaking with fear, a tear escaped your eye and you couldn't speak.

He nodded to the other man to take a step back and the man did as commanded “(y/n), Why are you here?” he asked again but this time there was a sharp edge to his words.

You couldn't look him in the eyes, not anymore “I wanted to suprise you.” your voice almost a whisper.

His mouth curved into a smile, but you knew it wasn't a genuine one “Well, color me surprised.”

He let out a breath as he dragged his hand over his chin “I really wish you would have called, sweetheart. Now we are facing a problem. You saw what just happened didn't you ?”

You focused on his tie instead of on his face as you nodded.

He nodded as well "Alright, here's what's going to happen. You didn't see anything. And if anyone asks, you will tell them exactly that. Understand ?" You nodded lightly, not able to form words as your throat tightened. His hand struck your cheek and you looked at him in shock, finally meeting his eyes "I asked you if you understand, you would be smart to answer that clearly."

“I understand.” your voice broke.

He held on to your chin with his fingers “Good girl.” he said and placed a quick kiss on your lips. You wanted to throw up at this point but you knew you had to pretend everything was fine. His eyes fell on the bag you were holding “Did you bring me some of your famous cupcakes, little dove?”

You swallowed before you answered “Yes.”

“See this, gentlemen, this is why I like this girl. She's beautiful, she's smart and she knows how to cook.” he took the bag from your hand “And she knows when to keep quiet.” it sounded like a threat and you were sure that it was exactly that.

He took a step back from you “I'll be home a little later tonight, love. I have some things to take care of. But this guy here is going to make sure you get home safely.”

This was his way of telling you, to not try to run.

Shaw walked past you and one of the other guys grabbed hold of your arm and guided you out the building and to the house you shared with Shaw.

The only way to survive was to obey Shaw, knowing that if he wanted, he could end your life.

All you had to do was be a “Good girl.”

Tag list for this series (let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list :) ) :

@marvelmayo @givemeabite @aquietfortitudeandstrength @missminx1993@fuchsiagrasshopper @legion-18 @love-mia-marisol @star-spangled-man @bilson-bethel

[unsettlingshortstories]

Nightcrawlers

Robert McCammon (1984)

1

“Hard rain coming down,” Cheryl said, and I nodded in agreement.

Through the diner’s plate-glass windows, a dense curtain of rain flapped across the Gulf gas pumps and continued across the parking lot. It hit Big Bob’s with a force that made the glass rattle like uneasy bones. The red neon sign that said BIG BOB’S! DIESEL FUEL! EATS! sat on top of a high steel pole above the diner so the truckers on the interstate could see it. Out in the night, the red-tinted rain thrashed in torrents across my old pickup truck and Cheryl’s baby-blue Volkswagen.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose that storm’ll either wash some folks in off the interstate or we can just about hang it up.” The curtain of rain parted for an instant, and I could see the treetops whipping back and forth in the woods on the other side of Highway 47. Wind whined around the front door like an animal trying to claw its way in. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall behind the counter. Twenty minutes before nine. We usually closed up at ten, but tonight—with tornado warnings in the weather forecast—I was tempted to turn the lock a little early. “Tell you what,” I said. “If we’re empty at nine, we skedaddle. ’Kay?”

“No argument here,” she said. She watched the storm for a moment longer, then continued putting newly washed coffee cups, saucers, and plates away on the stainless-steel shelves.

Lightning flared from west to east like the strike of a burning bullwhip. The diner’s lights flickered, then came back to normal. A shudder of thunder seemed to come right up through my shoes. Late March is the beginning of tornado season in south Alabama, and we’ve had some whoppers spin past here in the last few years. I knew that Alma was at home, and she understood to get into the root cellar right quick if she spotted a twister, like that one we saw in ’82 dancing through the woods about two miles from our farm.

“You got any love-ins planned this weekend, hippie?” I asked Cheryl, mostly to get my mind off the storm and to rib her too.

She was in her late thirties, but I swear that when she grinned she could’ve passed for a kid. “Wouldn’t you like to know, redneck?” she answered; she replied the same way to all my digs at her. Cheryl Lovesong—and I know that couldn’t have been her real name—was a mighty able waitress, and she had hands that were no strangers to hard work. But I didn’t care that she wore her long silvery-blond hair in Indian braids with hippie headbands, or came to work in tie-dyed overalls. She was the best waitress who’d ever worked for me, and she got along with everybody just fine—even us rednecks. That’s what I am, and proud of it: I drink Rebel Yell whiskey straight, and my favorite songs are about good women gone bad and trains on the long track to nowhere. I keep my wife happy. I’ve raised my two boys to pray to God and to salute the flag, and if anybody don’t like it he can go a few rounds with Big Bob Clayton.

Cheryl would come right out and tell you she used to live in San Francisco in the late sixties, and that she went to love-ins and peace marches and all that stuff. When I reminded her it was 1984 and Ronnie Reagan was president, she’d look at me like I was walking cow-flop. I always figured she’d start thinking straight when all that hippie-dust blew out of her head.

Alma said my tail was going to get burnt if I ever took a shine to Cheryl, but I’m a fifty-five-year-old redneck who stopped sowing his wild seed when he met the woman he married, more than thirty years ago.

Lightning crisscrossed the turbulent sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Cheryl said, “Wow! Look at that light show!”

“Light show, my ass,” I muttered. The diner was as solid as the Good Book, so I wasn’t too worried about the storm. But on a wild night like this, stuck out in the countryside like Big Bob’s was, you had a feeling of being a long way off from civilization—though Mobile was only twenty-seven miles south. On a wild night like this, you had a feeling that anything could happen, as quick as a streak of lightning out of the darkness. I picked up a copy of the Mobile Press-Register that the last customer—a trucker on his way to Texas—had left on the counter a half-hour before, and I started plowing through the news, most of it bad: those A-rab countries were still squabbling like Hatfields and McCoys in white robes; two men had robbed a Qwik-Mart in Mobile and been killed by the police in a shoot-out; cops were investigating a massacre at a motel near Daytona Beach; an infant had been stolen from a maternity ward in Birmingham. The only good things on the front page were stories that said the economy was up and that Reagan swore we’d show the Commies who was boss in El Salvador and Lebanon.

The diner shook under a blast of thunder, and I looked up from the paper as a pair of headlights emerged from the rain into my parking lot.

2

The headlights were attached to an Alabama state-trooper car.

“Half-alive, hold the onion, extra brown the buns.” Cheryl was already writing on her pad in expectation of the order. I pushed the paper aside and went to the fridge for the hamburger meat.

When the door opened, a windblown spray of rain swept in and stung like buckshot. “Howdy, folks!” Dennis Wells peeled off his gray rain slicker and hung it on the rack next to the door. Over his Smokey the Bear trooper hat was a protective plastic covering, beaded with raindrops. He took off his hat, exposing the thinning blond hair on his pale scalp, as he approached the counter and sat on his usual stool, right next to the cash register. “Cup of black coffee and a rare—” Cheryl was already sliding the coffee in front of him, and the burger sizzled on the griddle. “Ya’ll are on the ball tonight!” Dennis said; he said the same thing when he came in, which was almost every night. Funny the kind of habits you fall into, without realizing it.

“Kinda wild out there, ain’t it?” I asked as I flipped the burger over.

“Lordy, yes! Wind just about flipped my car over three, four miles down the interstate. Thought I was gonna be eatin’ a little pavement tonight.” Dennis was a husky young man in his early thirties, with thick blond brows over deep-set light brown eyes. He had a wife and three kids, and he was fast to flash a walletful of their pictures. “Don’t reckon I’ll be chasin’ any speeders tonight, but there’ll probably be a load of accidents. Cheryl, you sure look pretty this evenin’.”

“Still the same old me.” Cheryl never wore a speck of makeup, though one day she’d come to work with glitter on her cheeks. She had a place a few miles away, and I guessed she was farming that funny weed up there. “Any trucks moving?”

“Seen a few, but not many. Truckers ain’t fools. Gonna get worse before it gets better, the radio says.” He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Lordy, that’s strong enough to jump out of the cup and dance a jig, darlin’!”

I fixed the burger the way Dennis liked it, put it on a platter with some fries, and served it. “Bobby, how’s the wife treatin’ you?” he asked.

“No complaints.”

“Good to hear. I’ll tell you, a fine woman is worth her weight in gold. Hey, Cheryl! How’d you like a handsome young man for a husband?”

Cheryl smiled, knowing what was coming. “The man I’m looking for hasn’t been made yet.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t met Cecil yet, either! He asks me about you every time I see him, and I keep tellin’ him I’m doin’ everything I can to get you two together.” Cecil was Dennis’ brother-in-law and owned a Chevy dealership in Bay Minette. Dennis had been ribbing Cheryl about going on a date with Cecil for the past four months. “You’d like him,” Dennis promised. “He’s got a lot of my qualities.”

“Well, that’s different. In that case, I’m certain I don’t want to meet him.”

Dennis winced. “Oh, you’re a cruel woman! That’s what smokin’ banana peels does to you—turns you mean. Anybody readin’ this rag?” He reached over for the newspaper.

“Waitin’ here just for you,” I said. Thunder rumbled, closer to the diner. The lights flickered briefly once … then again before they returned to normal. Cheryl busied herself by fixing a fresh pot of coffee, and I watched the rain whipping against the windows. When the lightning flashed, I could see the trees swaying so hard they looked about to snap.

Dennis read and ate his hamburger. “Boy,” he said after a few minutes, “the world’s in some shape, huh? Those A-rab pig-stickers are itchin’ for war. Mobile metro boys had a little gunplay last night. Good for them.” He paused and frowned, then tapped the paper with one thick finger. “This I can’t figure.”

“What’s that?”

“Thing in Florida couple of nights ago. Six people killed at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, near Daytona Beach. Motel was set off in the woods. Only a couple of cinder-block houses in the area, and nobody heard any gunshots. Says here one old man saw what he thought was a bright white star falling over the motel, and that was it. Funny, huh?”

“A UFO,” Cheryl offered. “Maybe he saw a UFO.”

“Yeah, and I’m a little green man from Mars,” Dennis scoffed. “I’m serious. This is weird. The motel was so blown full of holes it looked like a war had been going on. Everybody was dead—even a dog and a canary that belonged to the manager. The cars out in front of the rooms were blasted to pieces. The sound of one of them explodin’ was what woke up the people in those houses, I reckon.” He skimmed the story again. “Two bodies were out in the parkin’ lot, one was holed up in a bathroom, one had crawled under a bed, and two had dragged every piece of furniture in the room over to block the door. Didn’t seem to help ’em any, though.”

I grunted. “Guess not.”

“No motive, no witnesses. You better believe those Florida cops are shakin’ the bushes for some kind of dangerous maniac—or maybe more than one, it says here.” He shoved the paper away and patted the service revolver holstered at his hip. “If I ever got hold of him—or them—he’d find out not to mess with a ’Bama trooper.” He glanced quickly over at Cheryl and smiled mischievously. “Probably some crazy hippie who’d been smokin’ his tennis shoes.”

“Don’t knock it,” she said sweetly, “until you’ve tried it.” She looked past him, out the window into the storm. “Car’s pullin’ in, Bobby.”

Headlights glared briefly off the wet windows. It was a station wagon with wood-grained panels on the sides; it veered around the gas pumps and parked next to Dennis’ trooper car. On the front bumper was a personalized license plate that said: Ray & Lindy. The headlights died, and all the doors opened at once. Out of the wagon came a whole family: a man and woman, a little girl and boy about eight or nine. Dennis got up and opened the diner door as they hurried inside from the rain.

All of them had gotten pretty well soaked between the station wagon and the diner, and they wore the dazed expressions of people who’d been on the road a long time. The man wore glasses and had curly gray hair, the woman was slim and dark-haired and pretty. The kids were sleepy-eyed. All of them were well-dressed, the man in a yellow sweater with one of those alligators on the chest. They had vacation tans, and I figured they were tourists heading north from the beach after spring break.

“Come on in and take a seat,” I said.

“Thank you,” the man said. They squeezed into one of the booths near the windows. “We saw your sign from the interstate.”

“Bad night to be on the highway,” Dennis told them. “Tornado warnings are out all over the place.”

“We heard it on the radio,” the woman—Lindy, if the license was right—said. “We’re on our way to Birmingham, and we thought we could drive right through the storm. We should’ve stopped at that Holiday Inn we passed about fifteen miles ago.”

“That would’ve been smart,” Dennis agreed. “No sense in pushin’ your luck.” He returned to his stool.

The new arrivals ordered hamburgers, fries, and Cokes. Cheryl and I went to work. Lightning made the diner’s lights flicker again, and the sound of thunder caused the kids to jump. When the food was ready and Cheryl served them, Dennis said, “Tell you what. You folks finish your dinners and I’ll escort you back to the Holiday Inn. Then you can head out in the morning. How about that?”

“Fine,” Ray said gratefully. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten very much further, anyway.” He turned his attention to his food.

“Well,” Cheryl said quietly, standing beside me, “I don’t guess we get home early, do we?”

“I guess not. Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Goes with the job, right? Anyway, I can think of worse places to be stuck.”

I figured that Alma might be worried about me, so I went over to the pay phone to call her. I dropped a quarter in—and the dial tone sounded like a cat being stepped on. I hung up and tried again. The cat scream continued. “Damn!” I muttered. “Lines must be screwed up.”

“Ought to get yourself a place closer to town, Bobby,” Dennis said. “Never could figure out why you wanted a joint in the sticks. At least you’d get better phone service and good lights if you were nearer to Mo—”

He was interrupted by the sound of wet and shrieking brakes, and he swiveled around on his stool.

I looked up as a car hurtled into the parking lot, the tires swerving, throwing up plumes of water. For a few seconds I thought it was going to keep coming, right through the window into the diner—but then the brakes caught and the car almost grazed the side of my pickup as it jerked to a stop. In the neon’s red glow I could tell it was a beat-up old Ford Fairlane, either gray or a dingy beige. Steam was rising off the crumpled hood. The headlights stayed on for perhaps a minute before they winked off. A figure got out of the car and walked slowly—with a limp—toward the diner.

We watched the figure approach. Dennis’ body looked like a coiled spring ready to be triggered. “We got us a live one, Bobby boy,” he said.

The door opened, and in a stinging gust of wind and rain a man who looked like walking death stepped into my diner.

3

He was so wet he might well have been driving with his windows down. He was a skinny guy, maybe weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds, even soaking wet. His unruly dark hair was plastered to his head, and he had gone a week or more without a shave. In his gaunt, pallid face his eyes were startlingly blue; his gaze flicked around the diner, lingered for a few seconds on Dennis. Then he limped on down to the far end of the counter and took a seat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes as Cheryl took a menu to him.

Dennis stared at the man. When he spoke, his voice bristled with authority. “Hey, fella.” The man didn’t look up from the menu. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.”

The man pushed the menu away and pulled a damp packet of Kools out of the breast pocket of his patched Army fatigue jacket. “I can hear you,” he said; his voice was deep and husky, and didn’t go with his less-than-robust physical appearance.

“Drivin’ kinda fast in this weather, don’t you think?”

The man flicked a cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame, then lit one of his smokes and inhaled deeply. “Yeah,” he replied. “I was. Sorry. I saw the sign, and I was in a hurry to get here. Miss? I’d just like a cup of coffee, please. Hot and real strong, okay?”

Cheryl nodded and turned away from him, almost bumping into me as I strolled down behind the counter to check him out.

“That kind of hurry’ll get you killed,” Dennis cautioned.

“Right. Sorry.” He shivered and pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead with one hand. Up close, I could see deep cracks around his mouth and the corners of his eyes and I figured him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His wrists were as thin as a woman’s; he looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal for more than a month. He stared at his hands through bloodshot eyes. Probably on drugs, I thought. The fella gave me the creeps. Then he looked at me with those eyes—so pale blue they were almost white—and I felt like I’d been nailed to the floor. “Something wrong?” he asked—not rudely, just curiously.

“Nope.” I shook my head. Cheryl gave him his coffee and then went over to give Ray and Lindy their check.

The man didn’t use either cream or sugar. The coffee was steaming, but he drank half of it down like mother’s milk. “That’s good,” he said. “Keep me awake, won’t it?”

“More than likely.” Over the breast pocket of his jacket was the faint outline of the name that had been sewn there once. I think it was Price, but I could’ve been wrong.

“That’s what I want. To stay awake as long as I can.” He finished the coffee. “Can I have another cup, please?”

I poured it for him. He drank that one down just as fast,” then rubbed his eyes wearily.

“Been on the road a long time, huh?”

Price nodded. “Day and night. I don’t know which is more tired, my mind or my butt.” He lifted his gaze to me again. “Have you got anything else to drink? How about beer?”

“No, sorry. Couldn’t get a liquor license.”

He sighed. “Just as well. It might make me sleepy. But I sure could go for a beer right now. One sip, to clean my mouth out.”

He picked up his coffee cup, and I smiled and started to turn away.

But then he wasn’t holding a cup. He was holding a Budweiser can, and for an instant I could smell the tang of a newly popped beer.

The mirage was there for only maybe two seconds. I blinked, and Price was holding a cup again. “Just as well,” he said, and put it down.

I glanced over at Cheryl, then at Dennis. Neither one was paying attention. Damn! I thought. I’m too young to be losin’ either my eyesight or my senses! “Uh …” I said, or some other stupid noise.

“One more cup?” Price asked. “Then I’d better hit the road again.”

My hand was shaking as I picked it up, but if Price noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Want anything to eat?” Cheryl asked him. “How about a bowl of beef stew?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. The sooner I get back on the road, the better it’ll be.”

Suddenly Dennis swiveled toward him, giving him a cold stare that only cops and drill sergeants can muster. “Back on the road?” He snorted. “Fella, you ever been in a tornado before? I’m gonna escort those nice people to the Holiday Inn about fifteen miles back. If you’re smart, that’s where you’ll spend the night too. No use in tryin’ to—”

“No.” Price’s voice was rock-steady. “I’ll be spending the night behind the wheel.”

Dennis’ eyes narrowed. “How come you’re in such a hurry? Not runnin’ from anybody, are you?”

“Nightcrawlers,” Cheryl said.

Price turned toward her like he’d been slapped across the face, and I saw what might’ve been a spark of fear in his eyes.

Cheryl motioned toward the lighter Price had laid on the counter, beside the pack of Kools. It was a beat-up silver Zippo, and inscribed across it was NIGHTCRAWLERS with the symbol of two crossed rifles beneath it. “Sorry,” she said. “I just noticed that, and I wondered what it was.”

Price put the lighter away. “I was in ’Nam,” he told her. “Everybody in my unit got one.”

“Hey.” There was suddenly new respect in Dennis’ voice. “You a vet?”

Price paused so long I didn’t think he was going to answer. In the quiet, I heard the little girl tell her mother that the fries were “ucky.” Price said, “Yes.”

“How about that! Hey, I wanted to go myself, but I got a high number and things were windin’ down about that time anyway. Did you see any action?”

A faint, bitter smile passed over Price’s mouth. “Too much.”

“What? Infantry? Marines? Rangers?”

Price picked up his third cup of coffee, swallowed some, and put it down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when they opened they were vacant and fixed on nothing. “Nightcrawlers,” he said quietly. “Special unit. Deployed to recon Charlie positions in questionable villages.” He said it like he was reciting from a manual. “We did a lot of crawling through rice paddies and jungles in the dark.”

“Bet you laid a few of them Vietcong out, didn’t you?” Dennis got up and came over to sit a few places away from the man. “Man, I was behind you guys all the way. I wanted you to stay in there and fight it out!”

Price was silent. Thunder echoed over the diner. The lights weakened for a few seconds; when they came back on, they seemed to have lost some of their wattage. The place was dimmer than before. Price’s head slowly turned toward Dennis, with the inexorable motion of a machine. I was thankful I didn’t have to take the full force of Price’s dead blue eyes, and I saw Dennis wince. “I should’ve stayed,” he said. “I should be there right now, buried in the mud of a rice paddy with the eight other men in my patrol.”

“Oh.” Dennis blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I came home,” Price continued calmly, “by stepping on the bodies of my friends. Do you want to know what that’s like, Mr. Trooper?”

“The war’s over,” I told him. “No need to bring it back.” Price smiled grimly, but his gaze remained fixed on Dennis. “Some say it’s over. I say it came back with the men who were there. Like me. Especially like me.” Price paused. The wind howled around the door, and the lightning illuminated for an instant the thrashing woods across the highway. “The mud was up to our knees, Mr. Trooper,” he said. “We were moving across a rice paddy in the dark, being real careful not to step on the bamboo stakes we figured were planted there. Then the first shots started: pop pop pop—like firecrackers going off. One of the Nightcrawlers fired off a flare, and we saw the Cong ringing us. We’d walked right into hell, Mr. Trooper. Somebody shouted, ‘Charlie’s in the light!’ and we started firing, trying to punch a hole through them. But they were everywhere. As soon as one went down, three more took his place. Grenades were going off, and more flares, and people were screaming as they got hit. I took a bullet in the thigh and another through the hand. I lost my rifle, and somebody fell on top of me with half his head missing.”

“Uh … listen,” I said. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to, friend.” He glanced quickly at me, then back to Dennis. I think I cringed when his gaze pierced me. “I want to tell it all. They were fighting and screaming and dying all around me, and I felt the bullets tug at my clothes as they passed through. I know I was screaming too, but what was coming out of my mouth sounded bestial. I ran. The only way I could save my own life was to step on their bodies and drive them down into the mud. I heard some of them choke and blubber as I put my boot on their faces. I knew all those guys like brothers … but at that moment they were only pieces of meat. I ran. A gunship chopper came over the paddy and laid down some fire, and that’s how I got out. Alone.” He bent his face closer toward the other man’s. “And you’d better believe I’m in that rice paddy in ’Nam every time I close my eyes. You’d better believe the men I left back there don’t rest easy. So you keep your opinions about ’Nam and being ‘behind you guys’ to yourself, Mr. Trooper. I don’t want to hear that bullshit. Got it?”

Dennis sat very still. He wasn’t used to being talked to like that, not even from a ’Nam vet, and I saw the shadow of anger pass over his face.

Price’s hands were trembling as he brought a little bottle out of his jeans pocket. He shook two blue-and-orange capsules out onto the counter, took them both with a swallow of coffee, and then recapped the bottle and put it away. The flesh of his face looked almost ashen in the dim light.

“I know you boys had a rough time,” Dennis said, “but that’s no call to show disrespect to the law.”

“The law,” Price repeated. “Yeah. Right. Bullshit.”

“There are women and children present,” I reminded him. “Watch your language.”

Price rose from his seat. He looked like a skeleton with just a little extra skin on the bones. “Mister, I haven’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. My nerves are shot. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but when some fool says he understands, I feel like kicking his teeth down his throat—because no one who wasn’t there can pretend to understand.” He glanced at Ray, Lindy, and the kids. “Sorry, folks. Don’t mean to disturb you. Friend, how much do I owe?” He started digging for his wallet.

Dennis slid slowly from his seat and stood with his hands on his hips. “Hold it.” He used his trooper’s voice again. “If you think I’m lettin’ you walk out of here high on pills and needin’ sleep, you’re crazy. I don’t want to be scrapin’ you off the highway.”

Price paid him no attention. He took a couple of dollars from his wallet and put them on the counter. I didn’t touch them. “Those pills will help keep me awake,” Price said. “Once I get on the road, I’ll be fine.”

“Fella, I wouldn’t let you go if it was high noon and not a cloud in the sky. I sure as hell don’t want to clean up after the accident you’re gonna have. Now, why don’t you come along to the Holiday Inn and—”

Price laughed grimly. “Mr. Trooper, the last place you want me staying is at a motel.” He cocked his head to one side. “I was in a motel in Florida a couple of nights ago, and I think I left my room a little untidy. Step aside and let me pass.”

“A motel in Florida?” Dennis nervously licked his lower lip. “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“Nightmares and reality, Mr. Trooper. The point where they cross. A couple of nights ago, they crossed at a motel. I wasn’t going to let myself sleep. I was just going to rest for a little while, but I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” A mocking smile played at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were tortured. “You don’t want me staying at that Holiday Inn, Mr. Trooper. You really don’t. Now, step aside.”

I saw Dennis’ hand settle on the butt of his revolver. His fingers unsnapped the fold of leather that secured the gun in the holster. I stared at him numbly. My God, I thought. What’s goin’ on? My heart had started pounding so hard I was sure everybody could hear it. Ray and Lindy were watching, and Cheryl was backing away behind the counter.

Price and Dennis faced each other for a moment, as the rain whipped against the windows and thunder boomed like shellfire. Then Price sighed, as if resigning himself to something. He said, “I think I want a T-bone steak. Extra rare. How ’bout it?” He looked at me.

“A steak?” My voice was shaking. “We don’t have any T-bone—”

Price’s gaze shifted to the counter right in front of me. I heard a sizzle. The aroma of cooking meat drifted up to me.

“Oh … wow,” Cheryl whispered.

A large T-bone steak lay on the countertop, pink and oozing blood. You could’ve fanned a menu in my face and I would’ve keeled over. Wisps of smoke were rising from the steak.

The steak began to fade, until it was only an outline on the counter. The lines of oozing blood vanished. After the mirage was gone, I could still smell the meat—and that’s how I knew I wasn’t crazy.

Dennis’ mouth hung open. Ray had stood up from the booth to look, and his wife’s face was the color of spoiled milk. The whole world seemed to be balanced on a point of silence—until the wail of the wind jarred me back to my senses.

“I’m getting good at it,” Price said softly. “I’m getting very, very good. Didn’t start happening to me until about a year ago. I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing. What’s in your head comes true—as simple as that. Of course, the images only last for a few seconds—as long as I’m awake, I mean. I’ve found out that those other men were drenched by a chemical spray we called Howdy Doody—because it made you stiffen up and jerk like you were hanging on strings. I got hit with it near Khe Sahn. That shit almost suffocated me. It felt like black tar, and it burned the land down to a paved parking lot.” He stared at Dennis. “You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper. Not with the body count I’ve still got in my head.”

“You … were at … that motel, near Daytona Beach?”

Price closed his eyes. A vein had begun beating at his right temple, royal blue against the pallor of his flesh. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “I fell asleep, and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was having the nightmare. The same one. I was locked in it, and I was trying to scream myself awake.” He shuddered, and two tears ran slowly down his cheeks. “Oh,��� he said, and flinched as if remembering something horrible. “They … they were coming through the door when I woke up. Tearing the door right off its hinges. I woke up … just as one of them was pointing his rifle at me. And I saw his face. I saw his muddy, misshapen face.” His eyes suddenly jerked open. “I didn’t know they’d come so fast.”

“Who?” I asked him. “Who came so fast?”

“The Nightcrawlers,” Price said, his face devoid of expression, masklike. “Dear God … maybe if I’d stayed asleep a second more. But I ran again, and I left those people dead in that motel.”

“You’re gonna come with me.” Dennis started pulling his gun from the holster. Price’s head snapped toward him. “I don’t know what kinda fool game you’re—”

He stopped, staring at the gun he held.

It wasn’t a gun anymore. It was an oozing mass of hot rubber. Dennis cried out and slung the thing from his hand. The molten mess hit the floor with a pulpy splat.

“I’m leaving now.” Price’s voice was calm. “Thank you for the coffee.” He walked past Dennis, toward the door.

Dennis grasped a bottle of ketchup from the counter. Cheryl cried out, “Don’t!” but it was too late. Dennis was already swinging the bottle. It hit the back of Price’s skull and burst open, spewing ketchup everywhere. Price staggered forward, his knees buckling. When he went down, his skull hit the floor with a noise like a watermelon being dropped. His body began jerking involuntarily.

“Got him!” Dennis shouted triumphantly. “Got that crazy bastard, didn’t I?”

Lindy was holding the little girl in her arms. The boy craned his neck to see. Ray said nervously, “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“He’s not dead,” I told him. I looked over at the gun; it was solid again. Dennis scooped it up and aimed it at Price, whose body continued to jerk. Just like Howdy Doody, I thought. Then Price stopped moving.

“He’s dead!” Cheryl’s voice was near-frantic. “Oh God, you killed him, Dennis!”

Dennis prodded the body with the toe of his boot, then bent down. “Naw. His eyes are movin’ back and forth behind the lids.” Dennis touched his wrist to check the pulse, then abruptly pulled his own hand away. “Jesus Christ! He’s as cold as a meat locker!” He took Price’s pulse and whistled. “Goin’ like a racehorse at the Derby.”

I touched the place on the counter where the mirage steak had been. My fingers came away slightly greasy, and I could smell the cooked meat on them. At that instant Price twitched. Dennis scuttled away from him like a crab. Price made a gasping, choking noise.

“What’d he say?” Cheryl asked. “He said something!”

“No he didn’t.” Dennis stuck him in the ribs with his pistol. “Come on. Get up.”

“Get him out of here,” I said. “I don’t want him—”

Cheryl shushed me. “Listen. Can you hear that?”

I heard only the roar and crash of the storm.

“Don’t you hear it?” she asked me. Her eyes were getting scared and glassy.

“Yes!” Ray said. “Yes! Listen!”

Then I did hear something, over the noise of the keening wind. It was a distant chuk-chuk-chuk, steadily growing louder and closer. The wind covered the noise for a minute, then it came back: CHUK-CHUK-CHUK, almost overhead.

“It’s a helicopter!” Ray peered through the window. “Somebody’s got a helicopter out there!”

“Ain’t nobody can fly a chopper in a storm!” Dennis told him. The noise of rotors swelled and faded, swelled and faded … and stopped.

On the floor, Price shivered and began to contort into a fetal position. His mouth opened; his face twisted in what appeared to be agony.

Thunder spoke. A red fireball rose up from the woods across the road and hung lazily in the sky for a few seconds before it descended toward the diner. As it fell, the fireball exploded soundlessly into a white, glaring eye of light that almost blinded me.

Price said something in a garbled, panicked voice. His eyes were tightly closed, and he had squeezed up with his arms around his knees.

Dennis rose to his feet; he squinted as the eye of light fell toward the parking lot and winked out in a puddle of water. Another fireball floated up from the woods, and again blossomed into painful glare.

Dennis turned toward me. “I heard him.” His voice was raspy. “He said . . . ‘Charlie’s in the light.’”

As the second flare fell to the ground and illuminated the parking lot, I thought I saw figures crossing the road. They walked stiff-legged, in an eerie cadence. The flare went out.

“Wake him up,” I heard myself whisper. “Dennis … dear God … wake him up.”

4

Dennis stared stupidly at me, and I started to jump across the counter to get to Price myself.

A gout of flame leapt in the parking lot. Sparks marched across the concrete. I shouted, “Get down!” and twisted around to push Cheryl back behind the shelter of the counter.

“What the hell—” Dennis said.

He didn’t finish. There was the metallic thumping of bullets hitting the gas pumps and the cars. I knew if that gas blew we were all dead. My truck shuddered with the impact of slugs, and I saw the whole thing explode as I ducked behind the counter. Then the windows blew inward with a god-awful crash, and the diner was full of flying glass, swirling wind, and sheets of rain. I heard Lindy scream, and both the kids were crying, and I think I was shouting something myself.

The lights had gone out, and the only illumination was the reflection of red neon off the concrete and the glow of the fluorescents over the gas pumps. Bullets whacked into the wall, and crockery shattered as if it had been hit with a hammer. Napkins and sugar packets were flying everywhere.

Cheryl was holding on to me as if her fingers were nails sunk to my bones. Her eyes were wide and dazed, and she kept trying to speak. Her mouth was working, but nothing came out.

There was another explosion as one of the other cars blew. The whole place shook, and I almost puked with fear.

Another hail of bullets hit the wall. They were tracers, and they jumped and ricocheted like white-hot cigarette butts. One of them sang off the edge of a shelf and fell to the floor about three feet away from me. The glowing slug began to fade, like the beer can and the mirage steak. I put my hand out to find it, but all I felt was splinters of glass and crockery. A phantom bullet, I thought. Real enough to cause damage and death—and then gone.

You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper, Price had warned. Not with the body count I’ve got in my head.

The firing stopped. I got free of Cheryl and said, “You stay right here.” Then I looked up over the counter and saw my truck and the station wagon on fire, the flames being whipped by the wind. Rain slapped me across the face as it swept in where the window glass used to be. I saw Price lying still huddled on the floor, with pieces of glass all around him. His hands were clawing the air, and in the flickering red neon his face was contorted, his eyes still closed. The pool of ketchup around his head made him look like his skull had been split open. He was peering into hell, and I averted my eyes before I lost my own mind.

Ray and Lindy and the two children had huddled under the table of their booth. The woman was sobbing brokenly. I looked at Dennis, lying a few feet from Price: he was sprawled on his face, and there were four holes punched through his back. It was not ketchup that ran in rivulets around Dennis’ body. His right arm was outflung, and the fingers twitched around the gun he gripped.

Another flare sailed up from the woods like a Fourth of July sparkler.

When the light brightened, I saw them: at least five figures, maybe more. They were crouched over, coming across the parking lot—but slowly, the speed of nightmares. Their clothes flapped and hung around them, and the flare’s light glanced off their helmets. They were carrying weapons—rifles, I guessed. I couldn’t see their faces, and that was for the best.

On the floor, Price moaned. I heard him say “light … in the light …”

The flare hung right over the diner. And then I knew what was going on. We were in the light. We were all caught in Price’s nightmare, and the Nightcrawlers that Price had left in the mud were fighting the battle again—the same way it had been fought at the Pines Haven Motor Inn. The Nightcrawlers had come back to life, powered by Price’s guilt and whatever that Howdy Doody shit had done to him.

And we were in the light, where Charlie had been out in that rice paddy.

There was a noise like castanets clicking. Dots of fire arced through the broken windows and thudded into the counter. The stools squealed as they were hit and spun. The cash register rang and the drawer popped open, and then the entire register blew apart and bills and coins scattered. I ducked my head, but a wasp of fire—I don’t, know what, a bit of metal or glass maybe—sliced my left cheek open from ear to upper lip. I fell to the floor behind the counter with blood running down my face.

A blast shook the rest of the cups, saucers, plates, and glasses off the shelves. The whole roof buckled inward, throwing loose ceiling tiles, light fixtures, and pieces of metal framework.

We were all going to die. I knew it, right then. Those things were going to destroy us. But I thought of the pistol in Dennis’ hand, and of Price lying near the door. If we were caught in Price’s nightmare and the blow from the ketchup bottle had broken something in his skull, then the only way to stop his dream was to kill him.

I’m no hero. I was about to piss in my pants, but I knew I was the only one who could move. I jumped up and scrambled over the counter, falling beside Dennis and wrenching at that pistol. Even in death, Dennis had a strong grip. Another blast came, along the wall to my right. The heat of it scorched me, and the shock wave skidded me across the floor through glass and rain and blood.

But I had that pistol in my hand.

I heard Ray shout, “Look out!”

In the doorway, silhouetted by flames, was a skeletal thing wearing muddy green rags. It wore a dented-in helmet and carried a corroded, slime-covered rifle. Its face was gaunt and shadowy, the features hidden behind a scum of rice-paddy muck. It began to lift the rifle to fire at me—slowly, slowly …

I got the safety off the pistol and fired twice, without aiming. A spark leapt off the helmet as one of the bullets was deflected, but the figure staggered backward and into the conflagration of the station wagon, where it seemed to melt into ooze before it vanished.

More tracers were coming in. Cheryl’s Volkswagen shuddered, the tires blowing out almost in unison. The state-trooper car was already bullet-riddled and sitting on flats.

Another Nightcrawler, this one without a helmet and with slime covering the skull where the hair had been, rose up beyond the window and fired its rifle. I heard the bullet whine past my ear, and as I took aim I saw its bony finger tightening on the trigger again.

A skillet flew over my head and hit the thing’s shoulder, spoiling its aim. For an instant the skillet stuck in the Nightcrawler’s body, as if the figure itself was made out of mud. I fired once … twice … and saw pieces of matter fly from the thing’s chest. What might’ve been a mouth opened in a soundless scream, and the thing slithered out of sight.

I looked around. Cheryl was standing behind the counter, weaving on her feet, her face white with shock. “Get down!” I shouted, and she ducked for cover.

I crawled to Price, shook him hard. His eyes would not open. “Wake up!” I begged him. “Wake up, damn you!” And then I pressed the barrel of the pistol against Price’s head. Dear God, I didn’t want to kill anybody, but I knew I was going to have to blow the Nightcrawlers right out of his brain. I hesitated—too long.

Something smashed into my left collarbone. I heard the bone snap like a broomstick being broken. The force of the shot slid me back against the counter and jammed me between two bullet-pocked stools. I lost the gun, and there was a roaring in my head that deafened me.

I don’t know how long I was out. My left arm felt like dead meat. All the cars in the lot were burning, and there was a hole in the diner’s roof that a tractor-trailer truck could’ve dropped through. Rain was sweeping into my face, and when I wiped my eyes clear I saw them, standing over Price.

There were eight of them. The two I thought I’d killed were back. They trailed weeds, and their boots and ragged clothes were covered with mud. They stood in silence, staring down at their living comrade.

I was too tired to scream. I couldn’t even whimper. I just watched.

Price’s hands lifted into the air. He reached for the Nightcrawlers, and then his eyes opened. His pupils were dead white, surrounded by scarlet.

“End it,” he whispered. “End it …”

One of the Nightcrawlers aimed its rifle and fired. Price jerked. Another Nightcrawler fired, and then they were all firing point-blank into Price’s body. Price thrashed and clutched at his head, but there was no blood; the phantom bullets weren’t hitting him.

The Nightcrawlers began to ripple and fade. I saw the flames of the burning cars through their bodies. The figures became transparent, floating in vague outlines. Price had awakened too fast at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, I realized; if he had remained asleep, the creatures of his nightmares would’ve ended it there, at that Florida motel. They were killing him in front of me—or he was allowing them to end it, and I think that’s what he must’ve wanted for a long, long time.

He shuddered, his mouth releasing a half-moan, half-sigh.

It sounded almost like relief.

The Nightcrawlers vanished. Price didn’t move anymore.

I saw his face. His eyes were closed, and I think he must’ve found peace at last.

5

A trucker hauling lumber from Mobile to Birmingham saw the burning cars. I don’t even remember what he looked like.

Ray was cut up by glass, but his wife and the kids were okay. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I couldn’t say.

Cheryl went into the hospital for a while. I got a postcard from her with the Golden Gate Bridge on the front. She promised she’d write and let me know how she was doing, but I doubt if I’ll ever hear from her. She was the best waitress I ever had, and I wish her luck.

The police asked me a thousand questions, and I told the story the same way every time. I found out later that no bullets or shrapnel were ever dug out of the walls or the cars or Dennis’ body—just like in the case of that motel massacre. There was no bullet in me, though my collarbone was snapped clean in two.

Price had died of a massive brain hemorrhage. It looked, the police told me, as if it had exploded in his skull.

I closed the diner. Farm life is fine. Alma understands, and we don’t talk about it.

But I never showed the police what I found, and I don’t know exactly why not.

I picked up Price’s wallet in the mess. Behind a picture of a smiling young woman holding a baby there was a folded piece of paper. On that paper were the names of four men.

Beside one name, Price had written “Dangerous.”

I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing, Price had said.

I sit up at night a lot, thinking about that and looking at those names. Those men had gotten a dose of that Howdy Doody shit in a foreign place they hadn’t wanted to be, fighting a war that turned out to be one of those crossroads of nightmare and reality. I’ve changed my mind about ’Nam because I understand now that the worst of the fighting is still going on, in the battlefields of memory.

A Yankee who called himself Tompkins came to my house one May morning and flashed me an ID that said he worked for a veterans’ association. He was very soft-spoken and polite, but he had deep-set eyes that were almost black, and he never blinked. He asked me all about Price, seemed real interested in picking my brain of every detail. I told him the police had the story, and I couldn’t add any more to it. Then I turned the tables and asked him about Howdy Doody. He smiled in a puzzled kind of way and said he’d never heard of any chemical defoliant called that. No such thing, he said. Like I say, he was very polite.

But I know the shape of a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. Tompkins was wearing one under his seersucker coat. I never could find any veterans’ association that knew anything about him, either.

Maybe I should give that list of names to the police. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll try to find those four men myself, and try to make some sense out of what’s being hidden.

I don’t think Price was evil. No. He was just scared, and who can blame a man for running from his own nightmares? I like to believe that, in the end, Price had the courage to face the Nightcrawlers, and in committing suicide he saved our lives.

The newspapers, of course, never got the real story. They called Price a ’Nam vet who’d gone crazy, killed six people in a Florida motel, and then killed a state trooper in a shoot-out at Big Bob’s diner and gas stop.

But I know where Price is buried. They sell little American flags at the five-and-dime in Mobile. I’m alive, and I can spare the change.

And then I’ve got to find out how much courage I have.

[khunsetare]

ODIUM

 Had some writing buzz, and finished up a chapter late last night. I normally work end of the week, and weekends so it’s harder for me to upload. BUT, I figure why not leave things on a  interesting note! 

WARNINGS: Lil bit of smut, DRUGS/ALCOHOL (using, and mentioning).

Thanks for reading (:

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Chapter 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5  

   Chapter 6

 As I hurriedly put on my pants for the war games, I grab my badge, and phone before rushing out. I zip and button as I step out, and begin to follow initiates towards the doors outside. I feel a grip on my bicep, and I’m pulled back into a hard chest. I look up and it’s Eric, and I wonder what he wants now.

 “War games don’t begin till another 30 mins, you don’t need to rush,” He speaks to me sweetly. I squint at him, as I feel like he’s lying to me on purpose. “Max needs to see you in his office. I suggest you hurry,” He smiles at me, and I roll my eyes rushing up towards the nearest flight of stairs. I jog up quickly until I’m by his office, and I wiggle the door but it’s locked. I groan out loudly to myself.

 I turn back around and into the hallway looking for anyone that might know if he’s in there still or roaming around. I hurriedly walk around until I spot Max at the end of the corridor. I run over to him, and he stops noticing my presence.

 “You wanted me?” I ask, and he shoots me a confused look.

 “No? Is everything alright?” He asks, furrowing his brows as he stares at me up and down. I replay the moment with Eric again, and curse to myself. I hear the train’s loud horn, and I groan in frustration.

 “I’m going to fucking kill Eric. I’m sorry, I need to get to the train before I miss the war games,” Max laughs as he sees me take off back down the stairs.

 I glide down one rail, and pace myself making sure I don’t fly face first into a flight of stairs. As I reach ground floor I push it open, but it doesn’t budge. I push again, and peek through the window to see there’s a small wooden plank wedged in between the handles. I scream out in frustration, and kick the door repeatedly till I hear cracks. I kick it one last time, and the wood splinters, and falls to the ground. I take off towards the doors that lead outside, and thankfully they were open.

 I spot the train taking off slowly, and I start running at a moderate pace trying to catch my breath. The train starts to pick up, and I pick my pace up hearing my feet stomp on the gravel trying to keep up. I don’t realize how fast I’m going but I manage to grab onto one of the side railings. As I latch on Four notices me, and pulls me in. He looks impressed, and stares at me a bit longer before walking off in the direction behind me.

 I struggle to control my breathing for a bit, but stay calm and steady. Em, and Caleb are the first to spot me and join me in the middle. “Hi,” Em speaks.

 “We thought you weren’t gonna make it when we couldn’t find you by the stop. Where did you go?” Caleb asks.

 “I was supposedly supposed to meet Max, but he wasn’t aware that I was supposed to meet him either,” Em shoots me a confused look.

 “Who let you out?” I hear Eric speak next to me, and I look at him.

 “Max,” I cock my head to the side and smile at him.

 “Max did?” He raises his brows, and I nod. He’s silent for a few moments more, but looks between Em, Caleb, and I. “Okay,” He purses his lips. He looks back at me one more time before joining back with the rest of the initiates.

 Four throws two long, and narrow duffle bags into the middle of the train. “The games simple, it’s like capture the flag,”

 Eric unrolls the duffle, and pulls up a long metal weapon. “Weapon of choice,” He holds it up mid-air.

 “You call that a gun?” A girl beside Eric scoffs, staring over at Wyatt to her left. She’s naturally very tall and slim. Probably five foot eleven to six foot. She has medium length brown hair, and brown eyes, and I wonder why I hadn’t recognized her sooner. Eric pulls back the hammer, and shoots her in the leg. She falls back onto the walls of the train, and slides down to the floor in agony. She groans out, holding onto her thigh as she shoots daggers at Eric. She’s still whimpering as Eric leans over, and pulls out a small, metal, serum filled bullet.

 He holds it up for everyone to see, but sets his eyes on me as he speaks. “Neurostim dart, stimulates the pain of a real gunshot wound only last a couple of minutes. Two teams; Four, and I are captains,”

 “You pick first,” Four gives Eric the honor.

 “Okay,” Eric gives Four a pleased look. “Edward,”

 “I’ll take the outsider,” Four looks over at me, but then back up at Eric.

 “Oh,” He drones out. “Picking the ones who’ll never make it so you’ll have someone to blame when you lose?” He nods his head.

 “Something like that,” Four smirks back at him, and I can pick up the hint of rivalry already.

 As the train nears both teams split ways, and wander off to either side of the abandoned amusement park. “Where did Eric’s team go?” Zephryine questions the team as a whole.

 “They must’ve gone to the end,” Artiste explains. Four pulls out a neon yellow flag, and holds it out with him.

 “Alright, lights off. Gather around. What’s your strategy?” He questions them.

 “We can hide the flag so they won’t find us,” Artiste speaks.

 “I say we blitz em, beat them with sheer force,” Another initiate speaks up. They all argue and chatter about different tactics, but I look around my surroundings. I sneak off, and push open one of the building doors. I run up the flight of stairs till I’m at the roof, and I sneak to the edge to peek at the rest of the park.

 “You think like my girlfriend Tris,” I jump slightly at Four’s voice behind me.

 “Great minds think alike,” I state, and he chuckles.

 “What’s your plan?”

 “Spot the flag, and,” I pause looking around, and spot a flash of neon green by the top of the bell tower. “Split into four. Two groups along the sides, two in the middle. Whatever team makes it to the bell tower first will give us a signal, and we’ll fight the rest off until they can get to the top,”

 “Good plan, I’ll warn the rest, and send Emily, and a few others towards you,” I shake my head, and follow him down and out making sure not to cause too much noise.

 “Hey, what about Eric?” Four asks, and I turn.

 “I’ll deal with him. Just make sure to try and overthrow his team and reach the tower first,”

 Shortly, Em, Caleb, Zephryine, and Artiste are awaiting me. “Now, we can stay in the same side location but we must split. They’ll notice if we’re paired up. If you hear any cries for help, try to help each other out. If you spot the flag or are near the bell tower abandon us, and go for the flag,”

 Everyone nods, and we all split sneaking off into the different corners, and shadows. I crouch behind the shadow of some bushes when I hear footsteps, and keep still as a few of Eric’s team members pass by. I wait until they’re past a few buildings before I jet to the end of the amusement park. I see a few members from my own team jog up to me.

 “Eric’s in the bell tower. What do you want to do?” One of them asks.

 “You attack where the most of his team members are. Distract all of them from entering the bell tower. If he’s the only one in the tower, I can handle him,” They all nod, and run back off. I hear the first round of darts, and I bolt to the tower’s entrance shielding my face. Luckily, everyone seemed preoccupied with fighting each other that I was able to access it with no problems. I sneak in slowly noticing one lone member guarding the bell tower door.

 I sneak up behind him, and keep him in a chokehold until he’s knocked out. I lay him down gently, and pull my hammer back as I sneak up the stairs. Before I can push open the door above to climb up I feel something grasp my foot, and I’m yanked down the stairs. I turn towards the person dragging me, and I notice it’s Wyatt. I aim at his neck, and he falls down the last flight of stairs. He screams out in pain as his body meets with the concrete on the ground level. As I run to look over him, I see two more darts hit him and I look up to find Zephryine, and Artiste by the doorway. He groans out in pain as they both near. Zephryine walks closer and shoots him one more time near the groin. “Asshole,” She mutters before following us both up the stairs.

 “Thanks,” I huff out, and they just smile in return. We approach the upper doorway as a trio and are greeted by two more of Eric’s teammates.

 “Go, we’ll deal with them,” He nudges me, and I climb up the ladder trying to avoid getting darted but feel a pinch on my outer thigh as I push open the hatch, and climb up. I whimper out in pain, and crawl up trying to recover from the dart shot to spot Eric. He’s seated on the floor with his dart gun pointed at the middle of my forehead. Fuck me.

 I keep eye contact with him, and swat the gun out of my face with enough force to throw him off. I ball my fist up with my other hand, and swing at his face, landing a punch right on his lip. He clenches his jaw, and spits a bit of blood on the floor beside him. His hands land on my throat, and I struggle to reach him as he begins to push himself up off the floor with just his knees. I wrap my fingers around his wrists, and push back settling him back on the floor.

 I somehow manage to straddle him to prevent him from standing as I reach for the dart gun beside me. His eyes flicker over to where I’m reaching and he loosens his grip on my neck, giving me enough time to reach for it, and stand up. I shoot him once in the chest, and once in his lower abdomen. He groans out in pain as he lays on the floor, and I walk over and crouch beside him. I grab a hold of collar and pull him up to me as he yanks one of the darts out of his chest, and throw it off to the side.

 “You’re making this game so easy,” I joke, and kiss him on his cheek before pushing him back and shooting him in the chest one more time. He yells out in frustration, but I turn back to the edge of the bell tower and grab the neon green flag. As I take it off, and wave it I hear Artiste, and Zephryine climb up and join me.

 They’re both laughing as they spot Eric on the floor still in pain, and join me to cheer loud. A few of our teammates notice us, and begin to celebrate. We just won our first War Game.

 .          .           .           .           .           .          

 My body feels alive. After the rush of adrenaline from the zip line I felt like I was ready to conquer the world. I follow the group of initiates that I went zip lining with, and follow them into the pit. This time it isn’t a bunch of dauntless brawling, but a bustling night life. People all gathered around in groups holding beer bottles, and mixed drinks.

 “Last day of physical initiate training. We need to celebrate!” Zephryine exclaims. She grabs a hold of my wrist and pulls me to a small bar nearby. There’s a line of dauntless, and most are headed back into the pit, but there are still some seats empty by the bartender.

 “Give me something strong!” Zephryine smiles at the attractive bartender, and he returns her smile with a smirk.

 “You got it, beautiful,” He winks, and looks over at me with raised brows. “What can I get you? Something strong too?” He asks.

 “Double whiskey ginger,” I smile, and he nods his head in approval.

 “You ladies smoke? I’ll be out back in a few minutes,” He raises his brows, and I nod. Zephryine looks uncomfortable, but nods her head.

 “I smoke, she doesn’t. But she’ll come,” I reassure him, and she squeezes my hand under the table as a silent thank you.

 .          .           .

 I’m three or four double whiskeys in, and I feel the buzz start to hit my system all at once. I question why I feel so drunk, and think about what I ate that day until I realize I hadn’t really. I had a two bananas, and an apple. That’s definitely not enough. I sigh to myself as I realize that I’d have to suffer being more fucked up than normal. Zephryine is a wild wind of fun; Dancing, and pulling me towards the pit.

 “I’ll be out to smoke in like 20 mins. Both of you can meet me there,” Charlie, the bartender yelled over at us. I smiled, and gave him a thumbs up. While we were drinking we all shared some cool facts about each other, and Charlie seemed like a really genuine, down to earth guy. I could tell Zephryine was smitten over him, and I was happy she had found her own attractive dauntless member to befriend.

 Music boomed through the pit, and my entire body felt really buzzed. Swaying to the beat was nothing but a breeze. Zephryine and I swayed, and danced to the rhythmic beat laughing as we both stumbled around quite a bit. I grabbed her hand swaying my hips, and started grinding on her lightly. A pair of hands grabs onto my hips, and I defensively swat them away. I look up to find a random dauntless member, and I furrow my brows, and drag Zephryine away. He continues to follow me, and I poke my index finger into his chest keeping him at bay, and away from me. He takes the hint with ease, and moves onto the next dancing girl. I feel a pat on the back of my arm, and both Zephryine and I turn to see Charlie.

 “Hi,” She quips.

 “Ready?” He asks, and we nod and follow him outside. He pulls out a pre-rolled joint, and lights it. He passes it to me, and we both exchange taking hits. I take another drag, and hold my breath letting the high really blend with my drunk-ness. We’re all sat on the floor so the effects of anything haven’t and won’t hit me till I’m up and walking.

 “Cross faded at its finest,” Charlie laughs, and I laugh along with him.

 “I wanna smoke, but I feel like I’d cough up a left lung,” Zephryine adds.

 “Don’t worry, I can teach you one day if you’re free,” I raise a brow, and smirk in Zephryine’s direction. She glances at me quickly, but returns her attention back to Charlie. They move closer together, so I grab the joint and take another deep inhale. As I take another pull before passing it back someone snatches it out of my hand and hands it back to Charlie.

 “She’s done,” I turn to my side, and see Eric. Who under the moon light, looks frustrated. Not an emotion I’ve seen so far. I’ve only experienced anger, and his childish temperament. I’m still holding in my inhale as he swoops an arm under my arm, and around my waist to pull me up. I feel light butterflies, but try to keep a straight face.

 “Clean this up, and get back inside,” He speaks to Charlie, and Zephryine and they both nod. I blow the remaining smoke in his direction, and protest.

 “Hey, hey. You can ruin my high, but don’t ruin theirs,” I pout as he shakes his head and drags me back into the pit by my upper bicep. He continues to drag me till we’re nearing the elevators. “Ow! You’re hurting my arm asshole,” I frown at him pulling back my arm, and rubbing it when he lets go.

 “I’m the asshole. Okay,” He nods his head to himself, in a sarcastic manner. I feel my inner subconscious scolding me, and telling me to obey him and be quiet but my drunk side isn’t letting it slip.

 “Yeah! You are! And you know what else you’re a real party pooper. I could’ve been having fun, maybe met someone nice. But you sabotaged that!” I cross my arms over my chest as the elevator doors open. I turn to go back to the pit, but he’s got my arm again and he’s pulling me back into the elevators.

 “The only reason why I’m complying is because I’m drunk, and I have nothing better to do,” I say in a matter of factly tone.

 As the elevator rides up, I feel the effects of both in me, and the elevator seems to make me dizzier. I open and close my eyes a few times taking in my state of mind, and mindlessly hop around the halls until we reach his door to his apartment.

 “I forgot your passcode, but I have a badge! Badge to the rescue!!” I exclaim laughing to myself as I pull my badge out, and scan it letting myself in. I kick my shoes off in to the corner, and take off my jacket placing it on one of the couches. I plop on the couch, and make myself comfortable.

 “Get up, you’re sleeping upstairs,” He states, and I look up at him with a confused expression.

 “What if you bring someone over last minute. I’d rather just be here,” I pat the cushion, and look back at him. “It’s comfy! It will do!” I smile, and he takes a deep inhale.

 “Upstairs, now.” He demands, and I pretend to be shocked.

 “Demanding,” I roll my eyes, and follow him. I hear him growl lightly to himself, and I can tell I’m pushing his buttons. “Okay, master. I’ll obey your orders,” I pause turning back. “For tonight,” I raise my brows, and walk up the stairs.

 I walk over to my duffle bag, and pull out makeup wipes. I rub the cloth all over my face till my face is completely clean, and I throw the wipe in the trash. I rub a small black hand towel over the rest of my face to get rid of the remainder before turning back to Eric’s bed. I see him toss a shirt, and boxers on the bed before turning to take off his clothes. He’s in his boxers only, and I can feel how odd I must look staring at him while he undresses, but my mind seems to only be concentrated on him right now.

 I climb onto the bed, and he grabs my ankle and pulls me back. “Change into these,” He states, and I turn back to him with a pout.

 “I don’t wanna,” I argue, crossing my arms over my chest.

 He does another deep inhale, and I don’t wait to see his next reaction. I’m not wearing a bra. I think to myself, but a hidden spark of confidence tells me to not care, and take it off anyway. I pull off my shirt, and slide off the bed to take off my pants, and underwear. I slip on his boxers, and almost stumble over my own feet in the process. He steadies me with one hand, and let’s me hold onto him as I pull them up.

 “Hands up,” He drones out, and I comply letting him place his shirt over my head.

 As the material goes over my head I’m met with his muscular chest. There are small hairs peeking through, and I notice two bruises on his pecs. He moves from me, and sits on the edge of the bed pulling his socks off. I feel a strange impulse to straddle his lap, and though sober I may have fought the urge and went to sleep. I wasn’t sober and I didn’t want to fight the urge. As I straddle him, he doesn’t tense, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s tired or if he’s planning a way to throw me off and kill me. I keep staring at his chest, and the bruises that formed. My mind flashes to me shooting him in the chest with the nuerostim dart, and I feel a pang of guilt.

 “Did I do this?” I ask him as I look up at him, and he’s already staring at me.

 “It’ll heal, it was just darts,” He replies, confirming my thoughts.

 “I’m sorry,” I reply, brushing my hands softly over his pecs. I look back at him, not surprised he’s still staring at my intently. It’s his thing, I guess. I take notice in his eyes, and his pupils are blown out wide. My core responds, and I fidget on him. His hands roam up my upper thighs, and grasp onto my hips hard. I feel my heart pounding in my chest, and I’m not sure if he can hear it too. Kiss him. My subconscious cheers, and claps in the background. My eyes trail from his eyes to his lips and back up. I notice the sides of his lip are still a little red, and puffy from when I punched him in the mouth. I move my hands up, and lightly trace over it with my thumb. I blink a few times, hoping that maybe I’ll snap out of this trance but I don’t.

 I lean in and place a small, needy kiss on his lips. He doesn’t kiss back so I retreat pushing myself off of him. “I-um. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” I stutter out, looking down as I speak to him. When I look up he’s standing with me, and his chest is moving up and down. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, but when he walks to me I instinctively take a step back afraid that he might attack. I feel his hands grab my face and pull me to him as he kisses me hard. At first I’m surprised but I immediately melt into the kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he grabs my ass and hauls me up to his waist. I feel him turn towards the bed as I wrap my legs tight around his lower hips.

 I begin to feel nervous as I have yet to have sex willingly with anyone, and briefly wondered if I should tell him if we go that far. I was too aroused at the moment to protest, and just moaned in response. He growls, and throws me onto the bed climbing in and over me. His lips latch onto the side of my neck, and he sucks hard. My eyes flutter at the sensation until I hear a loud knocking sound.

 As easy as the sensations came, was as easy as they went. The knocking continued but gets louder over time.

 “Eric, open up. We have a situation at the chasm,” I hear him growl, as he grips onto the side of one of my hips. He pushes himself off me, and takes a deep breath before pulling his clothes back on and heading off towards the door. I sit up on my feet as he walks towards the stairs. He looks back briefly, and pauses but continues to pace down the stairs. I hear the door swing open, and him bark at the dauntless outside his room.

             I could only hear brief bits, but it involved something about something found in the chasm, and that it didn’t make any sense. But the door was already slammed shut before I could hear anymore.

 What could be going on in the chasm that needed him leave this late at night?

[onlymorelove]

Fic: see how deep the bullet lies (1/1)

Title: see how deep the bullet lies (1/1) Fandom: Timeless Ships: Wyatt Logan/Garcia Flynn pre-slash, though I suppose you could choose to read it as Gen. Rating: PG-13 or T Notes: Written in response to the following prompt from @timeless-fanfic-prompts : “Am I dead?” “No, but you’re going to wish you were.”  Summary:  Wyatt Logan is a simple man from Texas who hates puzzles, absolutely detests them, and knows better than to ever ask dangerous questions like “Why?” (Set in Season 2.) Warnings: for mentions of past abuse.

If you read this, thanks. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcomed.

Read below the cut, @ FF.net, or on AO3. Rating: T Tagging @extasiswings.

It’s Friday evening and they don’t have a mission because for once, Rittenhouse isn’t trying to upend history as they know it. (Well, of course it is, but the alarms signaling that Emma’s taken the Mothership out again remain blissfully silent.) This means that Wyatt doesn’t need to be at Mason Industries. And yet, there he is at the office on his day off, minus Rufus’s constant flow of comforting chatter and Lucy’s soft eyes that see too much but still not enough.

Apart from the intense nausea that still claws itself up from his gut to his throat every damn time he rides the Lifeboat, one perk of his latest gig is the small on-site gym. That’s where Wyatt is now.

He rolls his shoulders back, scrubs his damp palms on his shorts, and thinks, One more set. He needs to know he’s hit the weights hard enough that he’ll sleep that night—instead of seeing Jessica’s blue eyes following him in the darkness as the red numbers on his bedside clock frogmarch on toward dawn.

Whenever he reaches out a hand to touch Jessica, she shakes her head and retreats.

(The sleeplessness messes with his head, and on some nights he talks to Jessica, carrying on full conversations with her. “Jess, am I dead?” he asks her on occasion, unsure what he wants her answer to be. That should probably scare him. It doesn’t.

She tilts her head, long sunshine hair unfurling like a flag down over her bare shoulder as she leans over his pillow and watches him, lips tipped in a smile that holds no threat, only sadness. “No, but you’re going to wish you were.”

Jessica’s right; sometimes he does.

She always knew him better than he knew himself.

He never tells anyone.

He doesn’t need a shrink and a psych eval to tell him what he already knows: He’s splintering from the inside out.)

One last set of stiff-legged deadlifts and he’ll be finished for the day. Lucky for him, the last set is the toughest.

Wyatt’s gaze definitely doesn’t drift across the length of the small gym to the only other person working out there: a tall, lean man running at a medium pace on a treadmill, his long legs taking him nowhere. Garcia Flynn. (Hint: his eyes absolutely do not linger on the blotches of sweat that have filtered from Flynn’s skin to the fabric of his shirt, turning parts of the gray tee nearly black. What? They don’t. Furthermore, Wyatt doesn’t wonder if his cotton-covered skin smells like salt or gun oil or—)

They work together now, on the same team. Wyatt doesn’t like it, but like doesn’t enter the delicate equation; he’s got his orders. While their numbers are symmetrical, the ease and understanding that he, Rufus, and Lucy had fumbled their way into is gone with Flynn’s addition.

Two plus two equals four, sure; in their case, though, it’s more like three plus one, and the plus one makes everything uncomfortable and just…difficult. Which makes sense because he and Flynn have tried to kill each other. Who can blame them for any lingering awkwardness? Either they’ll get over the hump or they won’t.

Is Wyatt sure which one he’s rooting for? Ha. No. But Flynn’s an itch he just can’t scratch.

So no, he does not study Flynn and ask himself what convoluted thoughts churn through his head and what, exactly, he’s running from or toward. Because Wyatt Logan is a simple man from Texas who hates puzzles, absolutely detests them, and knows better than to ever ask dangerous questions like “Why?”

Wyatt pinches the bridge of his nose and scuffs the sole of his shoe on the cushioned gym flooring. He shakes his head, a sigh leaking out. Focus, Logan, snaps the voice in his head. But the voice crackling like static in his ear isn’t his own. It cuts like a cat o'nine, gruff with exasperation and rich with an accent he can taste in the back of his mouth and—

Shut it down.

This time he does. He bends down and curls his hands around the barbell, feels the life-beaten skin of his palms absorb the crosshatch pattern etched into the metal, then stands. With his knees slightly bent, he pushes his hips back and lets his arms slide the bar closer to the floor, just until he feels a bittersweet burn and a pleasure-pain stretch in his hamstrings. Slowly he reverses, returning to a standing position. He deadlifts again and again, not bothering to count reps anymore, until his legs shake like leaves on a storm-blown tree rooted deep in a West Texas hill, and his breath stutters, and the man across the room, the one directly in his line of sight, fades into a meaningless blur.

(Or so Wyatt tells himself.)

Tonight he’ll sleep.

Wyatt showers after his workout, allowing the hot water to dominate his body until he’s not a person or even a soldier anymore, just a collection of wet skin and slowly tightening muscles.

He’s dry and dressed, seated on a bench in the locker room, about to shove his freshly-socked feet into his shoes, when his phone pings with a message.

He picks the phone up from the bench and peers at it. It’s a text from Rufus. Drinks at Jake’s at 7:30?

Without thinking too hard about it, he taps out a fast reply. Nah. Not tonight. Tired.

You sure? Lucy’ll be there.

Wyatt huffs a laugh and cracks his knuckles before responding. I’m sure. Brunch at Doc’s Diner tomorrow at 11:30?

Done. Good night, man.

See ya, Rufus.

The phone tips back on the bench, and Wyatt digs through his duffel bag for his car keys. He fumbles them; they slip from his fingers and hit the tile floor with a clink. After he snags them from the floor, he glances up and finds Flynn standing a few feet away in front of the wall of blue lockers across from him. A white towel curls around his waist, leaving his back bare. Wyatt sucks in a breath and returns his gaze to his bag, only to discover his brain has lost all control of his eyes, which keep wanting to flick back to Flynn. Shoulders hunched, he ducks his head and hazards a furtive look. Eyes wide, Wyatt looks and looks and can’t look away from the network of pale scars crisscrossing the width of the other man’s back. The scars, they’re old, judging by their color—white. Something painful and hot rises in Wyatt’s stomach. He swallows it back.

“See something you like, Logan?” Flynn asks, turning to face him, one eyebrow angled up in that way that Wyatt hates. A sarcastic smile lurks around the borders of Flynn’s mouth, and Wyatt hates it. He fucking loathes that smile that’s anything but a smile. He wants to wipe it off his face with his fist or with his—

Wyatt flinches like he’s been hit. The blood rises in his face, thick and hot, but somehow he summons a smirk. He has to play the game right. “You wish.” Clearing his throat, he zips his bag shut and swings himself up from the bench, intent on leaving as quickly as he can. But he has to pass right by Flynn to get to the door that leads out of the locker room. Keep walking. Keep walking.

His feet stop listening when he’s three feet away from Flynn. The question flies from his mouth before he can capture and cage it like he should: “What happened to you?”

Flynn has his pants on now. At Wyatt’s question, he takes the towel he’s slung over his shoulder and tosses it on the bench. His brow furrows and his green eyes narrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Wyatt ignores Flynn’s naked chest and meets his gaze head-on. “Your back.” He taps his own back with his index finger. “The scars. What happened to you?”

They stare at each other, locked in silence for so long that Wyatt thinks for sure Flynn won’t answer. Water drips from one of the showers, the sound echoing lightly. Something flickers behind Flynn’s green eyes. Then he blinks twice, and it’s gone. “My father,” Flynn replies. He swipes a hand over his mouth and down the faint stubble stippling his chin. “My father happened.”

Remembering the weight of his own father's fists, that ugly sensation tightens Wyatt's stomach again. Sorry. There's a confusing maelstrom of feelings spinning inside him and he doesn't feel capable of separating it into its components right then. “Oh,” is all he says, pushing his hands into his front pockets. He coughs, just to give himself something to do. “So, uh, me, Rufus, and Lucy, we’re meeting for brunch tomorrow at 11:30.” He rocks back on his heels. His cheek itches, so he scratches it. “Do you want to join us?” It’s a terrible idea, of course it is, and he regrets the offer as soon as it’s out his mouth.

Flynn laughs, the sound echoing like gunshots off all the metal and tile in the empty locker room. “This doesn’t change anything. Don’t feel sorry for me. That would be a mistake.” He pulls a black shirt over his head, covering his chest and the marks on his back that Wyatt wishes he could un-see. “No, I don’t want join you for brunch.” The last word is emphasized by a nasty smile that raises the tiny hairs on the back of Wyatt’s neck.

Wyatt eyes the faint stripe of warm color running along Flynn’s cheekbones. He shrugs. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but the words lack any real heat.

Flynn mutters something Wyatt’s ears don’t quite catch.

His stomach rumbles and Wyatt starts walking again.

“Don’t tell them.”

The words are quiet, but Wyatt hears them anyway. The “please” goes unspoken, but Wyatt hears it anyway. He doesn’t need to ask who the “them” is. He pauses in the doorway but doesn’t glance back over his shoulder. “I won’t,” he says. I’m sorry, even if you won’t believe me, he thinks but doesn’t say.

Sleep finds him in his bed that night, but Jessica does not. In his dreams, Wyatt stumbles through a labyrinth of winding white paths that don’t lead anywhere. Green eyes watch him without blinking. A familiar voice carried on the wind whispers, “Focus, Logan.” When he wakes the next morning, his mouth tastes gritty with Afghan sand. His head echoes with these words: “Don’t tell them.”

[andya-j]

“Hard rain coming down,” Cheryl said, and I nodded in agreement. Through the diner’s plate-glass windows, a dense curtain of rain flapped across the Gulf gas pumps and continued across the parking lot. It hit Big Bob’s with a force that made the glass rattle like uneasy bones. The red neon sign that said BIG BOB’S! DIESEL FUEL! EATS! sat on top of a high steel pole above the diner so the truckers on the interstate could see it. Out in the night, the red-tinted rain thrashed in torrents across my old pickup truck and Cheryl’s baby-blue Volkswagen. “Well,” I said, “I suppose that storm’ll either wash some folks in off the interstate or we can just about hang it up.” The curtain of rain parted for an instant, and I could see the treetops whipping back and forth in the woods on the other side of Highway 47. Wind whined around the front door like an animal trying to claw its way in. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall behind the counter. Twenty minutes before nine. We usually closed up at ten, but tonight—with tornado warnings in the weather forecast—I was tempted to turn the lock a little early. “Tell you what,” I said. “If we’re empty at nine, we skedaddle. ’Kay?” “No argument here,” she said. She watched the storm for a moment longer, then continued putting newly washed coffee cups, saucers, and plates away on the stainless-steel shelves. Lightning flared from west to east like the strike of a burning bullwhip. The diner’s lights flickered, then came back to normal. A shudder of thunder seemed to come right up through my shoes. Late March is the beginning of tornado season in south Alabama, and we’ve had some whoppers spin past here in the last few years. I knew that Alma was at home, and she understood to get into the root cellar right quick if she spotted a twister, like that one we saw in ’82 dancing through the woods about two miles from our farm. “You got any love-ins planned this weekend, hippie?” I asked Cheryl, mostly to get my mind off the storm and to rib her too. She was in her late thirties, but I swear that when she grinned she could’ve passed for a kid. “Wouldn’t you like to know, redneck?” she answered; she replied the same way to all my digs at her. Cheryl Lovesong—and I know that couldn’t have been her real name—was a mighty able waitress, and she had hands that were no strangers to hard work. But I didn’t care that she wore her long silvery-blond hair in Indian braids with hippie headbands, or came to work in tie-dyed overalls. She was the best waitress who’d ever worked for me, and she got along with everybody just fine—even us rednecks. That’s what I am, and proud of it: I drink Rebel Yell whiskey straight, and my favorite songs are about good women gone bad and trains on the long track to nowhere. I keep my wife happy. I’ve raised my two boys to pray to God and to salute the flag, and if anybody don’t like it he can go a few rounds with Big Bob Clayton. Cheryl would come right out and tell you she used to live in San Francisco in the late sixties, and that she went to love-ins and peace marches and all that stuff. When I reminded her it was 1984 and Ronnie Reagan was president, she’d look at me like I was walking cow-flop. I always figured she’d start thinking straight when all that hippie-dust blew out of her head. Alma said my tail was going to get burnt if I ever took a shine to Cheryl, but I’m a fifty-five-year-old redneck who stopped sowing his wild seed when he met the woman he married, more than thirty years ago. Lightning crisscrossed the turbulent sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Cheryl said, “Wow! Look at that light show!” “Light show, my ass,” I muttered. The diner was as solid as the Good Book, so I wasn’t too worried about the storm. But on a wild night like this, stuck out in the countryside like Big Bob’s was, you had a feeling of being a long way off from civilization—though Mobile was only twenty-seven miles south. On a wild night like this, you had a feeling that anything could happen, as quick as a streak of lightning out of the darkness. I picked up a copy of the Mobile Press-Register that the last customer—a trucker on his way to Texas—had left on the counter a half-hour before, and I started plowing through the news, most of it bad: those A-rab countries were still squabbling like Hatfields and McCoys in white robes; two men had robbed a Qwik-Mart in Mobile and been killed by the police in a shoot-out; cops were investigating a massacre at a motel near Daytona Beach; an infant had been stolen from a maternity ward in Birmingham. The only good things on the front page were stories that said the economy was up and that Reagan swore we’d show the Commies who was boss in El Salvador and Lebanon. The diner shook under a blast of thunder, and I looked up from the paper as a pair of headlights emerged from the rain into my parking lot. 2 The headlights were attached to an Alabama state-trooper car. “Half-alive, hold the onion, extra brown the buns.” Cheryl was already writing on her pad in expectation of the order. I pushed the paper aside and went to the fridge for the hamburger meat. When the door opened, a windblown spray of rain swept in and stung like buckshot. “Howdy, folks!” Dennis Wells peeled off his gray rain slicker and hung it on the rack next to the door. Over his Smokey the Bear trooper hat was a protective plastic covering, beaded with raindrops. He took off his hat, exposing the thinning blond hair on his pale scalp, as he approached the counter and sat on his usual stool, right next to the cash register. “Cup of black coffee and a rare—” Cheryl was already sliding the coffee in front of him, and the burger sizzled on the griddle. “Ya’ll are on the ball tonight!” Dennis said; he said the same thing when he came in, which was almost every night. Funny the kind of habits you fall into, without realizing it. “Kinda wild out there, ain’t it?” I asked as I flipped the burger over. “Lordy, yes! Wind just about flipped my car over three, four miles down the interstate. Thought I was gonna be eatin’ a little pavement tonight.” Dennis was a husky young man in his early thirties, with thick blond brows over deep-set light brown eyes. He had a wife and three kids, and he was fast to flash a walletful of their pictures. “Don’t reckon I’ll be chasin’ any speeders tonight, but there’ll probably be a load of accidents. Cheryl, you sure look pretty this evenin’.” “Still the same old me.” Cheryl never wore a speck of makeup, though one day she’d come to work with glitter on her cheeks. She had a place a few miles away, and I guessed she was farming that funny weed up there. “Any trucks moving?” “Seen a few, but not many. Truckers ain’t fools. Gonna get worse before it gets better, the radio says.” He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Lordy, that’s strong enough to jump out of the cup and dance a jig, darlin’!” I fixed the burger the way Dennis liked it, put it on a platter with some fries, and served it. “Bobby, how’s the wife treatin’ you?” he asked. “No complaints.” “Good to hear. I’ll tell you, a fine woman is worth her weight in gold. Hey, Cheryl! How’d you like a handsome young man for a husband?” Cheryl smiled, knowing what was coming. “The man I’m looking for hasn’t been made yet.” “Yeah, but you ain’t met Cecil yet, either! He asks me about you every time I see him, and I keep tellin’ him I’m doin’ everything I can to get you two together.” Cecil was Dennis’ brother-in-law and owned a Chevy dealership in Bay Minette. Dennis had been ribbing Cheryl about going on a date with Cecil for the past four months. “You’d like him,” Dennis promised. “He’s got a lot of my qualities.” “Well, that’s different. In that case, I’m certain I don’t want to meet him.” Dennis winced. “Oh, you’re a cruel woman! That’s what smokin’ banana peels does to you—turns you mean. Anybody readin’ this rag?” He reached over for the newspaper. “Waitin’ here just for you,” I said. Thunder rumbled, closer to the diner. The lights flickered briefly once … then again before they returned to normal. Cheryl busied herself by fixing a fresh pot of coffee, and I watched the rain whipping against the windows. When the lightning flashed, I could see the trees swaying so hard they looked about to snap. Dennis read and ate his hamburger. “Boy,” he said after a few minutes, “the world’s in some shape, huh? Those A-rab pig-stickers are itchin’ for war. Mobile metro boys had a little gunplay last night. Good for them.” He paused and frowned, then tapped the paper with one thick finger. “This I can’t figure.” “What’s that?” “Thing in Florida couple of nights ago. Six people killed at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, near Daytona Beach. Motel was set off in the woods. Only a couple of cinder-block houses in the area, and nobody heard any gunshots. Says here one old man saw what he thought was a bright white star falling over the motel, and that was it. Funny, huh?” “A UFO,” Cheryl offered. “Maybe he saw a UFO.” “Yeah, and I’m a little green man from Mars,” Dennis scoffed. “I’m serious. This is weird. The motel was so blown full of holes it looked like a war had been going on. Everybody was dead—even a dog and a canary that belonged to the manager. The cars out in front of the rooms were blasted to pieces. The sound of one of them explodin’ was what woke up the people in those houses, I reckon.” He skimmed the story again. “Two bodies were out in the parkin’ lot, one was holed up in a bathroom, one had crawled under a bed, and two had dragged every piece of furniture in the room over to block the door. Didn’t seem to help ’em any, though.” I grunted. “Guess not.” “No motive, no witnesses. You better believe those Florida cops are shakin’ the bushes for some kind of dangerous maniac—or maybe more than one, it says here.” He shoved the paper away and patted the service revolver holstered at his hip. “If I ever got hold of him—or them—he’d find out not to mess with a ’Bama trooper.” He glanced quickly over at Cheryl and smiled mischievously. “Probably some crazy hippie who’d been smokin’ his tennis shoes.” “Don’t knock it,” she said sweetly, “until you’ve tried it.” She looked past him, out the window into the storm. “Car’s pullin’ in, Bobby.” Headlights glared briefly off the wet windows. It was a station wagon with wood-grained panels on the sides; it veered around the gas pumps and parked next to Dennis’ trooper car. On the front bumper was a personalized license plate that said: Ray & Lindy. The headlights died, and all the doors opened at once. Out of the wagon came a whole family: a man and woman, a little girl and boy about eight or nine. Dennis got up and opened the diner door as they hurried inside from the rain. All of them had gotten pretty well soaked between the station wagon and the diner, and they wore the dazed expressions of people who’d been on the road a long time. The man wore glasses and had curly gray hair, the woman was slim and dark-haired and pretty. The kids were sleepy-eyed. All of them were well-dressed, the man in a yellow sweater with one of those alligators on the chest. They had vacation tans, and I figured they were tourists heading north from the beach after spring break. “Come on in and take a seat,” I said. “Thank you,” the man said. They squeezed into one of the booths near the windows. “We saw your sign from the interstate.” “Bad night to be on the highway,” Dennis told them. “Tornado warnings are out all over the place.” “We heard it on the radio,” the woman—Lindy, if the license was right—said. “We’re on our way to Birmingham, and we thought we could drive right through the storm. We should’ve stopped at that Holiday Inn we passed about fifteen miles ago.” “That would’ve been smart,” Dennis agreed. “No sense in pushin’ your luck.” He returned to his stool. The new arrivals ordered hamburgers, fries, and Cokes. Cheryl and I went to work. Lightning made the diner’s lights flicker again, and the sound of thunder caused the kids to jump. When the food was ready and Cheryl served them, Dennis said, “Tell you what. You folks finish your dinners and I’ll escort you back to the Holiday Inn. Then you can head out in the morning. How about that?” “Fine,” Ray said gratefully. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten very much further, anyway.” He turned his attention to his food. “Well,” Cheryl said quietly, standing beside me, “I don’t guess we get home early, do we?” “I guess not. Sorry.” She shrugged. “Goes with the job, right? Anyway, I can think of worse places to be stuck.” I figured that Alma might be worried about me, so I went over to the pay phone to call her. I dropped a quarter in—and the dial tone sounded like a cat being stepped on. I hung up and tried again. The cat scream continued. “Damn!” I muttered. “Lines must be screwed up.” “Ought to get yourself a place closer to town, Bobby,” Dennis said. “Never could figure out why you wanted a joint in the sticks. At least you’d get better phone service and good lights if you were nearer to Mo—” He was interrupted by the sound of wet and shrieking brakes, and he swiveled around on his stool. I looked up as a car hurtled into the parking lot, the tires swerving, throwing up plumes of water. For a few seconds I thought it was going to keep coming, right through the window into the diner—but then the brakes caught and the car almost grazed the side of my pickup as it jerked to a stop. In the neon’s red glow I could tell it was a beat-up old Ford Fairlane, either gray or a dingy beige. Steam was rising off the crumpled hood. The headlights stayed on for perhaps a minute before they winked off. A figure got out of the car and walked slowly—with a limp—toward the diner. We watched the figure approach. Dennis’ body looked like a coiled spring ready to be triggered. “We got us a live one, Bobby boy,” he said. The door opened, and in a stinging gust of wind and rain a man who looked like walking death stepped into my diner. 3 He was so wet he might well have been driving with his windows down. He was a skinny guy, maybe weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds, even soaking wet. His unruly dark hair was plastered to his head, and he had gone a week or more without a shave. In his gaunt, pallid face his eyes were startlingly blue; his gaze flicked around the diner, lingered for a few seconds on Dennis. Then he limped on down to the far end of the counter and took a seat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes as Cheryl took a menu to him. Dennis stared at the man. When he spoke, his voice bristled with authority. “Hey, fella.” The man didn’t look up from the menu. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” The man pushed the menu away and pulled a damp packet of Kools out of the breast pocket of his patched Army fatigue jacket. “I can hear you,” he said; his voice was deep and husky, and didn’t go with his less-than-robust physical appearance. “Drivin’ kinda fast in this weather, don’t you think?” The man flicked a cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame, then lit one of his smokes and inhaled deeply. “Yeah,” he replied. “I was. Sorry. I saw the sign, and I was in a hurry to get here. Miss? I’d just like a cup of coffee, please. Hot and real strong, okay?” Cheryl nodded and turned away from him, almost bumping into me as I strolled down behind the counter to check him out. “That kind of hurry’ll get you killed,” Dennis cautioned. “Right. Sorry.” He shivered and pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead with one hand. Up close, I could see deep cracks around his mouth and the corners of his eyes and I figured him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His wrists were as thin as a woman’s; he looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal for more than a month. He stared at his hands through bloodshot eyes. Probably on drugs, I thought. The fella gave me the creeps. Then he looked at me with those eyes—so pale blue they were almost white—and I felt like I’d been nailed to the floor. “Something wrong?” he asked—not rudely, just curiously. “Nope.” I shook my head. Cheryl gave him his coffee and then went over to give Ray and Lindy their check. The man didn’t use either cream or sugar. The coffee was steaming, but he drank half of it down like mother’s milk. “That’s good,” he said. “Keep me awake, won’t it?” “More than likely.” Over the breast pocket of his jacket was the faint outline of the name that had been sewn there once. I think it was Price, but I could’ve been wrong. “That’s what I want. To stay awake as long as I can.” He finished the coffee. “Can I have another cup, please?” I poured it for him. He drank that one down just as fast,” then rubbed his eyes wearily. “Been on the road a long time, huh?” Price nodded. “Day and night. I don’t know which is more tired, my mind or my butt.” He lifted his gaze to me again. “Have you got anything else to drink? How about beer?” “No, sorry. Couldn’t get a liquor license.” He sighed. “Just as well. It might make me sleepy. But I sure could go for a beer right now. One sip, to clean my mouth out.” He picked up his coffee cup, and I smiled and started to turn away. But then he wasn’t holding a cup. He was holding a Budweiser can, and for an instant I could smell the tang of a newly popped beer. The mirage was there for only maybe two seconds. I blinked, and Price was holding a cup again. “Just as well,” he said, and put it down. I glanced over at Cheryl, then at Dennis. Neither one was paying attention. Damn! I thought. I’m too young to be losin’ either my eyesight or my senses! “Uh …” I said, or some other stupid noise. “One more cup?” Price asked. “Then I’d better hit the road again.” My hand was shaking as I picked it up, but if Price noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Want anything to eat?” Cheryl asked him. “How about a bowl of beef stew?” He shook his head. “No, thanks. The sooner I get back on the road, the better it’ll be.” Suddenly Dennis swiveled toward him, giving him a cold stare that only cops and drill sergeants can muster. “Back on the road?” He snorted. “Fella, you ever been in a tornado before? I’m gonna escort those nice people to the Holiday Inn about fifteen miles back. If you’re smart, that’s where you’ll spend the night too. No use in tryin’ to—” “No.” Price’s voice was rock-steady. “I’ll be spending the night behind the wheel.” Dennis’ eyes narrowed. “How come you’re in such a hurry? Not runnin’ from anybody, are you?” “Nightcrawlers,” Cheryl said. Price turned toward her like he’d been slapped across the face, and I saw what might’ve been a spark of fear in his eyes. Cheryl motioned toward the lighter Price had laid on the counter, beside the pack of Kools. It was a beat-up silver Zippo, and inscribed across it was NIGHTCRAWLERS with the symbol of two crossed rifles beneath it. “Sorry,” she said. “I just noticed that, and I wondered what it was.” Price put the lighter away. “I was in ’Nam,” he told her. “Everybody in my unit got one.” “Hey.” There was suddenly new respect in Dennis’ voice. “You a vet?” Price paused so long I didn’t think he was going to answer. In the quiet, I heard the little girl tell her mother that the fries were “ucky.” Price said, “Yes.” “How about that! Hey, I wanted to go myself, but I got a high number and things were windin’ down about that time anyway. Did you see any action?” A faint, bitter smile passed over Price’s mouth. “Too much.” “What? Infantry? Marines? Rangers?” Price picked up his third cup of coffee, swallowed some, and put it down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when they opened they were vacant and fixed on nothing. “Nightcrawlers,” he said quietly. “Special unit. Deployed to recon Charlie positions in questionable villages.” He said it like he was reciting from a manual. “We did a lot of crawling through rice paddies and jungles in the dark.” “Bet you laid a few of them Vietcong out, didn’t you?” Dennis got up and came over to sit a few places away from the man. “Man, I was behind you guys all the way. I wanted you to stay in there and fight it out!” Price was silent. Thunder echoed over the diner. The lights weakened for a few seconds; when they came back on, they seemed to have lost some of their wattage. The place was dimmer than before. Price’s head slowly turned toward Dennis, with the inexorable motion of a machine. I was thankful I didn’t have to take the full force of Price’s dead blue eyes, and I saw Dennis wince. “I should’ve stayed,” he said. “I should be there right now, buried in the mud of a rice paddy with the eight other men in my patrol.” “Oh.” Dennis blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” “I came home,” Price continued calmly, “by stepping on the bodies of my friends. Do you want to know what that’s like, Mr. Trooper?” “The war’s over,” I told him. “No need to bring it back.” Price smiled grimly, but his gaze remained fixed on Dennis. “Some say it’s over. I say it came back with the men who were there. Like me. Especially like me.” Price paused. The wind howled around the door, and the lightning illuminated for an instant the thrashing woods across the highway. “The mud was up to our knees, Mr. Trooper,” he said. “We were moving across a rice paddy in the dark, being real careful not to step on the bamboo stakes we figured were planted there. Then the first shots started: pop pop pop—like firecrackers going off. One of the Nightcrawlers fired off a flare, and we saw the Cong ringing us. We’d walked right into hell, Mr. Trooper. Somebody shouted, ‘Charlie’s in the light!’ and we started firing, trying to punch a hole through them. But they were everywhere. As soon as one went down, three more took his place. Grenades were going off, and more flares, and people were screaming as they got hit. I took a bullet in the thigh and another through the hand. I lost my rifle, and somebody fell on top of me with half his head missing.” “Uh … listen,” I said. “You don’t have to—” “I want to, friend.” He glanced quickly at me, then back to Dennis. I think I cringed when his gaze pierced me. “I want to tell it all. They were fighting and screaming and dying all around me, and I felt the bullets tug at my clothes as they passed through. I know I was screaming too, but what was coming out of my mouth sounded bestial. I ran. The only way I could save my own life was to step on their bodies and drive them down into the mud. I heard some of them choke and blubber as I put my boot on their faces. I knew all those guys like brothers … but at that moment they were only pieces of meat. I ran. A gunship chopper came over the paddy and laid down some fire, and that’s how I got out. Alone.” He bent his face closer toward the other man’s. “And you’d better believe I’m in that rice paddy in ’Nam every time I close my eyes. You’d better believe the men I left back there don’t rest easy. So you keep your opinions about ’Nam and being ‘behind you guys’ to yourself, Mr. Trooper. I don’t want to hear that bullshit. Got it?” Dennis sat very still. He wasn’t used to being talked to like that, not even from a ’Nam vet, and I saw the shadow of anger pass over his face. Price’s hands were trembling as he brought a little bottle out of his jeans pocket. He shook two blue-and-orange capsules out onto the counter, took them both with a swallow of coffee, and then recapped the bottle and put it away. The flesh of his face looked almost ashen in the dim light. “I know you boys had a rough time,” Dennis said, “but that’s no call to show disrespect to the law.” “The law,” Price repeated. “Yeah. Right. Bullshit.” “There are women and children present,” I reminded him. “Watch your language.” Price rose from his seat. He looked like a skeleton with just a little extra skin on the bones. “Mister, I haven’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. My nerves are shot. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but when some fool says he understands, I feel like kicking his teeth down his throat—because no one who wasn’t there can pretend to understand.” He glanced at Ray, Lindy, and the kids. “Sorry, folks. Don’t mean to disturb you. Friend, how much do I owe?” He started digging for his wallet. Dennis slid slowly from his seat and stood with his hands on his hips. “Hold it.” He used his trooper’s voice again. “If you think I’m lettin’ you walk out of here high on pills and needin’ sleep, you’re crazy. I don’t want to be scrapin’ you off the highway.” Price paid him no attention. He took a couple of dollars from his wallet and put them on the counter. I didn’t touch them. “Those pills will help keep me awake,” Price said. “Once I get on the road, I’ll be fine.” “Fella, I wouldn’t let you go if it was high noon and not a cloud in the sky. I sure as hell don’t want to clean up after the accident you’re gonna have. Now, why don’t you come along to the Holiday Inn and—” Price laughed grimly. “Mr. Trooper, the last place you want me staying is at a motel.” He cocked his head to one side. “I was in a motel in Florida a couple of nights ago, and I think I left my room a little untidy. Step aside and let me pass.” “A motel in Florida?” Dennis nervously licked his lower lip. “What the hell you talkin’ about?” “Nightmares and reality, Mr. Trooper. The point where they cross. A couple of nights ago, they crossed at a motel. I wasn’t going to let myself sleep. I was just going to rest for a little while, but I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” A mocking smile played at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were tortured. “You don’t want me staying at that Holiday Inn, Mr. Trooper. You really don’t. Now, step aside.” I saw Dennis’ hand settle on the butt of his revolver. His fingers unsnapped the fold of leather that secured the gun in the holster. I stared at him numbly. My God, I thought. What’s goin’ on? My heart had started pounding so hard I was sure everybody could hear it. Ray and Lindy were watching, and Cheryl was backing away behind the counter. Price and Dennis faced each other for a moment, as the rain whipped against the windows and thunder boomed like shellfire. Then Price sighed, as if resigning himself to something. He said, “I think I want a T-bone steak. Extra rare. How ’bout it?” He looked at me. “A steak?” My voice was shaking. “We don’t have any T-bone—” Price’s gaze shifted to the counter right in front of me. I heard a sizzle. The aroma of cooking meat drifted up to me. “Oh … wow,” Cheryl whispered. A large T-bone steak lay on the countertop, pink and oozing blood. You could’ve fanned a menu in my face and I would’ve keeled over. Wisps of smoke were rising from the steak. The steak began to fade, until it was only an outline on the counter. The lines of oozing blood vanished. After the mirage was gone, I could still smell the meat—and that’s how I knew I wasn’t crazy. Dennis’ mouth hung open. Ray had stood up from the booth to look, and his wife’s face was the color of spoiled milk. The whole world seemed to be balanced on a point of silence—until the wail of the wind jarred me back to my senses. “I’m getting good at it,” Price said softly. “I’m getting very, very good. Didn’t start happening to me until about a year ago. I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing. What’s in your head comes true—as simple as that. Of course, the images only last for a few seconds—as long as I’m awake, I mean. I’ve found out that those other men were drenched by a chemical spray we called Howdy Doody—because it made you stiffen up and jerk like you were hanging on strings. I got hit with it near Khe Sahn. That shit almost suffocated me. It felt like black tar, and it burned the land down to a paved parking lot.” He stared at Dennis. “You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper. Not with the body count I’ve still got in my head.” “You … were at … that motel, near Daytona Beach?” Price closed his eyes. A vein had begun beating at his right temple, royal blue against the pallor of his flesh. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “I fell asleep, and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was having the nightmare. The same one. I was locked in it, and I was trying to scream myself awake.” He shuddered, and two tears ran slowly down his cheeks. “Oh,” he said, and flinched as if remembering something horrible. “They … they were coming through the door when I woke up. Tearing the door right off its hinges. I woke up … just as one of them was pointing his rifle at me. And I saw his face. I saw his muddy, misshapen face.” His eyes suddenly jerked open. “I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” “Who?” I asked him. “Who came so fast?” “The Nightcrawlers,” Price said, his face devoid of expression, masklike. “Dear God … maybe if I’d stayed asleep a second more. But I ran again, and I left those people dead in that motel.” “You’re gonna come with me.” Dennis started pulling his gun from the holster. Price’s head snapped toward him. “I don’t know what kinda fool game you’re—” He stopped, staring at the gun he held. It wasn’t a gun anymore. It was an oozing mass of hot rubber. Dennis cried out and slung the thing from his hand. The molten mess hit the floor with a pulpy splat. “I’m leaving now.” Price’s voice was calm. “Thank you for the coffee.” He walked past Dennis, toward the door. Dennis grasped a bottle of ketchup from the counter. Cheryl cried out, “Don’t!” but it was too late. Dennis was already swinging the bottle. It hit the back of Price’s skull and burst open, spewing ketchup everywhere. Price staggered forward, his knees buckling. When he went down, his skull hit the floor with a noise like a watermelon being dropped. His body began jerking involuntarily. “Got him!” Dennis shouted triumphantly. “Got that crazy bastard, didn’t I?” Lindy was holding the little girl in her arms. The boy craned his neck to see. Ray said nervously, “You didn’t kill him, did you?” “He’s not dead,” I told him. I looked over at the gun; it was solid again. Dennis scooped it up and aimed it at Price, whose body continued to jerk. Just like Howdy Doody, I thought. Then Price stopped moving. “He’s dead!” Cheryl’s voice was near-frantic. “Oh God, you killed him, Dennis!” Dennis prodded the body with the toe of his boot, then bent down. “Naw. His eyes are movin’ back and forth behind the lids.” Dennis touched his wrist to check the pulse, then abruptly pulled his own hand away. “Jesus Christ! He’s as cold as a meat locker!” He took Price’s pulse and whistled. “Goin’ like a racehorse at the Derby.” I touched the place on the counter where the mirage steak had been. My fingers came away slightly greasy, and I could smell the cooked meat on them. At that instant Price twitched. Dennis scuttled away from him like a crab. Price made a gasping, choking noise. “What’d he say?” Cheryl asked. “He said something!” “No he didn’t.” Dennis stuck him in the ribs with his pistol. “Come on. Get up.” “Get him out of here,” I said. “I don’t want him—” Cheryl shushed me. “Listen. Can you hear that?” I heard only the roar and crash of the storm. “Don’t you hear it?” she asked me. Her eyes were getting scared and glassy. “Yes!” Ray said. “Yes! Listen!” Then I did hear something, over the noise of the keening wind. It was a distant chuk-chuk-chuk, steadily growing louder and closer. The wind covered the noise for a minute, then it came back: CHUK-CHUK-CHUK, almost overhead. “It’s a helicopter!” Ray peered through the window. “Somebody’s got a helicopter out there!” “Ain’t nobody can fly a chopper in a storm!” Dennis told him. The noise of rotors swelled and faded, swelled and faded … and stopped. On the floor, Price shivered and began to contort into a fetal position. His mouth opened; his face twisted in what appeared to be agony. Thunder spoke. A red fireball rose up from the woods across the road and hung lazily in the sky for a few seconds before it descended toward the diner. As it fell, the fireball exploded soundlessly into a white, glaring eye of light that almost blinded me. Price said something in a garbled, panicked voice. His eyes were tightly closed, and he had squeezed up with his arms around his knees. Dennis rose to his feet; he squinted as the eye of light fell toward the parking lot and winked out in a puddle of water. Another fireball floated up from the woods, and again blossomed into painful glare. Dennis turned toward me. “I heard him.” His voice was raspy. “He said . . . ‘Charlie’s in the light.’” As the second flare fell to the ground and illuminated the parking lot, I thought I saw figures crossing the road. They walked stiff-legged, in an eerie cadence. The flare went out. “Wake him up,” I heard myself whisper. “Dennis … dear God … wake him up.” 4 Dennis stared stupidly at me, and I started to jump across the counter to get to Price myself. A gout of flame leapt in the parking lot. Sparks marched across the concrete. I shouted, “Get down!” and twisted around to push Cheryl back behind the shelter of the counter. “What the hell—” Dennis said. He didn’t finish. There was the metallic thumping of bullets hitting the gas pumps and the cars. I knew if that gas blew we were all dead. My truck shuddered with the impact of slugs, and I saw the whole thing explode as I ducked behind the counter. Then the windows blew inward with a god-awful crash, and the diner was full of flying glass, swirling wind, and sheets of rain. I heard Lindy scream, and both the kids were crying, and I think I was shouting something myself. The lights had gone out, and the only illumination was the reflection of red neon off the concrete and the glow of the fluorescents over the gas pumps. Bullets whacked into the wall, and crockery shattered as if it had been hit with a hammer. Napkins and sugar packets were flying everywhere. Cheryl was holding on to me as if her fingers were nails sunk to my bones. Her eyes were wide and dazed, and she kept trying to speak. Her mouth was working, but nothing came out. There was another explosion as one of the other cars blew. The whole place shook, and I almost puked with fear. Another hail of bullets hit the wall. They were tracers, and they jumped and ricocheted like white-hot cigarette butts. One of them sang off the edge of a shelf and fell to the floor about three feet away from me. The glowing slug began to fade, like the beer can and the mirage steak. I put my hand out to find it, but all I felt was splinters of glass and crockery. A phantom bullet, I thought. Real enough to cause damage and death—and then gone. You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper, Price had warned. Not with the body count I’ve got in my head. The firing stopped. I got free of Cheryl and said, “You stay right here.” Then I looked up over the counter and saw my truck and the station wagon on fire, the flames being whipped by the wind. Rain slapped me across the face as it swept in where the window glass used to be. I saw Price lying still huddled on the floor, with pieces of glass all around him. His hands were clawing the air, and in the flickering red neon his face was contorted, his eyes still closed. The pool of ketchup around his head made him look like his skull had been split open. He was peering into hell, and I averted my eyes before I lost my own mind. Ray and Lindy and the two children had huddled under the table of their booth. The woman was sobbing brokenly. I looked at Dennis, lying a few feet from Price: he was sprawled on his face, and there were four holes punched through his back. It was not ketchup that ran in rivulets around Dennis’ body. His right arm was outflung, and the fingers twitched around the gun he gripped. Another flare sailed up from the woods like a Fourth of July sparkler. When the light brightened, I saw them: at least five figures, maybe more. They were crouched over, coming across the parking lot—but slowly, the speed of nightmares. Their clothes flapped and hung around them, and the flare’s light glanced off their helmets. They were carrying weapons—rifles, I guessed. I couldn’t see their faces, and that was for the best. On the floor, Price moaned. I heard him say “light … in the light …” The flare hung right over the diner. And then I knew what was going on. We were in the light. We were all caught in Price’s nightmare, and the Nightcrawlers that Price had left in the mud were fighting the battle again—the same way it had been fought at the Pines Haven Motor Inn. The Nightcrawlers had come back to life, powered by Price’s guilt and whatever that Howdy Doody shit had done to him. And we were in the light, where Charlie had been out in that rice paddy. There was a noise like castanets clicking. Dots of fire arced through the broken windows and thudded into the counter. The stools squealed as they were hit and spun. The cash register rang and the drawer popped open, and then the entire register blew apart and bills and coins scattered. I ducked my head, but a wasp of fire—I don’t, know what, a bit of metal or glass maybe—sliced my left cheek open from ear to upper lip. I fell to the floor behind the counter with blood running down my face. A blast shook the rest of the cups, saucers, plates, and glasses off the shelves. The whole roof buckled inward, throwing loose ceiling tiles, light fixtures, and pieces of metal framework. We were all going to die. I knew it, right then. Those things were going to destroy us. But I thought of the pistol in Dennis’ hand, and of Price lying near the door. If we were caught in Price’s nightmare and the blow from the ketchup bottle had broken something in his skull, then the only way to stop his dream was to kill him. I’m no hero. I was about to piss in my pants, but I knew I was the only one who could move. I jumped up and scrambled over the counter, falling beside Dennis and wrenching at that pistol. Even in death, Dennis had a strong grip. Another blast came, along the wall to my right. The heat of it scorched me, and the shock wave skidded me across the floor through glass and rain and blood. But I had that pistol in my hand. I heard Ray shout, “Look out!” In the doorway, silhouetted by flames, was a skeletal thing wearing muddy green rags. It wore a dented-in helmet and carried a corroded, slime-covered rifle. Its face was gaunt and shadowy, the features hidden behind a scum of rice-paddy muck. It began to lift the rifle to fire at me—slowly, slowly … I got the safety off the pistol and fired twice, without aiming. A spark leapt off the helmet as one of the bullets was deflected, but the figure staggered backward and into the conflagration of the station wagon, where it seemed to melt into ooze before it vanished. More tracers were coming in. Cheryl’s Volkswagen shuddered, the tires blowing out almost in unison. The state-trooper car was already bullet-riddled and sitting on flats. Another Nightcrawler, this one without a helmet and with slime covering the skull where the hair had been, rose up beyond the window and fired its rifle. I heard the bullet whine past my ear, and as I took aim I saw its bony finger tightening on the trigger again. A skillet flew over my head and hit the thing’s shoulder, spoiling its aim. For an instant the skillet stuck in the Nightcrawler’s body, as if the figure itself was made out of mud. I fired once … twice … and saw pieces of matter fly from the thing’s chest. What might’ve been a mouth opened in a soundless scream, and the thing slithered out of sight. I looked around. Cheryl was standing behind the counter, weaving on her feet, her face white with shock. “Get down!” I shouted, and she ducked for cover. I crawled to Price, shook him hard. His eyes would not open. “Wake up!” I begged him. “Wake up, damn you!” And then I pressed the barrel of the pistol against Price’s head. Dear God, I didn’t want to kill anybody, but I knew I was going to have to blow the Nightcrawlers right out of his brain. I hesitated—too long. Something smashed into my left collarbone. I heard the bone snap like a broomstick being broken. The force of the shot slid me back against the counter and jammed me between two bullet-pocked stools. I lost the gun, and there was a roaring in my head that deafened me. I don’t know how long I was out. My left arm felt like dead meat. All the cars in the lot were burning, and there was a hole in the diner’s roof that a tractor-trailer truck could’ve dropped through. Rain was sweeping into my face, and when I wiped my eyes clear I saw them, standing over Price. There were eight of them. The two I thought I’d killed were back. They trailed weeds, and their boots and ragged clothes were covered with mud. They stood in silence, staring down at their living comrade. I was too tired to scream. I couldn’t even whimper. I just watched. Price’s hands lifted into the air. He reached for the Nightcrawlers, and then his eyes opened. His pupils were dead white, surrounded by scarlet. “End it,” he whispered. “End it …” One of the Nightcrawlers aimed its rifle and fired. Price jerked. Another Nightcrawler fired, and then they were all firing point-blank into Price’s body. Price thrashed and clutched at his head, but there was no blood; the phantom bullets weren’t hitting him. The Nightcrawlers began to ripple and fade. I saw the flames of the burning cars through their bodies. The figures became transparent, floating in vague outlines. Price had awakened too fast at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, I realized; if he had remained asleep, the creatures of his nightmares would’ve ended it there, at that Florida motel. They were killing him in front of me—or he was allowing them to end it, and I think that’s what he must’ve wanted for a long, long time. He shuddered, his mouth releasing a half-moan, half-sigh. It sounded almost like relief. The Nightcrawlers vanished. Price didn’t move anymore. I saw his face. His eyes were closed, and I think he must’ve found peace at last. 5 A trucker hauling lumber from Mobile to Birmingham saw the burning cars. I don’t even remember what he looked like. Ray was cut up by glass, but his wife and the kids were okay. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I couldn’t say. Cheryl went into the hospital for a while. I got a postcard from her with the Golden Gate Bridge on the front. She promised she’d write and let me know how she was doing, but I doubt if I’ll ever hear from her. She was the best waitress I ever had, and I wish her luck. The police asked me a thousand questions, and I told the story the same way every time. I found out later that no bullets or shrapnel were ever dug out of the walls or the cars or Dennis’ body—just like in the case of that motel massacre. There was no bullet in me, though my collarbone was snapped clean in two. Price had died of a massive brain hemorrhage. It looked, the police told me, as if it had exploded in his skull. I closed the diner. Farm life is fine. Alma understands, and we don’t talk about it. But I never showed the police what I found, and I don’t know exactly why not. I picked up Price’s wallet in the mess. Behind a picture of a smiling young woman holding a baby there was a folded piece of paper. On that paper were the names of four men. Beside one name, Price had written “Dangerous.” I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing, Price had said. I sit up at night a lot, thinking about that and looking at those names. Those men had gotten a dose of that Howdy Doody shit in a foreign place they hadn’t wanted to be, fighting a war that turned out to be one of those crossroads of nightmare and reality. I’ve changed my mind about ’Nam because I understand now that the worst of the fighting is still going on, in the battlefields of memory. A Yankee who called himself Tompkins came to my house one May morning and flashed me an ID that said he worked for a veterans’ association. He was very soft-spoken and polite, but he had deep-set eyes that were almost black, and he never blinked. He asked me all about Price, seemed real interested in picking my brain of every detail. I told him the police had the story, and I couldn’t add any more to it. Then I turned the tables and asked him about Howdy Doody. He smiled in a puzzled kind of way and said he’d never heard of any chemical defoliant called that. No such thing, he said. Like I say, he was very polite. But I know the shape of a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. Tompkins was wearing one under his seersucker coat. I never could find any veterans’ association that knew anything about him, either. Maybe I should give that list of names to the police. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll try to find those four men myself, and try to make some sense out of what’s being hidden. I don’t think Price was evil. No. He was just scared, and who can blame a man for running from his own nightmares? I like to believe that, in the end, Price had the courage to face the Nightcrawlers, and in committing suicide he saved our lives. The newspapers, of course, never got the real story. They called Price a ’Nam vet who’d gone crazy, killed six people in a Florida motel, and then killed a state trooper in a shoot-out at Big Bob’s diner and gas stop. But I know where Price is buried. They sell little American flags at the five-and-dime in Mobile. I’m alive, and I can spare the change. And then I’ve got to find out how much courage I have.

“Hard rain coming down,” Cheryl said, and I nodded in agreement. Through the diner’s plate-glass windows, a dense curtain of rain flapped across the Gulf gas pumps and continued across the parking lot. It hit Big Bob’s with a force that made the glass rattle like uneasy bones. The red neon sign that said BIG BOB’S! DIESEL FUEL! EATS! sat on top of a high steel pole above the diner so the truckers on the interstate could see it. Out in the night, the red-tinted rain thrashed in torrents across my old pickup truck and Cheryl’s baby-blue Volkswagen. “Well,” I said, “I suppose that storm’ll either wash some folks in off the interstate or we can just about hang it up.” The curtain of rain parted for an instant, and I could see the treetops whipping back and forth in the woods on the other side of Highway 47. Wind whined around the front door like an animal trying to claw its way in. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall behind the counter. Twenty minutes before nine. We usually closed up at ten, but tonight—with tornado warnings in the weather forecast—I was tempted to turn the lock a little early. “Tell you what,” I said. “If we’re empty at nine, we skedaddle. ’Kay?” “No argument here,” she said. She watched the storm for a moment longer, then continued putting newly washed coffee cups, saucers, and plates away on the stainless-steel shelves. Lightning flared from west to east like the strike of a burning bullwhip. The diner’s lights flickered, then came back to normal. A shudder of thunder seemed to come right up through my shoes. Late March is the beginning of tornado season in south Alabama, and we’ve had some whoppers spin past here in the last few years. I knew that Alma was at home, and she understood to get into the root cellar right quick if she spotted a twister, like that one we saw in ’82 dancing through the woods about two miles from our farm. “You got any love-ins planned this weekend, hippie?” I asked Cheryl, mostly to get my mind off the storm and to rib her too. She was in her late thirties, but I swear that when she grinned she could’ve passed for a kid. “Wouldn’t you like to know, redneck?” she answered; she replied the same way to all my digs at her. Cheryl Lovesong—and I know that couldn’t have been her real name—was a mighty able waitress, and she had hands that were no strangers to hard work. But I didn’t care that she wore her long silvery-blond hair in Indian braids with hippie headbands, or came to work in tie-dyed overalls. She was the best waitress who’d ever worked for me, and she got along with everybody just fine—even us rednecks. That’s what I am, and proud of it: I drink Rebel Yell whiskey straight, and my favorite songs are about good women gone bad and trains on the long track to nowhere. I keep my wife happy. I’ve raised my two boys to pray to God and to salute the flag, and if anybody don’t like it he can go a few rounds with Big Bob Clayton. Cheryl would come right out and tell you she used to live in San Francisco in the late sixties, and that she went to love-ins and peace marches and all that stuff. When I reminded her it was 1984 and Ronnie Reagan was president, she’d look at me like I was walking cow-flop. I always figured she’d start thinking straight when all that hippie-dust blew out of her head. Alma said my tail was going to get burnt if I ever took a shine to Cheryl, but I’m a fifty-five-year-old redneck who stopped sowing his wild seed when he met the woman he married, more than thirty years ago. Lightning crisscrossed the turbulent sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Cheryl said, “Wow! Look at that light show!” “Light show, my ass,” I muttered. The diner was as solid as the Good Book, so I wasn’t too worried about the storm. But on a wild night like this, stuck out in the countryside like Big Bob’s was, you had a feeling of being a long way off from civilization—though Mobile was only twenty-seven miles south. On a wild night like this, you had a feeling that anything could happen, as quick as a streak of lightning out of the darkness. I picked up a copy of the Mobile Press-Register that the last customer—a trucker on his way to Texas—had left on the counter a half-hour before, and I started plowing through the news, most of it bad: those A-rab countries were still squabbling like Hatfields and McCoys in white robes; two men had robbed a Qwik-Mart in Mobile and been killed by the police in a shoot-out; cops were investigating a massacre at a motel near Daytona Beach; an infant had been stolen from a maternity ward in Birmingham. The only good things on the front page were stories that said the economy was up and that Reagan swore we’d show the Commies who was boss in El Salvador and Lebanon. The diner shook under a blast of thunder, and I looked up from the paper as a pair of headlights emerged from the rain into my parking lot. 2 The headlights were attached to an Alabama state-trooper car. “Half-alive, hold the onion, extra brown the buns.” Cheryl was already writing on her pad in expectation of the order. I pushed the paper aside and went to the fridge for the hamburger meat. When the door opened, a windblown spray of rain swept in and stung like buckshot. “Howdy, folks!” Dennis Wells peeled off his gray rain slicker and hung it on the rack next to the door. Over his Smokey the Bear trooper hat was a protective plastic covering, beaded with raindrops. He took off his hat, exposing the thinning blond hair on his pale scalp, as he approached the counter and sat on his usual stool, right next to the cash register. “Cup of black coffee and a rare—” Cheryl was already sliding the coffee in front of him, and the burger sizzled on the griddle. “Ya’ll are on the ball tonight!” Dennis said; he said the same thing when he came in, which was almost every night. Funny the kind of habits you fall into, without realizing it. “Kinda wild out there, ain’t it?” I asked as I flipped the burger over. “Lordy, yes! Wind just about flipped my car over three, four miles down the interstate. Thought I was gonna be eatin’ a little pavement tonight.” Dennis was a husky young man in his early thirties, with thick blond brows over deep-set light brown eyes. He had a wife and three kids, and he was fast to flash a walletful of their pictures. “Don’t reckon I’ll be chasin’ any speeders tonight, but there’ll probably be a load of accidents. Cheryl, you sure look pretty this evenin’.” “Still the same old me.” Cheryl never wore a speck of makeup, though one day she’d come to work with glitter on her cheeks. She had a place a few miles away, and I guessed she was farming that funny weed up there. “Any trucks moving?” “Seen a few, but not many. Truckers ain’t fools. Gonna get worse before it gets better, the radio says.” He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Lordy, that’s strong enough to jump out of the cup and dance a jig, darlin’!” I fixed the burger the way Dennis liked it, put it on a platter with some fries, and served it. “Bobby, how’s the wife treatin’ you?” he asked. “No complaints.” “Good to hear. I’ll tell you, a fine woman is worth her weight in gold. Hey, Cheryl! How’d you like a handsome young man for a husband?” Cheryl smiled, knowing what was coming. “The man I’m looking for hasn’t been made yet.” “Yeah, but you ain’t met Cecil yet, either! He asks me about you every time I see him, and I keep tellin’ him I’m doin’ everything I can to get you two together.” Cecil was Dennis’ brother-in-law and owned a Chevy dealership in Bay Minette. Dennis had been ribbing Cheryl about going on a date with Cecil for the past four months. “You’d like him,” Dennis promised. “He’s got a lot of my qualities.” “Well, that’s different. In that case, I’m certain I don’t want to meet him.” Dennis winced. “Oh, you’re a cruel woman! That’s what smokin’ banana peels does to you—turns you mean. Anybody readin’ this rag?” He reached over for the newspaper. “Waitin’ here just for you,” I said. Thunder rumbled, closer to the diner. The lights flickered briefly once … then again before they returned to normal. Cheryl busied herself by fixing a fresh pot of coffee, and I watched the rain whipping against the windows. When the lightning flashed, I could see the trees swaying so hard they looked about to snap. Dennis read and ate his hamburger. “Boy,” he said after a few minutes, “the world’s in some shape, huh? Those A-rab pig-stickers are itchin’ for war. Mobile metro boys had a little gunplay last night. Good for them.” He paused and frowned, then tapped the paper with one thick finger. “This I can’t figure.” “What’s that?” “Thing in Florida couple of nights ago. Six people killed at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, near Daytona Beach. Motel was set off in the woods. Only a couple of cinder-block houses in the area, and nobody heard any gunshots. Says here one old man saw what he thought was a bright white star falling over the motel, and that was it. Funny, huh?” “A UFO,” Cheryl offered. “Maybe he saw a UFO.” “Yeah, and I’m a little green man from Mars,” Dennis scoffed. “I’m serious. This is weird. The motel was so blown full of holes it looked like a war had been going on. Everybody was dead—even a dog and a canary that belonged to the manager. The cars out in front of the rooms were blasted to pieces. The sound of one of them explodin’ was what woke up the people in those houses, I reckon.” He skimmed the story again. “Two bodies were out in the parkin’ lot, one was holed up in a bathroom, one had crawled under a bed, and two had dragged every piece of furniture in the room over to block the door. Didn’t seem to help ’em any, though.” I grunted. “Guess not.” “No motive, no witnesses. You better believe those Florida cops are shakin’ the bushes for some kind of dangerous maniac—or maybe more than one, it says here.” He shoved the paper away and patted the service revolver holstered at his hip. “If I ever got hold of him—or them—he’d find out not to mess with a ’Bama trooper.” He glanced quickly over at Cheryl and smiled mischievously. “Probably some crazy hippie who’d been smokin’ his tennis shoes.” “Don’t knock it,” she said sweetly, “until you’ve tried it.” She looked past him, out the window into the storm. “Car’s pullin’ in, Bobby.” Headlights glared briefly off the wet windows. It was a station wagon with wood-grained panels on the sides; it veered around the gas pumps and parked next to Dennis’ trooper car. On the front bumper was a personalized license plate that said: Ray & Lindy. The headlights died, and all the doors opened at once. Out of the wagon came a whole family: a man and woman, a little girl and boy about eight or nine. Dennis got up and opened the diner door as they hurried inside from the rain. All of them had gotten pretty well soaked between the station wagon and the diner, and they wore the dazed expressions of people who’d been on the road a long time. The man wore glasses and had curly gray hair, the woman was slim and dark-haired and pretty. The kids were sleepy-eyed. All of them were well-dressed, the man in a yellow sweater with one of those alligators on the chest. They had vacation tans, and I figured they were tourists heading north from the beach after spring break. “Come on in and take a seat,” I said. “Thank you,” the man said. They squeezed into one of the booths near the windows. “We saw your sign from the interstate.” “Bad night to be on the highway,” Dennis told them. “Tornado warnings are out all over the place.” “We heard it on the radio,” the woman—Lindy, if the license was right—said. “We’re on our way to Birmingham, and we thought we could drive right through the storm. We should’ve stopped at that Holiday Inn we passed about fifteen miles ago.” “That would’ve been smart,” Dennis agreed. “No sense in pushin’ your luck.” He returned to his stool. The new arrivals ordered hamburgers, fries, and Cokes. Cheryl and I went to work. Lightning made the diner’s lights flicker again, and the sound of thunder caused the kids to jump. When the food was ready and Cheryl served them, Dennis said, “Tell you what. You folks finish your dinners and I’ll escort you back to the Holiday Inn. Then you can head out in the morning. How about that?” “Fine,” Ray said gratefully. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten very much further, anyway.” He turned his attention to his food. “Well,” Cheryl said quietly, standing beside me, “I don’t guess we get home early, do we?” “I guess not. Sorry.” She shrugged. “Goes with the job, right? Anyway, I can think of worse places to be stuck.” I figured that Alma might be worried about me, so I went over to the pay phone to call her. I dropped a quarter in—and the dial tone sounded like a cat being stepped on. I hung up and tried again. The cat scream continued. “Damn!” I muttered. “Lines must be screwed up.” “Ought to get yourself a place closer to town, Bobby,” Dennis said. “Never could figure out why you wanted a joint in the sticks. At least you’d get better phone service and good lights if you were nearer to Mo—” He was interrupted by the sound of wet and shrieking brakes, and he swiveled around on his stool. I looked up as a car hurtled into the parking lot, the tires swerving, throwing up plumes of water. For a few seconds I thought it was going to keep coming, right through the window into the diner—but then the brakes caught and the car almost grazed the side of my pickup as it jerked to a stop. In the neon’s red glow I could tell it was a beat-up old Ford Fairlane, either gray or a dingy beige. Steam was rising off the crumpled hood. The headlights stayed on for perhaps a minute before they winked off. A figure got out of the car and walked slowly—with a limp—toward the diner. We watched the figure approach. Dennis’ body looked like a coiled spring ready to be triggered. “We got us a live one, Bobby boy,” he said. The door opened, and in a stinging gust of wind and rain a man who looked like walking death stepped into my diner. 3 He was so wet he might well have been driving with his windows down. He was a skinny guy, maybe weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds, even soaking wet. His unruly dark hair was plastered to his head, and he had gone a week or more without a shave. In his gaunt, pallid face his eyes were startlingly blue; his gaze flicked around the diner, lingered for a few seconds on Dennis. Then he limped on down to the far end of the counter and took a seat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes as Cheryl took a menu to him. Dennis stared at the man. When he spoke, his voice bristled with authority. “Hey, fella.” The man didn’t look up from the menu. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” The man pushed the menu away and pulled a damp packet of Kools out of the breast pocket of his patched Army fatigue jacket. “I can hear you,” he said; his voice was deep and husky, and didn’t go with his less-than-robust physical appearance. “Drivin’ kinda fast in this weather, don’t you think?” The man flicked a cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame, then lit one of his smokes and inhaled deeply. “Yeah,” he replied. “I was. Sorry. I saw the sign, and I was in a hurry to get here. Miss? I’d just like a cup of coffee, please. Hot and real strong, okay?” Cheryl nodded and turned away from him, almost bumping into me as I strolled down behind the counter to check him out. “That kind of hurry’ll get you killed,” Dennis cautioned. “Right. Sorry.” He shivered and pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead with one hand. Up close, I could see deep cracks around his mouth and the corners of his eyes and I figured him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His wrists were as thin as a woman’s; he looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal for more than a month. He stared at his hands through bloodshot eyes. Probably on drugs, I thought. The fella gave me the creeps. Then he looked at me with those eyes—so pale blue they were almost white—and I felt like I’d been nailed to the floor. “Something wrong?” he asked—not rudely, just curiously. “Nope.” I shook my head. Cheryl gave him his coffee and then went over to give Ray and Lindy their check. The man didn’t use either cream or sugar. The coffee was steaming, but he drank half of it down like mother’s milk. “That’s good,” he said. “Keep me awake, won’t it?” “More than likely.” Over the breast pocket of his jacket was the faint outline of the name that had been sewn there once. I think it was Price, but I could’ve been wrong. “That’s what I want. To stay awake as long as I can.” He finished the coffee. “Can I have another cup, please?” I poured it for him. He drank that one down just as fast,” then rubbed his eyes wearily. “Been on the road a long time, huh?” Price nodded. “Day and night. I don’t know which is more tired, my mind or my butt.” He lifted his gaze to me again. “Have you got anything else to drink? How about beer?” “No, sorry. Couldn’t get a liquor license.” He sighed. “Just as well. It might make me sleepy. But I sure could go for a beer right now. One sip, to clean my mouth out.” He picked up his coffee cup, and I smiled and started to turn away. But then he wasn’t holding a cup. He was holding a Budweiser can, and for an instant I could smell the tang of a newly popped beer. The mirage was there for only maybe two seconds. I blinked, and Price was holding a cup again. “Just as well,” he said, and put it down. I glanced over at Cheryl, then at Dennis. Neither one was paying attention. Damn! I thought. I’m too young to be losin’ either my eyesight or my senses! “Uh …” I said, or some other stupid noise. “One more cup?” Price asked. “Then I’d better hit the road again.” My hand was shaking as I picked it up, but if Price noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Want anything to eat?” Cheryl asked him. “How about a bowl of beef stew?” He shook his head. “No, thanks. The sooner I get back on the road, the better it’ll be.” Suddenly Dennis swiveled toward him, giving him a cold stare that only cops and drill sergeants can muster. “Back on the road?” He snorted. “Fella, you ever been in a tornado before? I’m gonna escort those nice people to the Holiday Inn about fifteen miles back. If you’re smart, that’s where you’ll spend the night too. No use in tryin’ to—” “No.” Price’s voice was rock-steady. “I’ll be spending the night behind the wheel.” Dennis’ eyes narrowed. “How come you’re in such a hurry? Not runnin’ from anybody, are you?” “Nightcrawlers,” Cheryl said. Price turned toward her like he’d been slapped across the face, and I saw what might’ve been a spark of fear in his eyes. Cheryl motioned toward the lighter Price had laid on the counter, beside the pack of Kools. It was a beat-up silver Zippo, and inscribed across it was NIGHTCRAWLERS with the symbol of two crossed rifles beneath it. “Sorry,” she said. “I just noticed that, and I wondered what it was.” Price put the lighter away. “I was in ’Nam,” he told her. “Everybody in my unit got one.” “Hey.” There was suddenly new respect in Dennis’ voice. “You a vet?” Price paused so long I didn’t think he was going to answer. In the quiet, I heard the little girl tell her mother that the fries were “ucky.” Price said, “Yes.” “How about that! Hey, I wanted to go myself, but I got a high number and things were windin’ down about that time anyway. Did you see any action?” A faint, bitter smile passed over Price’s mouth. “Too much.” “What? Infantry? Marines? Rangers?” Price picked up his third cup of coffee, swallowed some, and put it down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when they opened they were vacant and fixed on nothing. “Nightcrawlers,” he said quietly. “Special unit. Deployed to recon Charlie positions in questionable villages.” He said it like he was reciting from a manual. “We did a lot of crawling through rice paddies and jungles in the dark.” “Bet you laid a few of them Vietcong out, didn’t you?” Dennis got up and came over to sit a few places away from the man. “Man, I was behind you guys all the way. I wanted you to stay in there and fight it out!” Price was silent. Thunder echoed over the diner. The lights weakened for a few seconds; when they came back on, they seemed to have lost some of their wattage. The place was dimmer than before. Price’s head slowly turned toward Dennis, with the inexorable motion of a machine. I was thankful I didn’t have to take the full force of Price’s dead blue eyes, and I saw Dennis wince. “I should’ve stayed,” he said. “I should be there right now, buried in the mud of a rice paddy with the eight other men in my patrol.” “Oh.” Dennis blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” “I came home,” Price continued calmly, “by stepping on the bodies of my friends. Do you want to know what that’s like, Mr. Trooper?” “The war’s over,” I told him. “No need to bring it back.” Price smiled grimly, but his gaze remained fixed on Dennis. “Some say it’s over. I say it came back with the men who were there. Like me. Especially like me.” Price paused. The wind howled around the door, and the lightning illuminated for an instant the thrashing woods across the highway. “The mud was up to our knees, Mr. Trooper,” he said. “We were moving across a rice paddy in the dark, being real careful not to step on the bamboo stakes we figured were planted there. Then the first shots started: pop pop pop—like firecrackers going off. One of the Nightcrawlers fired off a flare, and we saw the Cong ringing us. We’d walked right into hell, Mr. Trooper. Somebody shouted, ‘Charlie’s in the light!’ and we started firing, trying to punch a hole through them. But they were everywhere. As soon as one went down, three more took his place. Grenades were going off, and more flares, and people were screaming as they got hit. I took a bullet in the thigh and another through the hand. I lost my rifle, and somebody fell on top of me with half his head missing.” “Uh … listen,” I said. “You don’t have to—” “I want to, friend.” He glanced quickly at me, then back to Dennis. I think I cringed when his gaze pierced me. “I want to tell it all. They were fighting and screaming and dying all around me, and I felt the bullets tug at my clothes as they passed through. I know I was screaming too, but what was coming out of my mouth sounded bestial. I ran. The only way I could save my own life was to step on their bodies and drive them down into the mud. I heard some of them choke and blubber as I put my boot on their faces. I knew all those guys like brothers … but at that moment they were only pieces of meat. I ran. A gunship chopper came over the paddy and laid down some fire, and that’s how I got out. Alone.” He bent his face closer toward the other man’s. “And you’d better believe I’m in that rice paddy in ’Nam every time I close my eyes. You’d better believe the men I left back there don’t rest easy. So you keep your opinions about ’Nam and being ‘behind you guys’ to yourself, Mr. Trooper. I don’t want to hear that bullshit. Got it?” Dennis sat very still. He wasn’t used to being talked to like that, not even from a ’Nam vet, and I saw the shadow of anger pass over his face. Price’s hands were trembling as he brought a little bottle out of his jeans pocket. He shook two blue-and-orange capsules out onto the counter, took them both with a swallow of coffee, and then recapped the bottle and put it away. The flesh of his face looked almost ashen in the dim light. “I know you boys had a rough time,” Dennis said, “but that’s no call to show disrespect to the law.” “The law,” Price repeated. “Yeah. Right. Bullshit.” “There are women and children present,” I reminded him. “Watch your language.” Price rose from his seat. He looked like a skeleton with just a little extra skin on the bones. “Mister, I haven’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. My nerves are shot. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but when some fool says he understands, I feel like kicking his teeth down his throat—because no one who wasn’t there can pretend to understand.” He glanced at Ray, Lindy, and the kids. “Sorry, folks. Don’t mean to disturb you. Friend, how much do I owe?” He started digging for his wallet. Dennis slid slowly from his seat and stood with his hands on his hips. “Hold it.” He used his trooper’s voice again. “If you think I’m lettin’ you walk out of here high on pills and needin’ sleep, you’re crazy. I don’t want to be scrapin’ you off the highway.” Price paid him no attention. He took a couple of dollars from his wallet and put them on the counter. I didn’t touch them. “Those pills will help keep me awake,” Price said. “Once I get on the road, I’ll be fine.” “Fella, I wouldn’t let you go if it was high noon and not a cloud in the sky. I sure as hell don’t want to clean up after the accident you’re gonna have. Now, why don’t you come along to the Holiday Inn and—” Price laughed grimly. “Mr. Trooper, the last place you want me staying is at a motel.” He cocked his head to one side. “I was in a motel in Florida a couple of nights ago, and I think I left my room a little untidy. Step aside and let me pass.” “A motel in Florida?” Dennis nervously licked his lower lip. “What the hell you talkin’ about?” “Nightmares and reality, Mr. Trooper. The point where they cross. A couple of nights ago, they crossed at a motel. I wasn’t going to let myself sleep. I was just going to rest for a little while, but I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” A mocking smile played at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were tortured. “You don’t want me staying at that Holiday Inn, Mr. Trooper. You really don’t. Now, step aside.” I saw Dennis’ hand settle on the butt of his revolver. His fingers unsnapped the fold of leather that secured the gun in the holster. I stared at him numbly. My God, I thought. What’s goin’ on? My heart had started pounding so hard I was sure everybody could hear it. Ray and Lindy were watching, and Cheryl was backing away behind the counter. Price and Dennis faced each other for a moment, as the rain whipped against the windows and thunder boomed like shellfire. Then Price sighed, as if resigning himself to something. He said, “I think I want a T-bone steak. Extra rare. How ’bout it?” He looked at me. “A steak?” My voice was shaking. “We don’t have any T-bone—” Price’s gaze shifted to the counter right in front of me. I heard a sizzle. The aroma of cooking meat drifted up to me. “Oh … wow,” Cheryl whispered. A large T-bone steak lay on the countertop, pink and oozing blood. You could’ve fanned a menu in my face and I would’ve keeled over. Wisps of smoke were rising from the steak. The steak began to fade, until it was only an outline on the counter. The lines of oozing blood vanished. After the mirage was gone, I could still smell the meat—and that’s how I knew I wasn’t crazy. Dennis’ mouth hung open. Ray had stood up from the booth to look, and his wife’s face was the color of spoiled milk. The whole world seemed to be balanced on a point of silence—until the wail of the wind jarred me back to my senses. “I’m getting good at it,” Price said softly. “I’m getting very, very good. Didn’t start happening to me until about a year ago. I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing. What’s in your head comes true—as simple as that. Of course, the images only last for a few seconds—as long as I’m awake, I mean. I’ve found out that those other men were drenched by a chemical spray we called Howdy Doody—because it made you stiffen up and jerk like you were hanging on strings. I got hit with it near Khe Sahn. That shit almost suffocated me. It felt like black tar, and it burned the land down to a paved parking lot.” He stared at Dennis. “You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper. Not with the body count I’ve still got in my head.” “You … were at … that motel, near Daytona Beach?” Price closed his eyes. A vein had begun beating at his right temple, royal blue against the pallor of his flesh. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “I fell asleep, and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was having the nightmare. The same one. I was locked in it, and I was trying to scream myself awake.” He shuddered, and two tears ran slowly down his cheeks. “Oh,” he said, and flinched as if remembering something horrible. “They … they were coming through the door when I woke up. Tearing the door right off its hinges. I woke up … just as one of them was pointing his rifle at me. And I saw his face. I saw his muddy, misshapen face.” His eyes suddenly jerked open. “I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” “Who?” I asked him. “Who came so fast?” “The Nightcrawlers,” Price said, his face devoid of expression, masklike. “Dear God … maybe if I’d stayed asleep a second more. But I ran again, and I left those people dead in that motel.” “You’re gonna come with me.” Dennis started pulling his gun from the holster. Price’s head snapped toward him. “I don’t know what kinda fool game you’re—” He stopped, staring at the gun he held. It wasn’t a gun anymore. It was an oozing mass of hot rubber. Dennis cried out and slung the thing from his hand. The molten mess hit the floor with a pulpy splat. “I’m leaving now.” Price’s voice was calm. “Thank you for the coffee.” He walked past Dennis, toward the door. Dennis grasped a bottle of ketchup from the counter. Cheryl cried out, “Don’t!” but it was too late. Dennis was already swinging the bottle. It hit the back of Price’s skull and burst open, spewing ketchup everywhere. Price staggered forward, his knees buckling. When he went down, his skull hit the floor with a noise like a watermelon being dropped. His body began jerking involuntarily. “Got him!” Dennis shouted triumphantly. “Got that crazy bastard, didn’t I?” Lindy was holding the little girl in her arms. The boy craned his neck to see. Ray said nervously, “You didn’t kill him, did you?” “He’s not dead,” I told him. I looked over at the gun; it was solid again. Dennis scooped it up and aimed it at Price, whose body continued to jerk. Just like Howdy Doody, I thought. Then Price stopped moving. “He’s dead!” Cheryl’s voice was near-frantic. “Oh God, you killed him, Dennis!” Dennis prodded the body with the toe of his boot, then bent down. “Naw. His eyes are movin’ back and forth behind the lids.” Dennis touched his wrist to check the pulse, then abruptly pulled his own hand away. “Jesus Christ! He’s as cold as a meat locker!” He took Price’s pulse and whistled. “Goin’ like a racehorse at the Derby.” I touched the place on the counter where the mirage steak had been. My fingers came away slightly greasy, and I could smell the cooked meat on them. At that instant Price twitched. Dennis scuttled away from him like a crab. Price made a gasping, choking noise. “What’d he say?” Cheryl asked. “He said something!” “No he didn’t.” Dennis stuck him in the ribs with his pistol. “Come on. Get up.” “Get him out of here,” I said. “I don’t want him—” Cheryl shushed me. “Listen. Can you hear that?” I heard only the roar and crash of the storm. “Don’t you hear it?” she asked me. Her eyes were getting scared and glassy. “Yes!” Ray said. “Yes! Listen!” Then I did hear something, over the noise of the keening wind. It was a distant chuk-chuk-chuk, steadily growing louder and closer. The wind covered the noise for a minute, then it came back: CHUK-CHUK-CHUK, almost overhead. “It’s a helicopter!” Ray peered through the window. “Somebody’s got a helicopter out there!” “Ain’t nobody can fly a chopper in a storm!” Dennis told him. The noise of rotors swelled and faded, swelled and faded … and stopped. On the floor, Price shivered and began to contort into a fetal position. His mouth opened; his face twisted in what appeared to be agony. Thunder spoke. A red fireball rose up from the woods across the road and hung lazily in the sky for a few seconds before it descended toward the diner. As it fell, the fireball exploded soundlessly into a white, glaring eye of light that almost blinded me. Price said something in a garbled, panicked voice. His eyes were tightly closed, and he had squeezed up with his arms around his knees. Dennis rose to his feet; he squinted as the eye of light fell toward the parking lot and winked out in a puddle of water. Another fireball floated up from the woods, and again blossomed into painful glare. Dennis turned toward me. “I heard him.” His voice was raspy. “He said . . . ‘Charlie’s in the light.’” As the second flare fell to the ground and illuminated the parking lot, I thought I saw figures crossing the road. They walked stiff-legged, in an eerie cadence. The flare went out. “Wake him up,” I heard myself whisper. “Dennis … dear God … wake him up.” 4 Dennis stared stupidly at me, and I started to jump across the counter to get to Price myself. A gout of flame leapt in the parking lot. Sparks marched across the concrete. I shouted, “Get down!” and twisted around to push Cheryl back behind the shelter of the counter. “What the hell—” Dennis said. He didn’t finish. There was the metallic thumping of bullets hitting the gas pumps and the cars. I knew if that gas blew we were all dead. My truck shuddered with the impact of slugs, and I saw the whole thing explode as I ducked behind the counter. Then the windows blew inward with a god-awful crash, and the diner was full of flying glass, swirling wind, and sheets of rain. I heard Lindy scream, and both the kids were crying, and I think I was shouting something myself. The lights had gone out, and the only illumination was the reflection of red neon off the concrete and the glow of the fluorescents over the gas pumps. Bullets whacked into the wall, and crockery shattered as if it had been hit with a hammer. Napkins and sugar packets were flying everywhere. Cheryl was holding on to me as if her fingers were nails sunk to my bones. Her eyes were wide and dazed, and she kept trying to speak. Her mouth was working, but nothing came out. There was another explosion as one of the other cars blew. The whole place shook, and I almost puked with fear. Another hail of bullets hit the wall. They were tracers, and they jumped and ricocheted like white-hot cigarette butts. One of them sang off the edge of a shelf and fell to the floor about three feet away from me. The glowing slug began to fade, like the beer can and the mirage steak. I put my hand out to find it, but all I felt was splinters of glass and crockery. A phantom bullet, I thought. Real enough to cause damage and death—and then gone. You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper, Price had warned. Not with the body count I’ve got in my head. The firing stopped. I got free of Cheryl and said, “You stay right here.” Then I looked up over the counter and saw my truck and the station wagon on fire, the flames being whipped by the wind. Rain slapped me across the face as it swept in where the window glass used to be. I saw Price lying still huddled on the floor, with pieces of glass all around him. His hands were clawing the air, and in the flickering red neon his face was contorted, his eyes still closed. The pool of ketchup around his head made him look like his skull had been split open. He was peering into hell, and I averted my eyes before I lost my own mind. Ray and Lindy and the two children had huddled under the table of their booth. The woman was sobbing brokenly. I looked at Dennis, lying a few feet from Price: he was sprawled on his face, and there were four holes punched through his back. It was not ketchup that ran in rivulets around Dennis’ body. His right arm was outflung, and the fingers twitched around the gun he gripped. Another flare sailed up from the woods like a Fourth of July sparkler. When the light brightened, I saw them: at least five figures, maybe more. They were crouched over, coming across the parking lot—but slowly, the speed of nightmares. Their clothes flapped and hung around them, and the flare’s light glanced off their helmets. They were carrying weapons—rifles, I guessed. I couldn’t see their faces, and that was for the best. On the floor, Price moaned. I heard him say “light … in the light …” The flare hung right over the diner. And then I knew what was going on. We were in the light. We were all caught in Price’s nightmare, and the Nightcrawlers that Price had left in the mud were fighting the battle again—the same way it had been fought at the Pines Haven Motor Inn. The Nightcrawlers had come back to life, powered by Price’s guilt and whatever that Howdy Doody shit had done to him. And we were in the light, where Charlie had been out in that rice paddy. There was a noise like castanets clicking. Dots of fire arced through the broken windows and thudded into the counter. The stools squealed as they were hit and spun. The cash register rang and the drawer popped open, and then the entire register blew apart and bills and coins scattered. I ducked my head, but a wasp of fire—I don’t, know what, a bit of metal or glass maybe—sliced my left cheek open from ear to upper lip. I fell to the floor behind the counter with blood running down my face. A blast shook the rest of the cups, saucers, plates, and glasses off the shelves. The whole roof buckled inward, throwing loose ceiling tiles, light fixtures, and pieces of metal framework. We were all going to die. I knew it, right then. Those things were going to destroy us. But I thought of the pistol in Dennis’ hand, and of Price lying near the door. If we were caught in Price’s nightmare and the blow from the ketchup bottle had broken something in his skull, then the only way to stop his dream was to kill him. I’m no hero. I was about to piss in my pants, but I knew I was the only one who could move. I jumped up and scrambled over the counter, falling beside Dennis and wrenching at that pistol. Even in death, Dennis had a strong grip. Another blast came, along the wall to my right. The heat of it scorched me, and the shock wave skidded me across the floor through glass and rain and blood. But I had that pistol in my hand. I heard Ray shout, “Look out!” In the doorway, silhouetted by flames, was a skeletal thing wearing muddy green rags. It wore a dented-in helmet and carried a corroded, slime-covered rifle. Its face was gaunt and shadowy, the features hidden behind a scum of rice-paddy muck. It began to lift the rifle to fire at me—slowly, slowly … I got the safety off the pistol and fired twice, without aiming. A spark leapt off the helmet as one of the bullets was deflected, but the figure staggered backward and into the conflagration of the station wagon, where it seemed to melt into ooze before it vanished. More tracers were coming in. Cheryl’s Volkswagen shuddered, the tires blowing out almost in unison. The state-trooper car was already bullet-riddled and sitting on flats. Another Nightcrawler, this one without a helmet and with slime covering the skull where the hair had been, rose up beyond the window and fired its rifle. I heard the bullet whine past my ear, and as I took aim I saw its bony finger tightening on the trigger again. A skillet flew over my head and hit the thing’s shoulder, spoiling its aim. For an instant the skillet stuck in the Nightcrawler’s body, as if the figure itself was made out of mud. I fired once … twice … and saw pieces of matter fly from the thing’s chest. What might’ve been a mouth opened in a soundless scream, and the thing slithered out of sight. I looked around. Cheryl was standing behind the counter, weaving on her feet, her face white with shock. “Get down!” I shouted, and she ducked for cover. I crawled to Price, shook him hard. His eyes would not open. “Wake up!” I begged him. “Wake up, damn you!” And then I pressed the barrel of the pistol against Price’s head. Dear God, I didn’t want to kill anybody, but I knew I was going to have to blow the Nightcrawlers right out of his brain. I hesitated—too long. Something smashed into my left collarbone. I heard the bone snap like a broomstick being broken. The force of the shot slid me back against the counter and jammed me between two bullet-pocked stools. I lost the gun, and there was a roaring in my head that deafened me. I don’t know how long I was out. My left arm felt like dead meat. All the cars in the lot were burning, and there was a hole in the diner’s roof that a tractor-trailer truck could’ve dropped through. Rain was sweeping into my face, and when I wiped my eyes clear I saw them, standing over Price. There were eight of them. The two I thought I’d killed were back. They trailed weeds, and their boots and ragged clothes were covered with mud. They stood in silence, staring down at their living comrade. I was too tired to scream. I couldn’t even whimper. I just watched. Price’s hands lifted into the air. He reached for the Nightcrawlers, and then his eyes opened. His pupils were dead white, surrounded by scarlet. “End it,” he whispered. “End it …” One of the Nightcrawlers aimed its rifle and fired. Price jerked. Another Nightcrawler fired, and then they were all firing point-blank into Price’s body. Price thrashed and clutched at his head, but there was no blood; the phantom bullets weren’t hitting him. The Nightcrawlers began to ripple and fade. I saw the flames of the burning cars through their bodies. The figures became transparent, floating in vague outlines. Price had awakened too fast at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, I realized; if he had remained asleep, the creatures of his nightmares would’ve ended it there, at that Florida motel. They were killing him in front of me—or he was allowing them to end it, and I think that’s what he must’ve wanted for a long, long time. He shuddered, his mouth releasing a half-moan, half-sigh. It sounded almost like relief. The Nightcrawlers vanished. Price didn’t move anymore. I saw his face. His eyes were closed, and I think he must’ve found peace at last. 5 A trucker hauling lumber from Mobile to Birmingham saw the burning cars. I don’t even remember what he looked like. Ray was cut up by glass, but his wife and the kids were okay. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I couldn’t say. Cheryl went into the hospital for a while. I got a postcard from her with the Golden Gate Bridge on the front. She promised she’d write and let me know how she was doing, but I doubt if I’ll ever hear from her. She was the best waitress I ever had, and I wish her luck. The police asked me a thousand questions, and I told the story the same way every time. I found out later that no bullets or shrapnel were ever dug out of the walls or the cars or Dennis’ body—just like in the case of that motel massacre. There was no bullet in me, though my collarbone was snapped clean in two. Price had died of a massive brain hemorrhage. It looked, the police told me, as if it had exploded in his skull. I closed the diner. Farm life is fine. Alma understands, and we don’t talk about it. But I never showed the police what I found, and I don’t know exactly why not. I picked up Price’s wallet in the mess. Behind a picture of a smiling young woman holding a baby there was a folded piece of paper. On that paper were the names of four men. Beside one name, Price had written “Dangerous.” I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing, Price had said. I sit up at night a lot, thinking about that and looking at those names. Those men had gotten a dose of that Howdy Doody shit in a foreign place they hadn’t wanted to be, fighting a war that turned out to be one of those crossroads of nightmare and reality. I’ve changed my mind about ’Nam because I understand now that the worst of the fighting is still going on, in the battlefields of memory. A Yankee who called himself Tompkins came to my house one May morning and flashed me an ID that said he worked for a veterans’ association. He was very soft-spoken and polite, but he had deep-set eyes that were almost black, and he never blinked. He asked me all about Price, seemed real interested in picking my brain of every detail. I told him the police had the story, and I couldn’t add any more to it. Then I turned the tables and asked him about Howdy Doody. He smiled in a puzzled kind of way and said he’d never heard of any chemical defoliant called that. No such thing, he said. Like I say, he was very polite. But I know the shape of a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. Tompkins was wearing one under his seersucker coat. I never could find any veterans’ association that knew anything about him, either. Maybe I should give that list of names to the police. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll try to find those four men myself, and try to make some sense out of what’s being hidden. I don’t think Price was evil. No. He was just scared, and who can blame a man for running from his own nightmares? I like to believe that, in the end, Price had the courage to face the Nightcrawlers, and in committing suicide he saved our lives. The newspapers, of course, never got the real story. They called Price a ’Nam vet who’d gone crazy, killed six people in a Florida motel, and then killed a state trooper in a shoot-out at Big Bob’s diner and gas stop. But I know where Price is buried. They sell little American flags at the five-and-dime in Mobile. I’m alive, and I can spare the change. And then I’ve got to find out how much courage I have.

From Horror photos & videos June 23, 2018 at 08:00PM