#i remember i also used to get such vivid nightmares and would wake up crying/unable to sleep | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

onecanonlife · 3 years ago

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In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,132)

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Part Four: Eret

“They’re here.”

The words are said in her own voice. She does not remember willing her mouth to move. She does not remember how she got here, nor where here is. Inside, somewhere, for sure; her surroundings are blurry, twist and warp everywhere she looks, and it’s confusing, dizzying. The air is hazy, clouded with smoke and drifting sparks, flickering on a hot, dry wind, and a film of red has descended on her vision, as if her glasses are tinted. She doesn’t know what’s happening, nor why she spoke, but even as she listens to the words, she is certain of their veracity, a deep, dark dread pooling in her chest. They are coming. They are coming for her, and for everyone else.

She is scared. It is a wide, unfocused, fear; she can’t seem to concentrate enough to figure out what or who she’s scared of, what or who they are. The details slip away when she tries to grasp them, and the act of thinking feels like wading through thick mud. Her thoughts are foggy, unfocused, and she can barely feel her own body, like she’s a passenger in her own skin.

But she is scared. Her skin buzzes with it, with a pure, unadulterated terror, with the sensation of running out of time.

“We knew they’d find us,” someone says. They—no, he, he feels right in a way she can’t explain—he stands next to her, though she cannot turn her head to look. His voice is familiar to her as summer rains, the crunch of a footstep on sand, the ring of a pickaxe on gold, but she does not know him. “We knew this was inevitable. I’d hoped for more time, but—”

He is scared, too. She can hear it in his voice, and every inch of her aches to soothe him.

“We won’t be able to win this,” she hears herself say instead. “Not against all of them.” Her voice pauses. “Not this time.”

“Who’s here?” a new voice says, lighter than the first, accented differently, reverberating with an echo that wedges in her bones, empty and unnatural. Their presence feels like an absence. “Do we have visitors?”

“Enemies, more like,” the first voice says.

“Ah,” says the second. “I’ll go tell them to fuck right off, then.” A pause, and then, “Is Techno coming?”

A name she knows but doesn’t. A face flashes in her mind’s eye, and once gone, she cannot remember it.

“Maybe,” says the first. “Why don’t you go see? And if he’s not, you can go ahead and, um, tell them to fuck right off. That’ll be really helpful.”

There is a blue of motion in the corner of her eye, someone passing out of the room, though they are soundless, and the air does not change with their leaving. She still cannot turn to look.

“He’s not what he was,” she hears herself say. “He won’t be able to hold them.”

“I know,” the other says, and there is defeat in his tone, heavy and terrible. She wants to take his hand. She wants to look into his eyes. She wants to know who he is. She can do none of those things. “I know. There’s nothing else we can do now. Are you ready for this? What you were telling me about?”

She feels herself swallow past a lump in her throat. “Ready enough to try,” she says, and her voice is choked. “But I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, and then, he is in front of her, and he is right there, but her eyes will not focus, and every time she blinks, she forgets his features, forgets—but she cannot retain them long enough to describe them, even to herself, and she’s left with nothing, like trying to snatch at dying embers before they go cold and turn to dust. She thinks she could cry with the frustration of it, and she still doesn’t understand, has no idea why she wants to know so badly, why this is so important to her. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

“It won’t be,” she says. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“Neither did I, old pal.” There are lips on her forehead, a gentle kiss. She leans into it, wants to keep the memory of it forever. “Don’t think of it as an ending. Just a—a see you later.”

She laughs, unhappily. “There won’t be a later.”

“Maybe not,” he says softly. “But I’d like to think that’s not true.”

There is a sound, then, a noise like a shriek and a cry and a grinding of metal against metal, discordant and clanging, and it’s as if it punches her in the throat. She gasps for breath, the air suddenly too thin to sustain her, and past the sound, the terrible sound, the sound that is drawing closer, some destructive thing on the hunt, she hears his voice: “We’re out of time.”

Behind her. There is someone behind her. She turns, and her vision flares with red, but she can make out blond hair, blue eyes, something small and pink held in their arms, clutched to them desperately, protectively, and then the world is tilting, blurring and changing, and the turns again and she is kneeling, her knees on hard stone, and she knows, she knows that something awful is happening, and they’re out of time, they’re all out of time, and her hands mark the ground with desperate, rushed motions, smearing paint—no, blood. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she does, and her motions, too, are beyond her control.

And yet, they feel natural. Like something buried in her rising up to the surface. She has no idea what she’s doing, even though her body does, and yet, and yet—

The universe hums at her fingertips, and it is as familiar as her own name.

“Eret,” someone gasps, someone pleads, “Eret, what’re you—he’s still up there, we have to go get him—”

“He’s buying us time,” she manages, her voice distant to her own ears. The next words that she says are not comprehensible to her, power vibrating through them, something other, something wrong and yet right all at once, and the blood—it is her blood—begins to glow, shimmer with a silver-red light, and she can barely look at the patterns she’s made, her mind skittering off of them like a rock skipped across a pond; she’ll sink if she lets herself.

“Eret, please,” they say.

She stops her chanting. The spell is set. Half of her feels calm, serene. The other half of her feels like she’s screaming.

“I couldn’t save anyone else,” she says. “I’m sorry. But I can do this, at least.”

“Wh—Eret!”

Alarm, true alarm, fear, and she meets their eyes. His eyes. His face solidifies, sharpens, becomes clear. His eyes are duller, his hair streaked with white, his face scarred. But it’s Tommy. Too old and too young all at once.

The glow brightens, illuminates the contours of his face. Lights up the room. Warms her skin.

Tommy screams.

The world rips, or perhaps she is ripping the world, but she is falling, falling back and away, falling out of herself and a void is underneath but not in time for her to escape, the world is imploding but there are footsteps, there is someone shouting, and someone yanks her head back by the hair, and there is a sharp slide of a blade across her neck, a gush of something hot, and then pain, and—

Eret wakes up choking.

He sits bolt upright, hands flying to his neck, pawing at it, pressing it, trying to stem a flow of blood that does not exist, close a wound that is not there. It takes several full minutes for his body to convince his brain that he is whole and unharmed, that he is neither bleeding out from a blade to his throat nor tumbling into some vast emptiness as the world destructs around him, destructs from something he did—

What was that?

Slowly, he calms, regulates his breathing, but not all of the panic leaves him, adrenaline flooding his veins and setting him shaking. He takes his hands down from his throat, stares at them; they tremble, but there is no blood painting them.

That is, perhaps, the most vivid dream he has ever had. And also perhaps the most frustrating. He can’t say he’s ever had one like it, where he felt like he was trapped within himself, unable to affect his own actions, spouting off words that he had no context for.

He shudders, suddenly, a full-body convulsion.

Air. He needs air.

It’s the dead of night, it seems. L’Manberg is quiet, peaceful, enjoying her first night of true independence. It’s still a bit hard for him to believe, that it was won just like that, and by Tommy, no less. He was prepared for the conflict to stretch out a lot longer, little though he liked the idea. But now, it’s all over, and they have to figure out how to proceed. Or at least, Wilbur does; Wilbur is still in charge, president now rather than general. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

He likes Wilbur. Rather a lot, actually. But sometimes, it concerns him, how much Wilbur seems to enjoy power.

Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thought of having a little power himself, power to protect anyone he chooses, to lead if need be, so perhaps he’s just a hypocrite.

All thoughts for later, though. For now, the night air is a balm on his face, fresh and free, and he breathes in deeply. The world is fine. He is fine. He can even imagine where the dream came from; Tommy was acting so very strangely yesterday, and he’s been stressed in general, so it’s not hard to figure that his mind conjured up some outer manifestation of it, some representation of the way he feared everything would come crumbling in around them. Dreams are tricky things. It’s never wise to put too much stock in them.

The one thing he can’t push aside was the other person. Not Tommy, and not the one who left. The one who kissed his forehead, called him a friend. He’s not sure why his mind would invent someone when he has plenty of friends here to fill the role, and something about it unsettles him. Because the depth of attachment he felt for this person, who he is sure he doesn’t know, who he doesn’t recognize at all, was frightening, almost, in its intensity.

And yet, it was also comforting. Familiar. Safe.

Absently, he reaches up and touches his forehead. He’s reading too far into this, to be sure. But he can’t help but wonder who he was, even if he was just an invention of his troubled, tired brain.

He sighs, and decides to mount the walls. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall back asleep any time soon, so he may as well have a decent view. May as well help keep watch, even though they supposedly don’t really need to anymore. He’s not sure he’ll trust this peace until the documents are all drawn up and signed, but hopefully Dream is a man of his word. Hopefully he is one that keeps his promises.

The night is peaceful, and there’s a cool wind blowing from the northeast. He turns his face into it, breathing deeply, and that is when he sees it: movement. A figure on the ground, moving slowly but steadily toward the walls. He leans further out, trying to get a better look; is this something he should raise the alarm over? One person probably can’t do a lot, unless that person is Dream. He hopes it’s not Dream.

He squints as the figure approaches. They really are making a beeline for the walls, and there’s no indication that they’ve seen him. He wonders if he should call out, make them aware that they’ve been observed. Would that dissuade a potential troublemaker?

And then, the figure gets close enough for him to make out details. Rumpled red and white t-shirt, blond hair. It’s unmistakably Tommy. Which begs a new question: what is Tommy doing outside L’Manberg’s borders so late at night?

He did the same last night, from what Eret gathered. Went to Dream and traded his discs for L’Manberg’s freedom. A risky ploy, one that he’s surprised actually worked, but he supposes he’s been underestimating the value that this discs have to many people on the server. He wasn’t here for the onset of the wars over them. Still, he admires the sacrifice that Tommy made, even if he can’t make heads or tails of that interaction they had yesterday.

But then, Tommy’s always been a bit of a strange kid. This was a new kind of strange, but he’s fifteen going on sixteen years old, and he’s proven himself to be resilient. He’s sure everything is fine.

As he muses, Tommy clambers his way up the wall, and once he’s up, he just stands there for a second, leaning against one of the parapets. His face is pinched, lined with exhaustion and something else, something that Eret can’t quite interpret in the dim light of the stars. He seems preoccupied, caught up within himself and whatever he was doing, and Eret considers letting him go without saying a word. But concern wins out over that, and he clears his throat. Tommy jerks, wheeling on him violently, lips slightly parted.

“Hey, Tommy,” he says, raising a hand to placate him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me,” Tommy says. “I’m unstartleable.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Tommy says. “What’re you doing up here?”

“Unsettled dreams, I’m afraid,” he says. He sees no reason to hide it, and perhaps admitting to a bit of weakness will put Tommy more at ease. Currently, he’s holding himself tense as a bowstring. “I came out to get a bit of air. What about you? Any particular reason to go for a stroll this time of night?” He cuts himself off before he can say something stupid, such as, I’m sure Wilbur wouldn’t be happy to know you’re out and about this late. Because while that is the truth, and he’s sure Tommy knows it, knows that the man is protective over him like he is over practically nothing else, he’s also sure that Tommy’s independent spirit wouldn’t appreciate him pointing that out.

“No,” Tommy bites out. “No reason at all.”

That is so clearly a lie that it’s almost insulting. But he takes one look at Tommy’s closed off posture, the jut of his chin, and decides to leave it. What’s most important is that Tommy is back safe; he won’t pressure him to reveal something he’s not comfortable with sharing.

“Alright, then,” he says. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Tommy shoots him a scathing glare at that. But to his surprise, he then walks over, a bit hesitantly, and joins him in bracing himself against the ramparts, staring out over the surrounding countryside. He doesn’t say anything else, and Eret tries to study him without making it obvious.

“I think it’s pretty amazing, what you did,” he says. “I can’t pretend to understand how difficult that was for you, but you single-handedly won us a war. You’ve probably had your fill of receiving thanks, but I think it bears repetition.”

“I know it was amazing,” Tommy says, and his voice is oddly hollow. “I’m very amazing, thank you so much.” He sighs, then, shoulders hunching a bit. “No, it just—it just needed to be done, so I did it. That’s all there was, really. Not even sure if it’ll hold up. Dream’ll use them as leverage if he thinks he can get away with it, and then we’ll have a whole other mess of problems.”

“Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he finds himself asking. Perhaps it’s the maturity Tommy seems to be displaying, the awareness, but he seems like the one to ask.

“Don’t know,” he says. “At this point? I hope so. He’s still got people he’s accountable to, so maybe. If not, we’ll have to kill him.”

“Right,” he replies, and wonders when death entered the picture. They knew it was a risk, of course, in war, but no one has died yet, on either side, and he rather thought that everyone was looking to keep it that way. “I pray it won’t come to that.”

Tommy snorts. “Let me tell you something, Eret,” he says. “Praying doesn’t do shit. Gods die just as easily as men do.”

That—sure is something for a teenager to say. He’s not sure why it strikes such a chord in him.

“Hope, then,” he says, and tries not to reveal that he’s rattled.

“Hope’s not much better. Unreliable, that is,” Tommy mutters, and Eret thinks that it might be time to change the subject. Otherwise, he’ll have to confront just how jaded Tommy sounds, and as much as he likes the kid, he’s really not sure that he’s the one best equipped to help him, even if Tommy would allow him to do so. Surely, someone like Tubbo or Wilbur would do better in trying to talk him through it.

“I’m not sure I understood what you were trying to thank me for, earlier,” he says. “Or yesterday, rather.”

Tommy shoots him a glance. “Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively. “You don’t need to make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.”

“It felt a little bit like a thing.”

“Well, it wasn’t, so piss off.” Tommy frowns, and then turns to face him fully. He turns as well, trying to show him that he has his undivided attention. “Look, it was just a, a general thank you, yeah? Enjoy it, because you’re not getting another one. But you’re not completely shit all of the time, I guess.” He sounds so very put upon in a way that only teenagers can, and Eret suppresses a grin. “Don’t read into it, shit head. But listen, Eret,” —His tone shifts, suddenly, going lower, more serious, and Eret leans in a bit on instinct— “you are sticking around, yeah? With us, with L’Manberg?”

“Of course,” he answers, taken off guard. “I’ve no plans to be elsewhere.”

“Good,” Tommy says. “That’s—that’s good. Not that I care if you stay or not! Don’t get ideas! But you should stick around, because we are clearly superior to everyone else on this shit server, and we’ll treat you right. Not like Dream would. Especially not like Dream would.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, sort of feeling like he’s lost the thread of this conversation, and more than a bit disconcerted at the intensity of Tommy’s words. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to go anywhere near Dream.”

“Good,” Tommy says again, and this time, he seems satisfied. Eret raises an eyebrow at him, but he just goes back to looking over the edge of the wall, and Eret shakes his head a bit, going to push his sunglasses further up his nose.

And then realizes—he’s not wearing them. Hasn’t been wearing them this whole time.

“Shit,” he hisses, and pats himself down frantically, trying to see if they’re anywhere on his person, but of course they’re not. He’s wearing his nightshirt and loose trousers, and he can picture exactly where his glasses are: sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He didn’t think to grab them, shaken by his nightmare as he was, certain that he wouldn’t be running into anywhere else.

“What? What’s the matter?” Tommy asks, alarmed, and he realizes something else.

His eyes have been on display throughout this entire conversation, and Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. Hasn’t so much as reacted. Hasn’t so much as stared. And that—that is foreign to him. Incomprehensible. He knows very well what his eyes bring to mind, knows very well the reasons why he chooses to hide them. Better that than to scare everyone around him away. Better to hide than to have no one. But Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. He hasn’t—

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

“My glasses—” he stutters out. “I don’t—I don’t have—”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and visibly relaxes. “Yeah, did you drop ‘em somewhere or something? Did they fall out of your pocket?”

That—that is not what Tommy is supposed to be asking. Eret shakes his head, but the motion brings him no clarity. He’s trying to think past the drumbeat of instinctive anxiety, though it’s fear that apparently has no basis, even if he doesn’t know why.

“You’re not scared?” he manages.

Tommy’s face goes slack in surprise. Surprise, as if that’s the last thing he expected Eret to be asking, but surely, surely he understands Eret’s nerves? Surely he understands why Eret is confused? Surely—he must know, right?

And then, he sees a bit of that understanding dawn on Tommy’s face, his lips forming an ‘o’, and Eret braces himself.

“Of what, those?” Tommy says, making a general sort of gesture. “Gonna take more than that to frighten me, big man. You’ve got some weird fucking eyes, but I don’t see why that should bother me. And fuck anyone who is, right? They’re just eyes, man. Everyone’s got ‘em.” He pauses. “Except for Dream, maybe. We’ve never seen them. He could be hiding anything under that mask. Wait, shit, what if he hasn’t got any eyes? What if he doesn’t have a face?”

He sounds genuinely disturbed by the line of questioning. But also, he’s darting glances at Eret every now and then, as if checking to see what his response will be, and—is he trying to distract him? To calm him down, perhaps, in the most Tommy-like way possible?

Something in Eret’s chest grows warm.

“As far as I know, Dream’s just a guy,” he says. “I’m sure he’s got a face.”

“An ugly face, maybe.”

“You—” He can’t help but check. He needs to know, needs to be certain. “You really don’t mind them?”

Tommy shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “They’re fucking strange, and you’re fucking strange, but it’s alright, man. You don’t—I mean, I know you, and that seems more important than anything else, yeah?” And Eret’s face must be doing something at that, because Tommy scowls at him, sudden and ferocious. “No, no, I see what you’re thinking, this isn’t a thing either, you bastard. This isn’t a thing. You’re just being an idiot, so I’m correcting you. This is a correction, because I simply can’t let you go on thinking things that are wrong. You get that? I’m right and you’re not and I’m telling you that. That’s what this is.”

“Right, of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of claiming otherwise.” He pauses. “But thank you, Tommy. Really. That kind of means a lot.”

Tommy’s face reddens. “Whatever,” he murmurs, but he sounds unmistakably pleased. “It’s fine. I’m gonna—I’m just gonna go now. G’night, Eret.”

“Goodnight, Tommy,” he replies, and watches as Tommy practically runs for the nearest ladder.

And he remembers his dream. Remembers Tommy looking at him with trust and terror in equal measure. Remembers the scars that dotted his face in the one second that it became clear. Remembers the tremble in his voice, and the horror in that last moment as someone came up behind them and slit his throat.

He gets a sudden, overwhelming urge to call out to him, to ask him about it. But he tamps down on it. To do so would be ridiculous, after all, and Tommy seems to have enough on his plate without him adding to it. And what would he even say? Oh, by the way, I watched you watch me die in my dream just a bit ago. You don’t think there’s any meaning to that, do you?

Because that would go over so well.

So he just watches as Tommy sets foot within the L’Manberg borders and heads off at a good clip toward the building he’s claimed as his house. It’s kind of a sad structure; they really do need some better architecture around here. Maybe he should get on that. He’s a fairly good builder himself. He might be able to draw up some plans.

For now, though, he turns his face back toward the stars, and tries to feel like there’s nothing missing.

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luxaofhesperides · 3 years ago

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it showed me the world and said i’m not a part of it

@tucweek DAY FOUR: TEMPORARY

also on ao3 with an author’s note.

. . .

Nerissa looks at the Overlander, and only sees him leaving.

This is a gift of foresight, rather than prophecy. She does not have visions of the future that show themselves in rhymes and words, waiting to be carved into the stone walls of her home. She is nothing like Sandwich, who looked into the future and left warnings for them all, unable to decipher them fully until the events have come to pass. She does not see battles and glories; all Nerissa ever sees is people leaving.

Not once has she seen a future with a place for her in it.

Sandwich was praised for his visions; Nerissa is ridiculed for hers when each of her visions has come to pass. There are never heroes or villains in the futures (and pasts) she foresees. There are only bodies to be buried.

Nerissa looks upon the people of Regalia, of the Fount, and understands that she has no place among them. No one ever welcomes an omen of death, after all.

She keeps to herself, locked away in the Room of Prophecies, and waits for the future to meet them in all its unforgiving glory.

Here’s the thing about the future: there is only ever one outcome, but the pathways there are endless. It’s the choices made to get to the destination that alter what it really means. A message warning the Warrior about the death of a baby was not meant for Boots, but for the Bane. Anyone else would not have hesitated, but the Warrior has cared for others far longer than he has hurt them, and so his past choices lead to the future where he spared the Bane, if only for a moment.

The Bane will still fall at his hands, but not as a child. Death comes for them all, in the Underland. There is no escape.

The past is always what shapes the future. There is a reason why she divines past events when trying to understand what events wait for them ahead.

The people of the Underland consult Sandwich’s words endlessly, pouring over his prophecies without ever acknowledges how looking at what he said in the past affects their future.

Nerissa says nothing about this, and stares into the still waters of her cup in the hopes of seeing something other than her face; a horrible face that only ever saw people as the corpses they would become.

She keeps her distance, watching the people live in a distance place called the present, and keeps her visions to herself.

It is lonely, but it is familiar.

If she chooses this herself, the scorn of others will not affect her so badly.

(She still hurts. She has never been good at lying to herself.)

The loss of her parents, after a series of vivid dreams showing how they die, made her realize that everyone will leave one day. People are only ever safe when they are dead. All bonds and relationships are temporary. It will all disappear when the future comes.

Luxa has only ever known the violence of the Underland, and the burning desire to live despite how often she convinces herself she will die. Nerissa looks at her and sees a crown on her head, bonds stronger than steel, and an empty throne besides her.

How lonely. How inspiring.

We are all children, Nerissa wants to say, when Luxa speaks of battle and death the way she used to speak of picnics and playdates. But that isn’t quite true: they are Underlanders, and this is how they all live. Children confront death quickly, and though it hurts, it is inevitable. Few live long, and even fewer die of old age. Such is the way of their world.

Could she live long if she went with you? Nerissa wants to ask the Overland as he looks through items found from the Overland, always forgein and always ready to leave. This is a silly question; their worlds are too different, and she can see clearly how the Underland has hurt the Overlander. He was not always a Warrior, nor will he always be. The scars will remain.

Scars are the only thing the Underland can give.

She sees Boots singing to crawlers and envisions a future where she lives in only one world, forgetting this one, and is happier for it. Her skin is dark, her cheeks are flushed, her body carries no scars, only laughter.

She sees Hazard unable to sleep, and knows in the future he will venture to the Overland and spend much of his time away from Regalia, unable to feel at home without his father besides him.

Nerissa sees them all leave and looks away.

“Cousin,” Luxa greets as she enters the Room of Prophecies. Nerissa doesn’t look at her, focused on running her fingers over the words carved into stone. The feeling of it keeps her grounded in the present instead of drifting away and being surrounded by visions of funerals.

“Cousin,” she says again. “I know this is strange, but I must know… What future do you see for me?”

Nerissa wants to laugh. She wants to cry. She knows that Luxa wants to know if the Overlander will return to her in the future. She knows she has no answer Luxa wants to hear.

But Luxa grew up when she wasn’t looking, too caught up in what will come to see what is already here. No matter the answer, Luxa will take it with grace and continue to live her life as a queen.

“I thought you didn’t want to hear of my visions.”

“I wasn’t fair to you. Regardless of what others may think of you and your abilities, you will continue to see the future. It would be unreasonable for me to treat you badly for something you can’t control.”

Nerissa lowers her hands and faces Luxa. Already, she wears a crown. Or perhaps she has been wearing one for a while? Or… the crown is gone when she blinks. Another vision, perhaps. Nerissa can’t remember when she last saw Luxa before her, instead of in the future.

There remains two prophecies for the Warrior. The Overlander must come back for fulfill them. After that, however, there is no future for the Overlander to be a part of.

She sways a little, letting go of her focus to allow the future to play out in bits and pieces before her. “The Overlander will end the war, and you will begin the peace. You will not be as alone as you think you are, but you will still be lonely in a way that can’t be changed.”

Luxa frowns and glances up at the Prophecy of Time. “It will happen soon, then,” she says.

“Yes. Soon the Warrior will no longer be needed.”

Nerissa watches as Luxa tenses, eyes dark and troubled. She knows how Luxa feels for the Overlander. It is hidden well under her focus on her responsibilities, but Nerissa has seen how Luxa relies on him, trusts him, is comfortable in his presence. She wonders, sometimes, what it must be like to love someone instead of mourning them.

“It is for the best. Gregor belongs in the Overland,” she says, trying to hide her hurt.

The Overlander, the Warrior, Gregor. Nerissa has seen how much pain he will go through. Referring to him by his title rather than lets her keep her distance from him. It does not do much, but Nerissa takes her little comforts where she can. It would be unbearable otherwise.

“He does,” Nerissa agrees, and turns her attention back to the Peacemaker, hoping for that future to greet them soon.

“But there will be peace? As long as we endure whatever comes next, we will have peace?”

Nerissa nods, absentmindedly. This is a frequent guest in her nightmares: war that changes the very shape of the Underland, the peace that can only arrive on tides of blood. “Yes, there will be peace. It will come at a great cost, but there must be peace in the end.”

Luxa is silent for a long moment. Then she draws herself up, easily settling into her role as queen, and thanks Nerissa. She leaves after that, and Nerissa is alone again with only the ghosts of the future to keep her company.

A day before the Overlander arrives again in one of his frequent visits to the Underland, Nerissa wakes up gasping for breath. It is only practice that keeps her from screaming.

Soon. The end is soon.

Nerissa looks out to the lights of Regalia, and can only see how they will go out.

She stays silent.

The only kindness she can offer is swallowing down visions of the future so she is the only one who suffers them.

Whether this is a kindness to others or to herself has never been clear.

Nerissa mourns the living, and keeps her place in the future, always watching but never a part of it.

#tucweek #underland chronicles fandom week #the underland chronicles #tuc #fic #my writing #nerissa #nerissa as kassandra is something i adore and will think about always #yes im posting this late. no im not ashamed <3

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sanghyukstattoos · 4 years ago

Text

Night-time comfort

Characters: Lee Sanghyuk I Dawon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, little bit of angst~~~

Words: 1398

Summary: Never realising as it happened, it hurt you however, you didn’t think that when you woke up your true feelings would pour out of you. Sanghyuk recognised this and concerned, he did his best to safeguard you whenever you felt scared in the heavy blues of the mornings.

A/N: Heyyy anon!! How are you?? Your request was super cute and when I read it for the first time, I could totally see Sanghyuk comforting the reader when they have a bad dream, all loving and fussy (applies to all the boys but they’d use different ways). This fic is among the many others that I enjoyed writing so I thank you for requesting it plus loving my other fics 💖💖

Also, this gif AHHHHH

Pay attention to the words

They were waiting for you to speak but you didn’t say anything which obviously left you thinking, ‘’Why didn’t I say anything? I have so much to say!’’. You were right, from the moment they spoke, thoughts came to your mind refuting their arguments. While their speech built up, yours receded, forgetting what they had said before. Neither could you speak or remember as you felt compelled to listen to their words. The background was a blur but you could make out different bits and pieces to be able to put them together. The three of you were on a stage, two of them facing opposite you, their backs to the audience. The peach- coloured spaces were blank but you thought that it would be more terrifying if there were people present. Red, velvety curtains open, the back was empty, shrouded in darkness as the props lay lifeless in the absence of light.

‘‘I refuse to help you’‘ and as pitiful as it sounded, you felt hurt. Why would they ditch you when you needed it the most? Rather than things that went bump in the night, it was the emotional moments that left you scared, thinking that they would suddenly get up and leave when deep down you know that it wasn’t a possibility. They left leaving another behind who stared at you with a hint of remorse, lightly sighing. The look you hated the most rested on their face, I hope you understand as they turned to leave as well. Noticing the audience in front of you, they pouted and you could hear the choruses of ‘‘awww’‘ going around.

Sweat ran down your forehead and into your hair that clung to your neck. You clenched your teeth in frustration holding back the tears as your hands were tightly fisted in the sheets. He had initially woken up thinking that you were in pain hearing you whimpers however quickly realised that you were having a nightmare. Gently lifting your head, he placed it on his arm, circling your waist to pull you into his embrace and you came easily, clinging onto his oversized jumper towards the end of your shocking early- ending nightmare. His chest hurt at the sight of your eyebrows knitted together as he cleared the hair that clung to your temples, the nightmare clearly playing no grace cards with you.

The pain of suddenly waking up overcame your worn out sense as your eyelids pulled open, struggling to handle the transition from black to black. Cupping the back of your head, he bought you closer to him and within seconds, the tears escaped your eyes, flowing freely from the corners. Taking a deep but shaky breath, you hiccupped as the painful warmth blossomed in your chest and it hurt so much that the harder you tried to stop crying, the faster the tears fell.

To tell the truth, you didn’t know why you were crying. Not having felt this way during your nightmare, you must’ve been impressively holding back the tears because you felt like you had reached the end of the thread. As if it wasn’t enough that the guilt and remorse seeped out of you like a bloody river, you were frozen, wanting to curl and keep away.

‘’Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay’’, Sanghyuk gently whispered, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear as you sobbed. Seeing your leg shaking slightly, he threw his leg over yours and rubbed your temples in circles and like that, you stayed together with the sound of the clock so far in the distance that it would have once bothered you. Sniffling, you gradually stopped shaking your leg and looked at Sanghyuk, who met your puffy, red- rimmed eyes. There wasn’t much light in the room, however, the two of you could still see one another clearly. Sun barely bringing about dawn, light was absent outside for the most part.

The curtains were closed, shutting out whatever light threatened to come inside yet a bright light suddenly shone through the curtains causing you to convulse as your heart rate spiked causing you to instantly turn away from the light and seek refuge. Instantly, Sanghyuk hid you in the crook of his neck sensing your distress, whispering small ‘’shh’s’’ as he rocked you back and forth, hand moving under your shirt to rub your back. Hiding in Sanghyuk’s chest, the warmness radiating from him slightly eased you, but your own hurt, having barely calmed down from the nightmare, unnaturally spiked in rough waves, the surface coarse and unsure.

It was rare for you to have nightmares yet lately, you had been having these intense, emotionally- fuelled nightmares which propelled you to experience strong feelings of fear upon waking up. Unlike bad dreams, these were vivid and intense driving you nowhere yet so much happened all at once that it overwhelmed you the moment you woke up. Grabbing your attention with a soft ‘’hey’’, he continued, ‘’Are you feeling better now?’’. Nodding, you spoke, voice raspy from the crying, ‘’Yea, I’m okay’’.

‘’You really scared me’’ he said, breathing a sigh of relief at your words, acknowledging that you were now safe. Wrapping your arms around him, you pecked his cheek feeling apologetic for waking him up.

Smiling back at you, his affectionate orbs met yours, cautiously asking, ‘’Do you want to speak about it?’’. With a gentle and affirmative nod from you, his breathing evened out as you spoke, ‘’It was the same one as last time’’ his body stiffening at your words. The mention of last time brought worry to his face, concern etched into his features as he questioned, ‘’Everything?’.

You didn’t nod because he knew the answer and almost instinctively he held your face in between his hands saying, ‘’Don’t stress about this okay, they’ll pass and you’ll be able to have really good sleep again.’’. You knew that they would pass plus the fact that you would forget this one just as quickly as moving on with your day made coping with the aftermath a little more possible. For now, all you needed to do was rest.

But first, you wanted him to know that you were thankful for his presence by your side and so you softly kissed his lips, his response a contrast to your somewhat slightly quivering state. You held him as he breathed into the kiss, the shivering morning holding nothing on the lovable softness of his lips.

Leaning apart, he spoke, ‘’Let’s go to sleep?’’ and you chuckled at his question, groaning over how early it was. ‘’Yes, please’’ you replied, continuing with a pout on your face, ‘’You must be really tired, I’m so sorry’’. ‘’It’s okay, trust me.’’ he replied, softly smiling at you. The two of you closed your eyes but a couple of seconds later realised that you were both unable to get sleep and already awake, you started first:

‘‘Babe?’’

‘‘Yea?’‘, he replied with his eyes closed.

‘‘How many hours of sleep do you think we’re going to get?’‘

‘‘I don’t know, I can’t really see the clock.’‘, he replied with his eyes still closed.

‘‘Why can’t you see the clock?’‘

‘‘Because it’s really dark in here’‘ watching him shuffle in the dark with his eyes shut made you laugh a little bit

‘‘Why are you laughing?’‘ he questioned.

‘‘Nothing’‘, you denied, stifling a laugh

‘‘The light hurts my eyes by the way’‘ you spoke once again

‘‘Mine too’‘

‘‘Thank you, by the way for being there. I love you’‘

‘‘No problem and I love you too’’

‘‘So, what time are you waking up?’‘

‘‘Do either of us have work tomorrow?’‘, bringing a hand to his face to cover his yawn

‘‘Nope, I don’t think so’‘

‘‘We’ll wake up late then’‘

‘‘Sanghyuk, Sanghyuk!’’

‘‘Yes? Aren’t you tired?��‘

‘‘Maybe. Has anyone ever told you how cute you are?’‘

‘‘Sleep, please’‘

‘‘Okay, but I love you too much to sleep’‘

‘‘?!’‘

‘‘I want to kiss you’‘

‘’All of a sudden? Then kiss me’‘

Lazy kiss received, Sanghyuk lightly laughed, saying, ‘’Come here.’’. Moving impossibly closer he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his chest as he whispered-commanded, ‘’Sleep’’, sleep overcoming his tired self in the process. Giggling, you took a few moments, throwing a leg over his waist before you finally fell asleep, drifting peacefully into the abyss.

#sf9 #sf9 au #sf9 imagines #sf9 scenarios #sf9 dawon #lee sanghyuk #lee dawon #sf9 sanghyuk #dawon x reader #dawon scenario #sf9 fluff #sensational feeling 9 #sf9 x reader #sf9 writings

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shinsoups · 4 years ago

Text

- a thousand paper cranes

pairing: hinata shouyou x amnesiac!reader

genre: soulmate one shot; angst

word count: 993 (i got carried away)

orange = a love filled with warmth and comfort. communication is its foundation. most times two souls are the opposite of each other, nonetheless this creates a rather adventurous life together

There were worse cases out there and Hinata knew that. He should have considered himself lucky to only suffer a minor injury after their game, it was merely luck to not have a broken bone. But still, it bothers him to injure himself at such an important game for the Jackals. But what bothered him the most was the fact that the person he was waiting for never came today.

Waiting for his turn to be wheeled in a room to stay overnight for further examinations, he sat on the cold steel chair provided at the waiting area. Contemplating whether to call the number he was trying to reach for days now. But his calls never seem to go through and that bothered him too much. Must be busy or something came up, I'll try again later, he thought.

You stared at the white wall in front of you, as if haunting you once again of the nightmares that kept you up at night. It had been three days now. Your head ached once more from trying to remember anything about yourself. Amnesia, you laugh at the diagnosis after waking up in an unfamiliar room. The day you woke up, two doctors and some policemen were trying to interrogate you on what had happened. But you have no clue at all. Only the ring on your left hand was your remaining possession before everything went nothing.

The doctor assured you that this would be temporary, just the trauma you suffered from getting mugged in an unfamiliar place. Cruel as it may seem, you never thought that it could possibly happen in real life, let alone at someone like you. Investigation has been going on with the help of the local authorites, but to no avail you still got nothing.

Bored in your room you decided to take the stationary papers given to you by one of the nurses and started folding it once again. They say that folding one thousand paper cranes can make one of your wishes come true. You’re not sure whether you believe in such tale, but for now it’s one of the easiest way to distract yourself that one day some of your memories will return.

“The doctor said you need to stay overnight for them to run some tests on your leg,” Coach Foster said. “Hinata, you’ll be okay. Don’t think much of it, ok?” he assured before leaving the orange haired in the comforts of the hospital room.

On the opposite room where Hinata stays, he noticed paper scattered all over. Picking one up he found the room empty. A sudden rush of panic came bubbling down his throat. He tilted his head, looking for the patient who’s confined in the room. "It can't be," he murmured to himself. Just as he was about to leave he noticed the familiar figure on the corner of his eyes.

The first time your eyes landed on the guy that walked in your room was to ask him what he was doing, but your lips refused to do so. Instead, hot tears started to escape from your eyes. Noticing the orange hearts spreading from his hands as his familiar warm eyes landed on yours. A hazy memory started flooding your head.

“Yeah, yeah...don’t worry this is just between us okay? Don't tell him, mom. He knows I’ll be watching the game on D-day here on his team’s hometown..” You excitedly told your mom on the other line after arriving at the Osaka Airport.

“I sure hope Shouyou would be surprised as well. No- mom he doesn’t know I took a vacation leave for one week. I just want to spend some time with him before his game...That’s why it’s a surprise, right? Yeah...uh-huh... yeah love you too, mom. Bye.” You shuffled your bag on your shoulder ending the phone call.

Hinata couldn’t believe it. What happened? Why were you here? Are you okay? Hundreds of question ran through his mind but the sight of you crying made his heart ache. But what hurts even more was when he tried moving closer to you only to hear you say....

“Do I....Do we k-know each other?” you ask uncertainly, hoping he was the person you remembered. You flinched when he moved closer, a myriad of emotions flash on his face, tears welling in his eyes as he hugged you in his embrace. You unconsciously wrapped your arms around his warmth, seeing the orange hearts once again springing from him. Noticing the same pattern snaking slowly on yours trembling hands.

For a few moments, everything that was going through your head went quiet. Pushing yourself away from him you asked once again, “Y-you're Shouyou...right?"

Flashes of vivid images of him smiling at you filled your mind. The name felt comfortable on your lips, like it's something you say every single day in your life. He nodded, still unable to answer anything you asked.

"y/n," he called out. Y/n... you echoed your own name in your head, opening another door to your lost memories. Resting his chin at your shoulders, Hinata forced himself to smile as he saw the confused look you had on your face.

"Can I help you with the paper cranes you were folding?" there was softness in his voice. "How many more do we have to fold?" he asked, now beaming at you.

Hinata held your hand leading you back to your bed. You looked at your entwined hands, hope blossomed in your chest seeing the same exact ring you were wearing on his finger. You felt at ease.

Feeling the blood rush into your cheeks when you both saw how orange hearts were continuously springing out of your interlinked hands.

"U-uhmm just about twenty more to go..I think."

There was something about him that seemed so familiar. His scent, his warmth, his very presence made you feel like you're soaking under the comforts of the warm sun. Suddenly you felt like you were home.

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

author’s note: this is part of the ‘colors of love’ soulmate one shot mini series im writing. ahhhhhh *i got too caught up in giving some background story on this one.... 😔 also i was hoping to write a fluffy fic for hinata but it turned out to be like this... Oh gods why?? 😭

ps: colors of love is a soulmate oneshot series about the different colors associated with what kind of love and what will timeskip hq!!boys will have in the relationship. mostly the oneshots are first meetings

⚘ · read the other colors here · ⚘

#hinata shouyou #hq!!#haikyuu!!#hinata shoyou #hinata shoyou x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! colors of love mini #sey writes #ahhhhh i hope the tags are working this time

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clive-owen-and-the-knick · 4 years ago

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The Perfect Dream - THE KNICK - FAN FICTION

Lucy was nine months pregnant. She was now the wife of Henry Robertson, Jr. It had been over a year since she had left the Knickerbocker Hospital.

Lying in bed during a warm August night, Lucy was looking at the ceiling. Her fingers danced across her swollen belly tentatively. The house on Long Island looked out to the water and a wan breeze floated in the window to alleviate the humid, sticky atmosphere.

That morning Lucy had received a letter from Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr. He had himself been married a few months prior to Miss Genevieve Everidge. In the letter he wished her well on her pregnancy, hoping for the best for the child and mother.

Whenever she heard from Bertie she would spend long hours thinking of her time at The Knick. It also made her think of Dr. John Thackery and his death, which had happened just a day after she had left the hospital.

As mesmerizing moonlit patterns moved over the decorative ceiling patterns above, Lucy drifted off to sleep.

"It's another placentia previa case, Doctor Chickering!" a female voice called out.

Lucy's eyes snapped open, breathless. Above her was another ceiling with different lights. Around her were people dressed in white moving quickly to and fro.

Lucy looked to her right and saw Bertie. He had a look of grave concern on his face.

Didn't he recognize her?

"Bertie, what's happening?" Lucy asked cautiously.

Bertie moved towards her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She was on a gurney!

"Miss, please control yourself. We need to get you to surgery as soon as possible."

Lucy didn't know what to say. Frantically she assessed herself, looking the length of her body. She could see blood – lots of blood – all around her thighs beneath the white sheet which was draped on her. Her entire lower half was caked in blood.

"Oh my Lord, what is this? What has happened? Is my baby alive? Bertie!?"

Somehow the 'Bertie' references were not sinking in here. Didn't Bertie know who she was? Lucy reached up to her own face and she could feel the tears of soft panic.

The touch of Bertie's hand on her shoulder faded. The hallway became a rush as someone else grabbed hold of the gurney and pushed her quickly towards the operating theater of the hospital.

Why was she here, of all places? Why not a hospital closer to her summer home? None of this made sense! Stranger yet, she felt no pain, just dizziness and confusion. Her hands kept touching her belly.

Lucy saw the circular operating lights overhead as the gurney was guided into the operating theater. She was lifted off the gurney and placed by several gentle hands on the operating table.

She recognized Nurse Baker and Nurse Pell.

"It's me, Lucy!"

No one seemed to hear her voice. They were steadfastly getting ready for surgery.

"Can anyone hear what I'm saying?" She tried to raise her voice but is was fruitless.

"Where is Nurse Elkins?"

Lucy heard the voice and immediately her heartbeat doubled.

"I'm here, Dr. Thackery!"

The familiar, tall, dark-haired figure marched commandingly into the operating room. Bertie was close by his side.

"She isn't here today, Doctor," Nurse Pell answered with a quick upward glance. Everyone at The Knick knew that Lucy Elkins was Dr. Thackery's 'special' nurse, so when she was not available the one of her major surgeries, his temper would sour considerably.

Thackery swallowed hard, looked down at the woman on the gurney. "Bertie, are you ready for our new procedure?"

Bertie held up an odd instrument which looked decidedly like an inflated basketball with metal tubing attached to it.

"Yes, Dr. Thackery" Bertie answered, looking at the lovely young woman on the table before him with what could only be called worried trepidation.

"Nurse Pell, anesthesia please."

Lucy could now see Thackery leaning over her. His green, penetrating eyes gazed into her own.

"John, it's me, Lucy! Don't put me out yet – wait. I have so much to ask you!"

Thackery twitched. An inkling of recognition?

"It's Lucy. Lucy Elkins. Your Lucy, remember?

Thackery smiled at her – a smile which could break any woman's heart. No matter how cantankerous or willful or impossible Dr. Thackery could be, the charm he could spread with just one beaming smile could obliterate all his rough patches.

"We're going to put you under anesthesia, Miss. When you wake up, you and your child will be together. Just relax and let us do the rest," his mesmerizing eyes moved away from her, "Bertie?"

Lucy saw the face-mask coming towards and she pushed it away, her hands reaching out to clutch at Dr. Thackery, grabbing the collar under his white gown and pulling him close.

"Please, please don't put me out!"

"Miss, please let go."

"You look so strong, so well, John. I've missed you so much."

Dr. Thackery looked down at the young woman with the vivid blue eyes and tried to detach himself. He had to admit – he had never been grappled by a patient like this before! Her hands were in his hair and seemingly at his throat. It was a gentle tug, but a tug nonetheless. She was surprisingly strong for someone on the verge of bleeding to death!

"Miss," Thackery said, trying a new tactic, "The longer we wait, the more likely it is that you will bleed to death on this table in a matter of minutes."

"John!" Lucy said, her smile glowing, "Do you know who I am? I thought you were dead, Doctor. I heard the stories about your surgery, how it all went so, so wrong. And then I got to thinking about how we went so wrong. I want it to be different. I want it to change."

Dr. Thackery shook his head with complete bewilderment. Looking at Bertie, the older doctor was hopeful for some assistance. The younger man had nothing to offer but his own bemused expression as he stood, poised with the ether mask and drip in both hands.

Lucy could see Dr. John Thackery so clearly now directly above her. The circle of bright surgical lamps glowed behind his head in a halo of light. A silky black strand of wild hair tumbled across his right brow, contrasting sharply with his all white doctor's gown. Lucy swept at it with her fingers admiringly.

"Look at you. Proud as Lucifer."

Bertie smirked. He'd read his Milton. If anyone was as haughty and proud as Lucifer, it would be his mentor.

Thackery grabbed Lucy's wrists and forcibly moved them both beneath the white sheet which was tucked up high on Lucy's neck. "Bertie, do it now."

"I love you, John," Lucy breathed in a hush into Thackery's ear as he pressed down on her, "Please save our baby!"

Dr. John Thackery's brow was deeply furrowed with questioning and astonishment at the audacious young woman's words. Who was she?

Bertie quelled her into submission as he dropped the ether mask over her face, letting the ether mixture seep slowly onto the mask as Thackery held her still.

Lucy watched in horror, unable to fight them both off. The room started to fade and the ceiling was a whirl. She blinked wildly, trying to stay awake, her eyes fixed on Dr. Thackery's face as it slowly blurred into darkness. A cry of longing was lodged voicelessly in her throat.

Then, blackout.

A baby cried in the crib as Lucy stood by the window, gently rocking it side to side. Outside she could see Waverly Street and all the traffic that happened on a late afternoon. It was just about dusk. She listened intently as the door downstairs opened and closed. He was home!

She smiled to herself as she waited for the footsteps to come up the brownstone steps of the apartment house. Outside the electric lamps had started to glow along the street corners and in the late August dusk everything seemed awash in purple and green. It was peaceful, it was hopeful, it was heaven.

A strong arm wrapped itself around her waist as she had closed her eyes in bliss. She nestled into the tall figure behind her, holding his arms close to her and looking up at Dr. John Thackery.

"How is Mrs. John Thackery today?" he queried, kissing the top of her head.

"'I can make it painless and perfect'. Do you remember that, John?"

Thackery held her without speaking, looking at the child close by in the crib and down at his beautiful, young wife.

Lucy felt tears on her cheeks.

Painless and perfect.

Henry Robertson was holding her hand when Lucy opened her eyes.

"Where am I?" Lucy asked startled.

"Where do you think?"

Lucy sat up, one hand quickly tracing her belly lovingly. Henry held her face and wiped the tears which were lacing her lashes.

"Must have been some dream…"

Lucy seemed dazed, "It seemed so real, like the baby was already born. I was in a different place. Not here. I had my baby at The Knick, of all places."

"The Knick?" Henry smirked, "Now that is a nightmare, I'll reckon. That life is over now, Lucy."

Lucy felt sad, as if time had shifted. Seeing her former self, her real self, was agony.

"It felt so real, so…."

Henry waited for her words, patiently, "So, what?"

"So perfect," she finished.

#dr thackery #Dr John Thackery #lucy elkins #nurse elkins #the knick #fan fiction #Lucy and Thack

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wereallsaloonaticshere · 5 years ago

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Summary: Thompson moves back to America after Edward dies, and finds Eduardo, a bandit, mourning Juan’s death.

Fandom: Eddsworld, Saloonatics ~ Ships: TomEdd, Juardo (Eduardo x Juan)

Tw: Drugs, death, grief, implied overdose, cursing, tell me if i need to add any.

Word count: 3,478

He’d expected it to look the same, or roughly, as he had left it.

Yet as he entered the town, the one where he grew up and spent most of his adult years and loved with all his heart, he realized that he should have followed the train conductor’s warnings.

The place stunk.

Not smelled bad stunk; that wouldn’t have been a change; but depressing stunk. Everything in the town, the shops, the bars, the homes. It all looked... dead.

It was a ghost town. All traces of life were stuck in place, people having likely fled due to the influx of criminals that would’ve occurred after Thompson left.

He walked into his old favorite bar. The bar was named ‘A good place to start’, which Thompson had always found ironic, but especially now, when his world felt like it was caving in on itself. When it was ending.

Deciding he might as well try, he looked over the counter to see if there was any leftover alcohol. None. Which makes sense honestly, that was usually the first thing stolen, but Thompson just wishes something was there to ease his mind. Make him forget for a little while now, at whatever steep cost he’d have to pay later.

Thompson slumped into his old bar stool, and held his head in his hands. He didn’t feel like spiraling into another pity party, yet he also didn’t want to move.

But if he didn’t go anywhere, if he didn’t at least try to distract himself, then what was the point of moving back to America in the first place?

He forced himself out of the chair, and walked out. Wandering aimlessly, he waiting for something to pounce on him from the shadows, but nothing came.

Even the criminals had abandoned this place.

After some time, he heard soft weeping. A deep voice, one that rang a distant bell that resided on the outskirts of his memory.

Thompson was, by far, no stranger to crying. So he knew that, if he were crying in a place where he thought he was alone, he wouldn’t exactly want someone intruding.

So, he tried to walk away, but instead tripped over his own feet and landed on the ground with a thud. Dust from the ground flew into his lungs, and he loudly coughed it out.

The man he’d heard before was looking straight at him now, eyes wide with surprise and recognition.

The man he saw was the bandit, Eduardo, if he remembered correctly, who had kidnapped the Prince many years ago. He was wearing a rumpled and dirty green shirt, with hideous, shadowed bags under his eyes. Not that Thompson had any ground to stand on in that department. Both men looked altogether disheveled.

Eduardo shot up, looking ready to sprint away, but then he just stood there. Staring.

“What?” Eduardo said, “Aren’t you gonna kill me to?”

Thompson stood up, raising his hands in front of him.

“Hey, I’m no killer.”

“But your friends are.” Eduardo shot back, eyes, already sunken in and red, welling up with tears, “All you cops are. Freaks.”

“Hey! That’s not-”

“If you’re not gonna kill me, at least leave me alone.” Eduardo sunk back down onto the earth, back slumped and head in his hands.

Thompson walks over to Eduardo.

“Why are ya-”

“The fuck did I say before? Leave.” Eduardo growled, hands pulling on his hair.

“Fine.” Thompson walked away.

He walked until he found an abandoned hotel, not want to go back to his old house and see what the new people had done there. Prying open the doors, he figured the owners wouldn’t mind if he borrowed one of the rooms for a night or two. He takes the first one on the ground floor.

He gingerly takes a compass out of his pocket and places it onto the night stand next to him.

As he climbs into bed and curls the covers around him, pictures of Edward start to rattle around in his brain.

This is always when things go downhill. Though, with the subtraction of alcohol, it might end with less of a headache and with no embarrassing stories you overhear from other people at work the day after.

Edward was beautiful, and brilliant, and bold. He would take him up onto the balcony and they would snuggle under a big, soft blanket, looking up at the stars. One night when they did this, Thompson said something that’d been on his mind for some time.

“Hey, Ed?”

“Yes, Thom?” Edward snuggled closer, and a slight chill went down Thompson’s back.

“There...there are more stars ‘n your eyes than the whole sky.” Thompson fidgeted with the blanket, studying his own hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edward’s face, bathed in moonlight and dusted with dazzling pink. His own cheeks got warmer.

Edward raised his hand over his mouth, eyes betraying his smile.

“Thompson...” The star-y eyed man giggled, “I hope you know that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me before.” He slowly wraps his arms around Thompson, petting his hair softly and cooing other praises into his ear.

Thompson flushed at the flattery, breath wavering. He allowed a small smile, hugging tightly.

That was the night Thompson was sure he was never going to leave Edward for America, that he would stay with him until the end.

And in that way, he wasn’t lying. He did stay with him until the end.

Edward and Thompson shared many tender moments, and had built a very unique relationship indeed. But it seemed it wasn’t enough, not for Edward.

He was erratic when they outlawed the original cola. He would sob into Thompson’s arms after waking up from a vivid nightmare, wondering how he would ever feel happy again. Thompson would pretend not to feel a little hurt at the implication that he wasn’t enough, but would swallow it down, not wanting to inadvertently hurt his partner’s feelings. Though that just led to more statements like that, so it probably would’ve been worth the trouble to just say something.

He would keep Thompson up at night, just talking, saying he was unable to sleep yet exhausted. His superiors had tried to team Thompson up with someone else because of how badly Edward was suddenly doing on all his cases. Thompson refused.

After weeks of being constantly tired, cold and hungry, the symptoms seemed to stop, suddenly. He was doing better again, oddly enough.

“Thank God he didn’t go to therapy, like his superiors told him to,” Thompson overheard someone say, “it was probably just a rough patch.”

And it seemed like it was. Everything was better, suddenly. He was getting picked for the best cases, and his superiors were giving him small bonuses again. Sure, it was odd Edward would go to take smoke breaks alone every hour or so, but hey, that’s being a detective for you. It’s a stressful job.

But soon he would wake up in the middle of the night again, getting chills and tremors even though he was always used to the cold before. Bags would appear under his eyes from waking up so often.

Thompson begged him to go to a doctor, but Edward denied every time, until Thompson just quietly hoped from a distance.

“Why would I go to a doctor? So they can lock me up and prevent me from doing my job? Preposterous, Thomie. This city; all of England; needs me.”

“If you say so...”

He didn’t know what to do. Edward was eventually taking so many short breaks he got suspended. Then fired. They of course still needed to pay rent and afford food so Thompson decided to keep working, which left Edward alone for long stretches of the day, and...

Thompson curled into fetal position, feeling a fatigue so strong he could hardly breathe without each one feeling like a sit up. He didn’t even have any tears left to cry.

He didn’t want to relive the next parts, the ones that made him feel unfit to call himself human.

Eventually, he fell asleep, staring blankly ahead.

Thompson didn’t take much back to America with him. The clothes on his back and enough food and money to help him survive the sea ride were the only things he originally planned on taking.

Then, as he was trudging out the door, something caught his eye.

A compass.

Technically worth nothing, Thompson found it in a pile of mud. But it looked pretty to him, even from a distance, and when he picked it up, he saw intricate gold designs on it. He took it home to clean it. It was broken, however, but Thompson figured he could always get it fixed.

When Edward found the thing drying on the dinner table, he asked Thompson what it was.

“It’s a compass.” Thompson said, smirking.

“Well, yes, I can see that. What is it doing here?” Edward asked, amused and intrigued.

“I...I dunno. I found it ‘n I thought it looked nice. So I went and cleaned it up all spiffy for ya.” Thompson picked it up and held it out, “Here ya go.”

Edward light up, and carefully held it, examining it in the light.

“Thank you! This is lovely.” He kissed Thompson on the cheek, effectively burning the man’s face off. “I think it’s really symbolical how you found this in the mud but still saw enough beauty behind the hard exterior to clean it.”

“Right...the symbolism.” Thompson had never really been a symbolism ‘guy’. In his mind, if you had something to say, just say it. Don’t make everyone else feel stupid for not understanding how some vague dream or color-coded outfit tie into some bigger, overarching story line.

“I think it fits you nicely!” Edward beamed, proud of himself.

“You think a dirty, broken compass ‘fits me’?” Thompson raised one eyebrow, leaning on the table with his elbow.

“Oh no! No no no no no.” Edward smiled nervously, waving his hands in front of him, “I simply meant that you finding the beauty in something others would consider trash is...well, quite sweet.”

“...Have others called ya trash before? ‘Cause I’ll beat ‘em for ya, if ya want.”

Edward chuckled a little before he realized Thompson was dead serious.

“No no, it isn’t that, I just think it’s like your old town.” When Edward said that, Thompson felt a little nostalgic for his old life. Not that he’d trade Edward for anything, of course; he just liked the familiarity of the thought. “Your town seemed rotten with crime at first glance, but you stayed and helped it; why? Because you saw it’s good, and it’s beauty, and the potential it had with a little cleaning up!”

Thompson titled his head and squinted at the floor.

“I...think I understand?”

“I’m glad I could help!” Edward smiled, and Thompson couldn’t help but reflect it. “I really do think it’s sweet, you know. It proves you notice the little things, and-”

“Alright, alright,” Thompson interrupted, blush furious at the praise, “that’s enough. Thanks, though. Sweet of ya ta interpret it that way.”

“You’re quite welcome!” He kissed him on the cheek again, and Thompson let himself smile dumbly, his eye fluttering shut. “But I think it could also mean you see...”

Thompson had stopped listening at that point, but watching Edward ramble on about things he didn’t know or care about...well, he enjoyed how happy it made him.

Thompson figured he couldn’t leave the compass there to get taken and thrown away by the bank, he wouldn’t bare it. Even though his entire reasoning in leaving was so he could get away from everything that reminded him of his late...friend, he knew he wouldn’t feel right leaving this behind. So he put it in his pocket and left with it.

Now it was on the nightstand. Or at least, it should’ve been.

When Thompson opened his eye and saw it missing, the nothing feeling was replaced by panic.

Flinging the covers off him, he went to check under the bed, but before he could, he saw a flash of color out the window. It was dark green, with a small glint of gold.

He flew through the doors and ran outside.

“HEY!” He shouts at the moving figure, better recognizable now. It looks an awful lot like the crying man from before; Eduardo. Thompson sprints with all his might, a swirling inferno of energy replacing the usual dull spark.

He doges houses and runs after Eduardo, further in the desert. Colors blur together, and soon Thompson has Eduardo pinned down, pressing his wide-eyed face into the dust. He pries the compass out of his hands.

“Now.” Thompson’s voice was a quiet, tired growl. A warning through gritted teeth. “Why did you try and steal my compass?”

“I...” Eduardo shrinks into himself, eyes closing slowly now. He sighs. “I just wanted to finally leave.”

Thompson blinks and shakes his head.

“Sure, bandit.” Eduardo tightens his lips. He hasn’t been called that in awhile. Or he just doesn’t like that word. “I’m gonna-” He instinctively reaches for where he usually puts his handcuffs. Of course, he turned them in when he quit. Old habits die hard.

“What are ya gonna do now?” Eduardo asks, “There’s no one else here to help you, and I could get out of this any time.”

“Then why haven’t ya?” Thompson asks, calling his bluff, and Eduardo simply frowns. “I knew it. Now why did ya steal my only...why did ya steal my compass?”

“That’s none of your business.” Eduardo snapped, eyes squeezing shut, “Now let me go.”

“How should I know ya won’t just try n’ kill me? Or something worse?” Thompson asked, tightening his grip. Eduardo grimaced. “Ya said somethin’ about finally bein’ able to leave. If there’s no one else here, why not do that a while ago? Who was stopping ya?” Thompson’s rage had turned to curiosity. Mixed with rage.

Eduardo tried to swallow, making his hair fall in front of his face to mask the expression. A few seconds pass, and Thompson considers asking again, because he wasn’t going to let this go, until he hears quiet sobs from the man. Thompson softens.

“I...” Thompson was never really good at comforting people. That was Edward’s job, mostly. If they were on a case with a grieving widow, Edward was the one to hold them. He would always know just what to say, even when he himself was at his worst. Remembering Edward’s worst moments puts tears into Thompson’s eye.

One time, just two hours after Edward got suspended for a week, Thompson was yelling at him for being so inconsiderate.

“I don’t even know how ya did this!” Thompson had thrown his arms into the air

“I-I don’t either! My job performance is fine-”

“It’s because ya keep taking breaks every 5 seconds! And ya never tell no one what you’re doing! It makes me wonder if ya ever even stopped using-”

“Shut-shut UP!” Edward shouted, then placed a hand over his mouth. Thompson instinctively took a step back. “I’m...I’m sorry, Thompson. Terribly sorry.”

“It’s...” Thompson rarely heard Edward raise his voice. But when he told him to shut up, there was legitimate fear in his voice. Edward clutched his arms, looking at the ground. He shivered. “fine. It happens sometimes.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Edward said, almost as if he was apologizing for something else, and walked quickly away.

The look of regret in Edward’s eyes...Thompson knew he didn’t want to do what he was doing. But it was almost as if he had to. He wanted to stop, but didn’t know how.

Teardrops fell onto Eduardo’s neck.

“Wha...” Eduardo said, “Are you...can you get off of me?”

“Sure.” Thompson sat next to Eduardo has he sat up. A short silence proceeded, a heavy and curious one.

“What am I doing?” Asked Eduardo, sighing to himself as he fumbles with his necklace.

“I don’t know.” Thompson wiped the tears from his eye. There was an awkward tension in the air, and they both just wanted to fill it. So, he said the first thing that came to his mind. “I just miss him so much. Edward, I mean.” He blushed slightly.

“Were you two...?” Eduardo cocked his head, eyebrows creased.

Thompson licked his lips. He looked the man over again, and saw that he didn’t have any weapons on him. Of course, he might be able to throw a few punches, but Thompson didn’t find himself caring too much about that. He figured if he had nothing left he cared to lose, why not risk all that remained?

“I loved him.” Thompson kept his eye open when he said this, wanting to see Eduardo’s reaction. He nor Edward had told a soul about their relationship, but he didn’t care all that much about his reputation now, and Edward didn’t exactly have a spotless one anymore. Also, Thompson doubted there was a thing Eduardo could say to hurt him that he hadn’t heard before; offhand in the streets, at church, in crude jokes. Eduardo could never hurt Thompson in a way that mattered, no one could anymore. In Thompson’s mind, that is.

Wide, deep brown eyes freeze and stare into Thompson’s icy blue one. After no signs of joking, Eduardo’s jaw goes slack.

“I get it.” Eduardo said, “I just...didn’t know there was another out there, I-I...” Long buried and hated tears soak his eyelashes, “I thought I was alone. For so long.”

“I know. ‘M sorry.” Thompson taps his fingers on the ground, not knowing if he should move to hug him, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to think.

“Years.”

Thompson just waits, heart bleeding with familiarity.

“Juan died. A...I loved him.” Eduardo lets out a quick and harsh laugh, “Fuck, I still love him. I miss him so damn much.” He clenches his fists. His entire body is shaking. “I wish I had never called him any names, I wish I hadn’t waited so long to tell him, I wish he hadn’t been...” He buries his face into his hands.

“’M so sorry.” Thompson slowly wraps his arms around Eduardo, which the latter gladly accepts. They stay like that for awhile.

“And I feel like if I leave here...it’d be like abandoning him. I can’t do that, not again.” Thompson could tell it was like flood gates had been opened. The dam he had built to keep his emotions at bay were broken, and nothing would stand in the way of it’s cleansing destruction. “His smile, his clothes, his oh-so-angelic voice...what would I be if I forgot them? Who am I right now, without them?”

Thompson shut his eye tight, realizing that these were questions he had been avoiding answering himself. He felt hollow without Edward, and condolences from well meaning co-workers didn’t help fill that void at all. If he wasn’t already spending all his money on rent, he would’ve spiraled into alcoholism. He was determined to try and take a small part of the burden off this man’s back. No one deserved to feel like they had to cry alone.

People didn’t understand why Thompson cared so much when Edward died.

People obviously expected grief; but they also expected him back at work by Tuesday. They were just friends, after all. Who mourns for years over their friend?

Thompson could feel his heart being ripped out when he got pulled to the side one day at his lunch hour.

“It’s Edward.” His Captain had said. The waters in Thompson stilled.

“What is it?”

“We found him in an alley, a few miles north of here. I’m so sorry.”

Thompson simply sat down, for a pressure as heavy as the world had just been set on his shoulders. The tears didn’t come until much later.

Plaid in all black, he demanded time for mourning. In English etiquette, a widow was to mourn for her late husband for two years. But Thompson was no woman, and Edward and he never married.

In English etiquette, he was to feel sad, but not too sad. That wasn’t normal.

He was offered a week, but instead quit the job entirely.

He lived off his savings, unable to get out of bed some days, clutching the pillow Edward used to sleep on, pretending it still smelled like him, even months after.

No one deserved to cry alone.

Yet both of them had, too many times.

For Eduardo had the same weight on his shoulders. But both of them together, finally with someone who understood them, after being dead alone for too long...

It was nice.

And no one cried alone that night.

#tw drug mention #tw drug overdose #tw drugs #tw cursing #jonuardo #eduardo x juan #eduardo x jon #tomedd #eddtom #thompson x edward #shipsworld #fanfic #fanfiction #stuff i made #my writing #my stuff #saloonatics

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heroes-hq-blog1 · 6 years ago

Photo

SPECTRE IS OFFICIALLY READY TO JOIN THE ACADEMY!

› AHN SUNGJIN › 18 YEARS OLD › PSIONIC ENERGY MANIPULATION › NEW TO THE ACADEMY

POWER

psionic energy manipulation — sungjin is gifted with the ability to create, shape, and manipulate psionic energy produced by the mind. the boy being able to wield it even in its most physical forms. sungjin’s powers manifest in a glowing red mist.

STRENGTHS psi-energy influence — by channelling and manipulating psi energy in any shape or form, he is able to gain influence and control over its physical form. some basic uses of it are psionic energy attacks in the form of blasts, beams, bolts, and the like. also, not to forget his favorite application, psychokinetic influence where he is able to shape psionic energy around matter and control its movement. this is where sungjin is most trained and experienced in. psi-energy flyrogenesis — a defensive ability wherein he can generate a shield of psionic energy to protect him and others from external, physical harm. psi-reading — everyone has their own unique psionic energy in them and sungjin found that he is able to feel them – sometimes it’s a smell, sometimes it’s a color. they’re so individual, he, himself, can’t describe how they feel for certain, he just knows they’re there. when he knows the person very well and has been with them for long, he’ll be able to figure out who they are just by the feeling of their psionic energy. with the help of his brother he was able to develop this and is able to read someone’s current thoughts by letting his hand/s hover around 5 inches away or closer from its subject and draw out their psionic energy. psychic shield — due to the boy’s subconscious desires to be guarded and closed off from most, if not all people, his psionic energy was able to cocoon his mental self and become resistant to mental intrusion. psi-phoning (LOCKED) — the boy is able to draw out psionic energy from his subject (as long as it is capable of thinking) and use it for his own. psi-crippling (LOCKED) — by manipulating his subject’s psyche sungjin is able to elicit fear or emotional pain in form of nightmarish like hallucinations that could stun or cripple an enemy. these hallucinations appear as the subjects fears, regrets, or general disturbances, however the nature of it is not up to the boy. just like the subject sungjin can see and feel what they feel which can render him stunned and disturbed as well.

WEAKNESSES

sungjin’s powers greatly depends on his mental strength and mental state as well. if he pushes himself over the edge it could cause him physical and mental backlash (e.g. being knock back in result of impact, nose bleeds, headaches, and fainting). if the boy mental state isn’t in good condition he could easily lose control over it and not just harm himself but those around him as well.

the gifted boy’s hands play a huge role in directing the flow of psionic energy. if his hands were bounded or restrained in a way that prohibits him from moving them at all, renders the boy useless and unable to use his powers.

there are no distinguishable limits for time, weight, and intensity as it purely depends on how the variables act upon one another. sungjin can hold a full glass of water with ease for a long period of time as long as he focuses, however trying to lifting a car for a mere few seconds can definitely make him crack from strain.

sungjin can direct psionic energy as long as it is in his clear line of sight. sungjin needs to focus and know where he plans on directing his powers. his offensive attacks however are more potent the closer the opponent is. around the 500 ft mark, his attacks could still pack quite a punch but more than that it would noticeably be weaker. the farther the attack travels the lower the damage.

psionic energy barriers can only take as much damage as sungjin’s mental strength can bear. pushing himself over the these limits can give him specific backlash and render him unconscious.

smaller barriers can take considerable more damage than larger barriers.

currently he can only psi-read a subject by letting his hands hover over their head at a maximum distance of 5 inches or closer. any farther than that and their current thoughts will be unaudible.

the boy cannot read more than one subject at a time. even if he tried it would be useless as thoughts overlap and are even more difficult to understand as it is.

sungjin’s not completely immune to intrusion of the mind, the intruder will just need to exert more effort than normal for them to reach into the boy.

siphoning psionic energy from another subject can be quite dangerous as sungjin can take every last bit of psionic energy from them and leave none left for them rendering them in an unconscious state or worse in a coma. also another thing to note is how sungjin can only hold on to a different source psychic energy for a few seconds. doing so over the limit can result in an explosive blacklash of psionic energy.

when psi-crippling, sungjin has no control of what the subject sees. he can only trigger them but the nature of these hallucinations are decided by the subject (their fears, regrets, general disturbances etc.)

though he can choose whether or not to see what the subject sees. he cannot avoid to feel what they feel. great mental strength is needed as he can easily fall into shock if he isn’t strong enough.

ORIGINS

trigger warning for suicide, death, torture, and child abuse.

tw: abuse, hints of bullying, kidnap, assault, suicide

on the first page of a black, well-loved journal:

“to minnie”

“if found, please immediately return to ahn sungjin”

(the boy often writes on his journal and below are some of the important excerpts that serve as a window into the boy’s life)

mirror;

remember the monsters you were scared of minnie? the monsters you swore that lived inside our closet?

well, my eyes caught a glimpse of its very own reflection, today.

a monster who was coloured in hues of blues and purples, a monster who screeched in a deafening cry for help yet no sound was heard, a monster who was starting to fall apart in its seams beyond tired to try and put itself back together.

i wish you were here minnie. who’s going to stop the punches dad throws? who’s going to tend to the cuts and bruises? who was going to put hyung back together now?

i’m scared minnie.

i’m scared because the more i look in the mirror, the more i tell myself, the more i ask myself –

i’m not me, who are you?

hellevator;

have you been able to see mom minnie? is she proud of me, just as much as you were?

i guess not, especially if she saw you. knowing what i’ve done.

i wish i could be with you guys instead, it would probably be much better there with both of you than here. at least there, maybe i’d be met with laughter, hugs, and kisses – here it’s all just been curses, punches, and aches.

i don’t blame dad though, i deserve it. i deserve it all, all the stabbing words, all the fists thrown, all the pain that fills me up.

now that you’re not here.

there’s nothing for me, nobody really cares about me.

maze of memories;

i dreamt of you again, no, not a dream, it wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare – a nightmare of that night.

it was so vivid, as if i was there, reliving it again.

the tight rope wrapped on chairs that bounded our hands. the darkness that was brought by the blindfolds around our heads. the writhing pain all over our bodies as they beat us to a pulp.

but you know what felt the most real? when i felt you take a huge blow to the head then nothing, emptiness. i couldn’t feel you anymore, i couldn’t hear you anymore in my head.

i wake up after seeing bright red and i just hug myself, crying.

what kind of brother am i? why couldn’t i protect you? how could i do this to you?

The inside of my mind burns and fills up with question marks that blame me.

m.i.a;

i miss you minnie. i miss you so much.

dad misses you too.

he thinks of you fondly, loudly even. he tells me you were smart, you were good-looking, you were his true heir – you were just great in everything you did minnie. he tells me that he loved you so much, tells me that you were his favorite, tells me that it should’ve been me on the hospital bed instead.

i couldn’t agree more minnie, i’m sorry for what happened, i should’ve protected you. it was my fault, it should’ve been the bad seed, it should have been the disappointment, it should’ve been me instead.

ah i’m crying again, but really when have i not?

i miss the little squeak in your voice when you get excited, i miss your hugs that keep me warm when i couldn’t sleep, i miss you telling me:

“take it easy and try not to think of the useless stuff.”

insomnia;

i can’t seem to fall asleep, no matter how hard i try. this will be one of those nights where i sneak into your bed minnie. you’d open your arms immediately to hold me, without hesitation and any hint of anger for waking you up, then you’d sing me to sleep. those nights were just the best nights of sleep i ever could have.

funny how i’m 7 minutes older yet i am the baby between us haha should i start calling you hyung, minnie?

i’m trying to sing that song now as i hug myself to sleep tonight but it’s not the same.

when the dark night makes everyone sleep, when they fall asleep i can’t sleep because of so many thoughts.

voices;

minnie i’m starting to believe them.

what have i done?

i should just end it all, give in, just as they say i should.

i’m starting to believe that i really did that to you. that i’m a bad twin, that i’m a murderer, that i’m a monster. i’m starting to believe everyone around me. there’s so many voices, i promise i’ve been trying to shut them out. tonight, however, it’s not working.

i can’t hear your voice anymore minnie, your voice that tells me to ignore the others inside my head. these voices, they’re just so many…

at some point, i only started to hear these nagging sounds.

my side;

it’s been a few years since that night, it’s been a few years since you’ve left me alone.

i hope you can feel me right now, my hand holding yours tight. i feel you minnie, i feel you there. i just wish i knew what to do so i can wake you up from this deep, deep slumber.

you know a strange person came up to me the other day. told me there’s a place for people like me. told me i could hone my powers there. i’ve been thinking about it nonstop. maybe there i can find a way to wake you up. maybe there i can find a way for you to come back.

a part of me wants to go, but a part of me wants to stay here holding your hand.

no matter what my decision may be, please bare this in mind minnie,

even if i’m not there, i’ll stay by your side

4419;

minnie, i’m at the back of the bus we always ride to get home. we had so much memories on this bus, didn’t we? can you believe that after all this time, our names that we wrote with that cheap marker is still here crystal clear?

oh, you’re probably wondering where i’m off to huh?

remember that place? the place for people like me? i’m on my way there now to get settled. i just hope everyone’s nice. you’ve always been the better one when it comes to people.

i’ve never seen dad so happy minnie, that was a first ever since… ugh i shouldn’t be thinking about that…

anyway, dad was so happy minnie ‘cause finally he got rid of me. about time, he said. don’t worry minnie, i’m not sad. just like you said “take it easy and try not to think of the useless stuff”.

so i am. i will be better, i promise to do my best for you minnie. i promise with my whole heart, i will find a way to get you back.

someday, again at the same place, i dream we will meet again.

#hq:accepted #yang jeongin #stray kids

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stevenwhunt · 7 years ago

Text

Mommy Did This

I got married at 19. Many would say that that is way too early to be settling down, and maybe in hindsight it was, especially considering what I experienced later in life. But, I’d known Wanda Edwards since the first day of high school, and we were nigh-inseparable. There wasn’t a thing she didn’t know about me, and I was certain I knew everything about her as well. We were both eager to start a family.

We were very happy for seven years. Life was spectacular; not a single complaint from any of the three of us - Wanda, myself, and little Jacob.

One night, I came home, the same as any other night. Nothing seemed different, there was no reason to anticipate the horror I’d witness when I walked inside.

There was a closet adjacent to the front door, pretty much exclusively used for coats. It was mid-summer, so nobody had any reason to even have the door open. The closet was mildly spacious, and I was so perplexed that I didn’t even see it at first.

Wanda’s legs were visible underneath the tide of coats. I was still trying to process what I was looking at. Was she looking for something and fell asleep? Was she having a cry? I’d never known her to cry from anything other than happiness. I could only piece things together from what I’d seen in fiction.

I called her name a couple of times. No answer. I moved to the closet and threw back the coats. “What are you doing in here sweeth...” I froze. This was infinitely harder to processes.

Wanda was sitting slumped against the far wall, with one of my ties around her neck, the other end wrapped around the closet rod. I could see now that her legs were at an unnatural angle.

Struggling to pull my tie free, I just kept whispering “No” over and over again, hoping that there was any sort of a slim chance that I wasn’t too late.

I wasn’t so lucky.

I knew nothing about resuscitation. I finally collected myself enough to remember how to use my phone. I did everything that the operator instructed me to.

It wasn’t until several minutes later, that it hit me; where was Jacob?

“Oh God!” I yelled frantically into the phone. “My son! I’ve got to...” A lump formed in my throat. I searched the entire house and yard, croaking his name with my grief-stricken voice. No sign of him anywhere.

I’d observed from TV that when a woman dies and she’s involved with someone, it’s always that person who is the first suspect. The parents are also the first suspect when a child goes missing. Typically, these scenarios would go one of two ways: either they are given the standard run-through investigation to “rule them out”, or they are treated aggressively as a suspect even with no evidence, even after being formally cleared.

Again, luck was not on my side. For the next two years, my life was hell, as I was more or less presumed guilty of everything that took place that night. I was the one who needed answers more than anyone else. I needed to know where my son was. I needed to know why the woman I loved, who never showed a single shred of grief in the time I’d known her, would suddenly have taken her own life. Wanda was an orphan who aged out of the system and was not super close with her few friends. She would be mourned by others but eventually she would become a wisp of a memory, someone they thought about every few years over drinks but never really would actively miss. Our family was so tight-knit that we were the only ones we really needed most of the time, and even my own parents had met Wanda only a couple dozen times since we’d been married.

I moved out of that house as soon as I was able. I couldn’t step foot in it without falling apart into a sobbing mess. The pain never went away, but at least after some time, I could mostly function as a human being, at least outwardly.

I rented a tiny apartment close to work, just large enough for myself and the few provisions I could stand to keep. The insulation was garbage and the toilet kept breaking down, but it was what I needed at the time.

It was not long after I had settled in, when I had the first nightmare. They usually say that these sorts are “unusually vivid” or are unable to differentiate them from reality, but this was just like pretty much every other dream I’d had in my life in terms of quality. I was “awoken” in this dream by a floorboard creaking. I opened my eyes and saw Jacob standing at the foot of my bed, pale and terrified. He muttered something to me, but I couldn’t make it out.

I woke up immediately thereafter and was unable to get back to sleep. I don’t think I’d ever dreamed about Jacob even before he disappeared, let alone since then. It chilled me to the absolute bone. I obviously didn’t want to forget about him, but this was not what my psyche needed.

The next night, I was too nervous about my nightmare to fall asleep naturally, so I took some sleeping pills. It was like this for next few nights, until eventually I was able to fall asleep naturally again. About a week and a half later, I fell asleep while watching football. I dreamed about Jacob standing by the TV, who pointed behind himself with his thumb, and said something, although I couldn’t hear anything at all over the sound of the game drowning him out. I asked him what he had said, and the ref’s whistle startled me awake.

I literally ran into the bathroom and heaved a couple of times into the sink, before I caught my breath. I splashed my face with cold water and stared long and hard into the mirror. This sort of reaction would have made more sense when I was going through that circus of an investigation, but it was only in my waking hours that the pain permeated my being. Was it because I was “dealing” with this better when awake now, that it needed to seep into my subconscious?

I decided to make an appointment with a therapist to see if there was any way to ease my symptoms. The earliest that one would be able to see me was Tuesday. Unfortunately, this was a Friday and that meant going the whole weekend with this on my mind.

And because luck was not in my favor these days, I did make it through the weekend, but it was Monday night when another occurrence reared up. I was in bed again this time, and Jacob snapped his fingers to get my attention. He slowly turned around, and I saw that his entire back half was missing, covered in goopy viscera and blood. What he said this time was finally loud and clear.

“Mommy did this.” I woke up sweating and shaking, feeling somehow despite the heat and the heavy sweat like I was freezing to death. I cried for the first time since I’d left the house behind. Was this my brain trying to force logic into a very likely illogical situation?

I relayed these thoughts to Patricia, the therapist, the next morning. She helped me understand some of what I was going through, but noted that it might take some time before we were able to get to the root of this experience and I’d be able to function at night again.

It’s hard to call this lucky, but two months later, I was finally the first bit of concrete closure I’d had in this mess; going off of some tip, the police found Jacob buried in a park about a mile from where we had lived. And the most insane detail is that his spine and the back half of his rib cage and skull were absolutely shredded. Of course, they pulled me back in for questioning again, but it went a lot smoother this time, and it hurt a little bit less. The only detail they were willing to divulge was that it was done with a chainsaw. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell them that I had dreamed that Jacob had said his mother did it. But last I had heard, they still weren’t able to ascertain where and how it was done, let alone who.

While it was painful to know that Jacob wasn’t out there in the world somewhere and would come back to me someday, part of me did feel better knowing that I could stop wondering. However, “knowing” that Wanda killed our son didn’t give me any peace of mind at all, especially considering that I still never learned why she did it.

I only have dreamed of Jacob one last time since then. The night after I last heard from the police, I dreamed about standing in front of our old closet. Jacob pointed to his back again. “Mommy did this,” he said. Then he pointed to his dead mother in the closet.

“And then I did this.”

#mommy did this #murder #creepypasta #writing #fiction #story #nightmares

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dixxiemaegraphics · 7 years ago

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Corner of the Room (creepy short story)

Creepy/weird short story under the cut.

I was falling but somehow unable to move or feel around. I didn’t know where I was. I knew my thoughts weren’t clear, and it was dark, but with my eyes closed it seemed like a warm light was just on the other side of my lids. It didn’t make sense.

That’s when I felt the panic, a claustrophobic feeling wrapping me despite knowing I was plummeting.

I shook awake, but didn’t open my eyes.

I was in bed. I was unable to move all from a combination of the comfort of being wrapped in blankets but also the fear of the eyes on me knowing I was awake.

There was that feeling. Something from the far corner that had moved close in, now hovering above, just waiting for you to wake.

Or waiting to make its next move, hoping you don’t wake. It’ll do as it wants either way.

The warm light I was dreaming up was the red-bulb lamp beside my bed. Somehow knowing that was real made me think it was okay to force myself back to sleep; let myself become unguarded and chalk up the piercing eyes to a nightmare.

Even falling back into the haze of sleep in “the real world”, I still felt myself being watched.

There’s something so unsettling being watched from afar, then closer and closer, with an unblinking gaze. The things I had heard people dreaming up during sleep paralysis sounded a lot like what I was feeling... but... no way any of that was real.

I jolted again. I awoke, eyes so tired, dry and opening slowly.

I was being stared right at. Eyes cripplingly inhuman and feral. The shadow had not gone away.

I couldn’t pretend to be asleep now. It had seen me. She had seen me. But she looked as if she was caught and could not continue.

This had to be some dream within a dream. I hadn’t actually waken back up after I shut my eyes tight. Right?

But...

Why was everything so real. I was seeing my room from my position in bed, just as it should have been, just as it had always been. Everything from the feel of the blanket under my fingers to my hair brushing against my face felt too real.

She didn’t wait for me to act, and then she was on me. Thighs pinned to my sides, palms aggressively on my breasts. She was digging in.

Something about her face was off. Her eyes were like pinpoints, green, ready to eat. The expression on her mouth was crooked and hard to read. Something unstable and ghastly.

At a far away glance, however, it would have been an image of straight blonde hair and angry black lips.

Her eyes narrowed on me, doll-like and vacant. A rough whisper about needing my blood. I couldn’t make out the exact words, as my head was half-convinced this was still a dream. Words sounded far away and underwater.

But she wanted my blood.

She slowly but sharply scraped her fingernails through my tangles, to my scalp.

It was put into my mind how she wanted this. It wasn’t the means of simply biting or cutting. Somehow, through flashes, I inherently knew what was involved. I saw visions of needles, syringes, and corkscrew-like devices.

I tried to softly refuse, not able to tell my exact words as they left me.

Her equally-soft reply was more disturbing than anything else expected.

Again I saw images in my own mind, as they were somehow placed there. Things only I knew I had done, that only I could have seen with my eyes, but from the perspective from outside my window. Things no one needed to know about even after death. Windows closed or not, for an uncertain amount of time, this creature had watched me in my most private and fragile moments.

There was a threat of using these memories and visuals against me, but I couldn’t comprehend how. I was dreading enough the idea of anyone knowing my life behind closed doors.

The humid breathing against me had gotten so close I felt saliva coating my neck and into my hair.

This thing told me to remember her. I knew her. She was adamant about it.

I couldn’t put a name to her, but suddenly I was seeing her face in every memory I tried to associate her with.

We had been intimate, and why didn’t I know or remember that before? We were together so many times. I knew this. Parties, my bedroom, downtown sidewalks, in the night... I was having mental block but I knew she was there.

She knew me too deeply, and I had let her in, and now I couldn’t deny her whatever horrific means was meant to give blood. Blood for what?

A small tingle in me, that I was too ashamed of, wanted her on me, and wanted to stay in whatever state of comfort she had imposed. This tingle kept going as I winced and shuddered, as I began to cry without words.

A sound I couldn’t ever make and had never heard came from her. It was soft and far off, but otherworldly and from deep within her.

I shut my eyes tight.

A minute had passed. What I guessed was a minute.

It was longer than that, as the sun was draping through my window, with the shutter open.

I don’t remember if it was open in my dreams.

I was awake and everything was just a quick-passing shudder of a dream. Nightmare, rather.

Weird how vivid those can be.

It felt weird to have my shutter open, even though I was almost certain I left it that way every day into the night. But I thought someone from the street could see me. I checked a few times, no one was out there, not even passing cars. But, I thought someone kept passing by.

I don’t know.

I had gone down the stairs to the living room, but I couldn’t remember why. Happens sometimes. This time, though, it never came to me what I was going to do or what I had forgotten to get.

I did recall something else, something I had read a long time ago. A short myth about forgetting things when you enter a room with an entity you can’t see present.

#short story #horror #halloween

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 8 years ago

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@ursy153 & @imberbimber, can I prevail on you two to read this chapter 3 and tell me your thoughts. I was editing it, and put more in, then edited that... and it’s 3am again. Also tumblr stole the italics, again.

-> “No Quick-Fix for the Common Cold” Unedited Ch3

Chapter 3: Getting Uber Your Differences

The world burns as if Pyro had turned their flamethrower on it, until it’s almost unbearable; then, without any warning whatsoever, turns icier than Spy’s heart.

Someone’s talking at him, he thinks, but he can’t be quite certain. Sounds like they’re asking… something he can’t seem to make out; the words, the sounds… they don’t make any kinda sense?

Failing to understand who or what is being spoken just heightens the sense that something is so very, incredibly wrong… like he was broken, or the world was. And just when he thinks he’s maybe grasped onto a familiar syllable or tone, the voices start again with new phrases that sound alien in origin.

He doesn’t know what they want…

What do they want?

He can’t tell these mystery beings he doesn’t understand what they’re trying to communicate, however. All chance to do so ceased what had to have been eons ago; his throat felt as if all of Dustbowl was trapped in there. Searing heat and burning sand that had never known rain, rubbing everything red-raw, eroding his voice all but completely.

Everything is… everything is nothing more than impressions and ideas. Shades of hot and cold that flush through his body, head to toe; wracking his overtired frame with shudders that make his joints ache. It feels... like the two teams are facing off against one another, and his body is the battleground; the clashing roams all over, different areas experience pain seemingly without any warning or pattern, before the war moves to a new capture point.

Sure, maybe that’s a weird-as-fuck analogy, but it’s all he has.

The only certainty in Scout’s mind is that he is at RED base right now… probably. He clings to the familiarity of that scenario… it’s all he can do to stay in the moment.

Red, Blue, battle, team, win, lose, war… game. The words mean everything and nothing.

There is no equilibrium, up and down are utterly subjective for the moment, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes and find out which is which. It seems so superfluous, so… unhelpful, to be aware of. All he knows is that his body shivers, aching and numb in odd little bursts that seemed designed to undermine his tenuous grip on reality.

But he could not sleep. It eluded him, any and all rest that might bring a moment’s peace… held so far out of reach that he could cry, if that were still an option.

And then, something changes.

At first, it feels imagined, like the phantom fingers that had held fast his throat earlier in the evening. The ones that dredged up one of his single worst memories, and saw the runner strike the Doctor, even though the man had only tried to help.

He hadn’t meant it… Medic… so angry…

He didn’t mean to hurt the doctor…

Before he could concentrate on the thought, the memory... it happened again. Someone… touched him. And he felt his heartbeat accelerate in panic, as fingers brushed against shoulder, cheek, wrist, and finally, throat. He jerks back at the last tentative touch, not wanting to have to think about That Time again.

They said something, but it didn’t feel like it was for him; perhaps the other voices were sharing amongst themselves. That sounded like a thing they would do, right? He is aware of something clamping firmly about his shoulder, a solid something to focus on, even as it causes overstressed senses to go on alert.

Why couldn’t he open his eyes and see who, or what, it was?

Why was that so hard all of a sudden?

The pressure decreases, as if they thought he wanted them away… as if they intended to leave; and he flails out, with an odd almost-word of a cry. He wanted them to stay, he didn’t want to be alone in this. Alone in the dark and unable to communicate.

Someone shouts in alarm, as he realises he’s struck something. Had he done it again? He hadn’t meant to… you know, strike them; Scout just wanted them to stay, and couldn’t think of how else to tell these soft-voiced beings that. Especially as the cry from a moment ago refuses to make a repeat performance; his throat has closed for good or ill. Hah, probably because he was, ill that is. It was an oddly amusing thought. Still, no matter how much Scout feels like he wants to scream and beg them to remain here; there is nothing emanating from his ravaged throat. And worst of all, the hand is gone… his one anchor had abandoned him.

It feels like an eternity before something else happens, and he Bostonian is aware of every passing second in the void. In a way you might never put properly into words; like the first time you experience respawn, and you find there can be no true description of the sensation in anything as crude as words, it simply is.

Every sense is overstimulated, trying to work out where the voices went, even if his eyes refused to open and ears failed to translate the words they had spoken. A muffled whine of alarm escapes as hands return, touching first the pulse of his wrist and then brushes at the one in his throat; the memory rises like a tidal wave and threatens to consume him.

As in many of the recent nightmares he’d had since the team’s reintegration; the ones so vivid that they wrenched him from sleep in a cold sweat, screaming for help, and spurring him on to seek out even the most rudimentary form of comfort. Funnily enough, Scout always seemed to end up in the Infirmary perched on a cot, or sitting in the soft armchair in Medic’s room; shaking and muttering gibberish as the memory faded slowly. The German physician always just sighed, wrapped the runner in a blanket, and provided him with a myriad of reassurances in a soothing tone. Sometimes the intervention was nothing more than the calming repetition of ‘all is vell und you are safe, hase’, along with a cup of some of the best hot cocoa the Scout had ever had; but it worked miracles. He never remembered falling asleep again after a nightmare, only what happened afterwards; when he’d wake up in his own bed the next morning, the rest of the team none the wiser of the previous night’s incidents. Perhaps it did not show, but Scout had always been grateful for that.

The memory, so recent, etched so deeply on his mind, made him shudder once more. He would quite literally pay just about anything to erase it completely… to remove the sick flashes of little things that seemed to make it all the more realistic. The taste of dusty air heavy in his mouth, the groan of a wooden floor... that suddenly wasn’t, and the strong certainty of a rope looped about his neck, holding fast when his beloved Miss Pauling grew distracted in her attempts to save his life.

“Nnngg...ooooh… nnnnnoooo…” he manages, using what little energy he had left to exert enough control over his aching arms, in order to shove the intruding person away. “Nnnnooo… pl-...ss…”

“Crikey!” comes the startled response, and the runner cannot make hide nor hair of what it was supposed to mean. Only that the figure is close by still, hovering and uncertain what to do. Scout cannot really give them any suggestions, as he did not know himself. Nor could he think of himself as a singular being, at the moment… he was just a group of loosely connected aches and pains, extremes wrapped in confusion and left to suffer.

There’s someone else there too, he thinks; their voice is different but… he thinks he knows it. He can’t understand the words, exactly, but the tone is low and soothing; full of familiar sounds that might be phrases of comfort and explanation. It feels like they’re trying to tell him something, but it just doesn’t… translate.

But… most importantly, it feels safe. He wraps the cadence about his mind, almost like a physical thing, to block out The Memory… and it seems to work.

He tries to focus on them, he does. It’s a lot harder than he initially thought it would be, but they are patient. Up is down, the sun is cold, and his throat burns even as he struggles to make some verbal acknowledgement that he can sorta hear them. Can understand they are helping… but his mouth and brain are not on speaking terms.

And then someone is dabbing something cold on his lips… it’s cool and wonderful on the chapped flesh, with small dribbles of liquid seeping through. Not a lot, not enough to truly quench the burning in his throat, but even this taste of rain on the parched desert of his dry mouth is a blessing. It is appreciated, and he wants to say so… but all that comes out is a slurred, ‘Thah...kssss’.

“No problem kiddo,” sighs the voice, taking away the cool-wet thing, much to Scout’s distress. He knew that voice, he knew… knew who it belonged… to… why couldn’t… he think… of the… name?

“Kid, ya’in there?” they queried again, gently touching his shoulder. Then more vigorously, “C’mon Son, open those baby blues… we need ya ta stay with us.”

The hands that began to shake him were broad, and the voice familiar; but he couldn’t place them. His aching body protested the treatment, but the dribble of water seemed to be just what he had needed to finally feel the call of sleep. They were growing more frantic, and he… he really did want to respond, but… it was just so much easier to let himself drift off into the welcoming void of dreamless rest.

So he did.

~)0(~

Relentless banging jerked Medic back to something approaching consciousness. He shuffled upright, mind foggy and body aching from where he had fallen asleep over his desk… in what was possibly the worst possible position for someone his age. Ach, so much paperwork!

Donning his most scathing expression, Medic wrenches the Infirmary door open. “It is four in zhe verdammt morning, vhy zhe hell are you here?” he shouts, glaring daggers at the unexpected form of Sniper. The sharpshooter seemed oddly flustered, and had a welt on his neck that looked suspiciously like he’d taken a blow there, possibly due to a delirious teammate.

Medic immediately knew why he was there, but let Sniper explain the situation anyway.

“It’s Scout, mate. Looks like he’s gotten worse in the last little bit and Truckie said he’s real worried about the ankle-biter. He can’t seem to open his eyes or stay with us for more than a minute or two at a time… most of that is this weird strangled screaming, or trying to give you a good old shot to the chops.” Sniper grinned a little at that. “Oh, yeah, and Engie said the kid’s a lot hotter that anyone has a right to be… said he could feel the heat through his Gunslinger. Which I thought was impossible, but you never know with Truckie.”

“One moment,” Medic says, striding across the room for his bag; which had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor when the doctor had stormed in hours ago. “Yes, I seem to have everything I need, lead zhe vay, Herr Sniper.”

“You sure it’s just a cold, mate? Just seems to me like he’s gotten pretty bad real fast.” Sniper asked in his unobtrusive way. They’d never been overly close before… the whole Classics nonsense… and Medic dragging the man back from the dead had not improved relations overmuch. Still, he was less than totally indifferent towards the German, so there was that.

“Yes, vhatever zhis is, it has acted far more rapidly zhan anticipated.” Medic conceded, musing aloud. “But zhen, ve are not normal men… it vould not surprise me if the rapid acceleration of vhatever he has contracted vas in some vay linked to zhe fact his blood is most likely more than half BONK! at zhis point.”

Sniper huffed out an almost-laugh in response, more an acknowledgement, if anything. Medic was delighted, even if he hadn’t really been joking all that much; he was quite concerned with the youngest member’s continuous utilisation of that radioactive drink. It would be no great shock to anyone if it was altering the Scouts on a biomolecular level.

Reaching the room changed everything, however. The almost-companionable dynamic Medic had been sharing with Sniper was immediately crushed underneath the sudden realisation that pretty much the entirety of RED team was crammed inside the medium-sized Scout Class quarters. Those who did not quite fit, or had retreated to avoid being an accidental casualty, littered the hallway outside. The whole scenario sent Medic’s heart hammering wildly within the confines of his chest.

Many of the mercenaries present still harboured perfectly logical grudges against him, considering the whole situation with the Classics had been resolved not even three months prior; and even those who deigned to look past it, in the name of group cohesion, were still somewhat cagey about interacting with the good doctor. Holiday periods and feasts excluded, obviously, as both Thanksgiving and Smissmas had been delightful events where hatchets had been buried so that all may enjoy the celebrations.

The only problem… was that many of the mercenaries had recalled where, exactly, they’d buried them. Medic could see it in their faces as he entered, the brief flicker of mistrust that spoke volumes; he was not now, nor may never be, forgiven his transgressions. A fair call, from an objective perspective on the situation… but it still hurt Medic deeply to be alone in a room full of people he once considered family.

Individually he could bear their sullen stares and simmering ire, accept their curses and comments regarding his temporary defection as part of the road to reconciliation. There was time to hear them out, let them vent and talk them through it; but in a group, such as this, he held no chance.

A cold, clammy sweat broke out over the doctor’s entire body; though outwardly he managed to maintain some degree of his usual calm and collected persona. Though perhaps not as well as he had first anticipated; for Sniper, who always seemed to just know when someone was distressed, out a companionable hand to Medic’s back and steered the other through the crowd.

The others parted, silent as tombstones, but unlikely to stonewall this ‘home visit’ as it were, with the stoic sharp shooter standing guard. Of all those gathered, it could be said that Sniper had the greatest claim to mistrusting Medic; but if he chose to vouch for him, then no one on RED would contest it.

Slightly reassured, Medic found it possible to focus on the patient before him, and his hovering Texan guardian.

Engineer had taken a real shine to Pyro and Scout when they’d all originally arrived, liked to think of himself as some degree of father figure towards the pair; so when one of them went down for one reason or another, he was always there to throw down a dispenser to heal what ailed them, offer words of encouragement to keep going, or help them get a revenge kill. Engie tended to be a versatile paternal figure with more patience than most; he was perfect for the role he’d adopted.

In anycase, it was no great surprise to anyone that the builder had placed himself by the bedside of the team’s youngest member; monitoring Scout’s every breath and twitch like some sort of living medical monitor. Although, Medic himself had had a… well, a hand, in helping Engineer affix his Gunslinger; a [piece of technology for which the specifications were both impressive and ambiguous. There was a very real chance that the metallic hand lightly holding a concerningly limp, bandaged wrist, was taking an accurate reading of the runner’s resting pulse and oxygen saturations.

The silence was beginning to press, as Medic tried to perform a visual assessment of Scout; mentally comparing current observations with those he had taken earlier in the night. Indeed, the lack of proper response to stimuli was of concern, and the majority of symptoms appeared to have increased in severity over the previous hours. It seemed to be acting rapidly, though for all his medical knowledge, Medic could not think of what this could be outside of a rather virulent strain of a cold or flu. Those sorts of everyday infections tended to breed like wildfire in cities, after all; every person who contracted it mutating the disease to a degree before passing it on. Children, of course, were the most frequent carriers of the pathogens; therefore Medic was feeling quite confident in the prognosis, given the information the runner had imparted before their rather unfortunate encounter ended.

“Vhen did you first notice he vas in zhis state?” he enquired aloud, moving closer slowly, so as not to raise anyone’s hackles. “Or, I should ask, vas he conscious or coherent vhen you first saw to him… how long ago did zhis unresponsiveness start?”

“Ah… ah reckon it was about ten or eleven when ah came ta look in on him again after ya checked the boy over,” Engie answered, goggles fixed on Medic’s every movement. “He seemed a bit shaky, real tired and the like, but he was talkin’ a little. Said his throat was bad, but didn’t wanna be touched, and ah can respect that.”

Medic nods, both in affirmation and as a polite means of requesting that Engineer continue speaking. There’s a pause.

“He did say he wanted me ta tell ya he was right sorry about hittin’ ya, made me promise ta say it if ya came back and he’d finally gone ta sleep. Thought about comin’ ta getcha then, so he could at least hear me say it, might help him settle down and all, but ah couldn’t leave him. Didn’t wanna be left alone, see?” Engineer tossed a meaningful glare over his shoulder. “And ain’t none’a ya gonna hold that against him when he’s better, ya hear?”

After everything the team had been through, it was doubtful anyone would be callous enough to mock a teammate for finding comfort in the presence of another living being when they were unwell. Though many had a feeling it might be more aimed at the Spy, who had a tendency to prod each mercenary’s weak points when he felt rankled, or was just exceptionally bored and ready to start drama to relieve the doldrum of it all.

“Alrighty then, now that’s settled.” Engie turns back to face the Doctor. “About an hour back aways, me’n’Stretch thought he’d dropped off ta sleep finally. We were gonna switch out, so he wasn’t alone but ah could get some shuteye… when Scout starts shaking worse, mumbling and the like, and we realise he ain’t asleep… just can’t open his eyes. Tried to talk ta him, calm the little fella down, but then he clocked Sniper one… and went real still.”

Medic was nodding, half-listening to Engineer and focusing on the rabbit-face heartbeat under his stethoscope; the crackle was still there, but perhaps not as severe as earlier. Satisfied, he takes the runner’s hand, and pinches him. There was a full second where he thought the Texan was going to lay him out for the movement… but it passed, as the doctor tutted worriedly. There had been a slight flinch, but it was very weak.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” prods the inventor, after Medic seems disinclined to elaborate on the purpose of his tutting.

For his part, Medic starts somewhat, as if he’d forgotten there were other people present. “Oh, yes. Vell, apart from zhe fact he did not respond properly to zhe external stimulus of pain… it is also apparent zhat he is somewhat dehydrated, given the lack of elasticity in his skin. Und, it vould most likely not be far off zhe mark to suggest he may not have eaten in approximately zhe same amount of time, given his sore zhroat. Neither of vhich vill be helping him.”

“You might be right there, mate. Truckie and I got a little bit of fluid in the ankle-biter earlier with the old cottonball method, but it didn’t sound like he was able to do anything even close to swallowing with a throat that scorched.” Sniper adds in his no-nonsense manner, quietly watching the physician who had brought him back to life not a few months back, lift one of Scout’s eyelids.

“Mmm, at least zhere seems to be some dilation occurring in zhe pupils…” Medic mutters to himself, snapping the penlight off as he straightens. “Indeed, Herr Sniper. I zhink it vould be best if he is moved to zhe infirmary so I can start some intravenous fluid und do further tests to see vhat else can be done to hasten zhe virus’ egress from our resident Scout. I vould caution you to perhaps consider laundering your attire and showering, to prevent any spread of infection; und, could someone tell… Her… zhat Scout vill not be able to attend any match in zhe foreseeable future, should Blu be returned in zhe next veek or so?”

“Of course, docteur.” Spy answered, materialising far closer to the bed than anyone would have assumed him to be. For once, the man does not take out a cigarette to smoke, with his ominous statement; clearly having heard and understood Medic’s warnings pertaining to potential contagion.

“Danke, Herr Spy.” he nods in acknowledgement, and turns to the problem of transporting Scout. Of course, he could carry him, but then he would have to leave the boy alone in order to retrieve his medical bag, and-...

“Doktor, I vould be happy to carry small Scout to infirmary for you.” Heavy offers, resolving the problem, and acting as if this wasn’t the first time they had exchanged more than a fleeting verbal exchange since being back at RED base. The Russian mountain of a man moved over to the small bed, slipping his hands under the ashen runner and lifting him with all the care one would take with a baby, or a puppy.

To be so large, to have such power and yet be so kind, so gentle and caring… it was one of the many reasons that Medic had loved the man. Well, before everything happened. Heavy’s curtness held more weight than that of the other members of their team, for the ‘good doktor’s betrayal had struck on many personal levels. Medic understood, and he bore the weight of such a burden silently.

“You have my thanks, Mi-... Herr Heavy, danke. Let me grab my zhings und I vill precede you to open zhe infirmary door…” Medic pauses as he clasps the bag shut, turning to address the rest of the room. “Und everyone else? I vill let you know in zhe morning vhat is happening vith zhe junge, or sooner should something change drastically, zhough I do not feel zhat is a distinct possibility in zhis case. Rest assured, from vhat he told me, it is most likely just an unintended Smissmas present from one of his nieces; for vhich rest und some fluids are zhe answer.”

There was grumbling, but not even Soldier had anything to say regarding the matter, so Medic decided now was the best time to take his leave of the room. Heavy followed behind at an even pace, cradling the runner carefully, as he had no doubt done for ill sisters in the past.

Neither man said anything; the only sound filling the corridor was the soft, wheezy rasp of Scout’s breathing.

And when it stuttered slightly, both men unobtrusively picked up their pace; urgent footfalls echoing throughout the seemingly never-ending corridors of the base complex.

~)0(~

- - - - - -

Tell me your thoughts, people... most has been re-edited, but thee’s about a quarter I can’t get to or i will fall asleep in the shower, as it’s 3am. Ch4 is well under way but I was double-checking this chapter for continuity, and... got distracted. Also 1 & 2 are on AO3, if you want to read them with italics and bodl in place... >.>

#tf2 fanfic in progress #tf2jam #ursy153 #imberbimber

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symphonicwinds · 8 years ago

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Man I see so many people talking explicitly about their mental illnesses and I just, holy fuck.

I wish I was brave enough to post this onto instagram or facebook but…

My name is Sophia and I am Mentally Ill.

Which, if you’ve been following me for any amount of time, I’m sure you know. But. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I’ve had anxiety for pretty much my whole life. I didn’t really understand what it was when I was small, but I would replay bad memories over and over again in my head, and I remember it keeping me up at night. I learned to repress those memories, and that kind of set up my main “coping” mechanism, which turned out to be super fucking problematic because now I inherently repress my anxiety, which makes it about a million times worse. Panic/Anxiety attacks (man I still don’t know the difference) are less common now, but when I was Dealing (not dealing) with my anxiety, they would be fairly frequent. I remember there was a time in my life where I couldn’t go two days without an attack. Those were fun times. If you’re curious on how a panic attack looks (at least, my panic attacks), then feel free to read this. My anxiety is deliberating as heck. It’s made me fail my driver’s test three times, which is still something I’m still struggling with. It keeps me from being productive, it ruins my self esteem, and generally it just stalls me. I over-analyze, over-rationalize, and scrutinize when I shouldn’t. I get paranoid about irrational things, I vividly imagine other people’s despair and are incredibly senstive to certain issues because of it. I essentially overthink myself into a incoherent mess. My symptoms also make it hard for me to reach out to people; I literally stop experiencing things when I'm having an attack. I can't see, I can't think, I can't hear, I can't feel. It immobilizes me, and I am rendered physically unable to talk or walk. It's hard to reach out to a friend when you're literally unable to speak. The repression as a coping mechanism makes it worse, because I don’t stop thinking about whatever is making me anxious. It just festers in my mind, and comes back to hit me later, harder, and at a time I don’t expect it. As of right now, I don’t really have any good coping mechanisms, which has made me reliant on other people. I’ve been trying to deal with it more now, obviously, but I still have issues with codependency, which is also awful, but a seperate thing from my mental illness.

The anxiety I have is genetic, my dad has anxiety, which was passed down to me. It’s a purely biological thing. My PTSD though, wasn’t.

I guess the short of this is that I suffer from PTSD because my cousin sexually abused me for three years of my life. Between the ages of 14-17, accumulating to an attempted rape. I don’t really care to go into detail about how that happened, because I feel like it’s unnecessary? But, that happened. And holy heck, PTSD is shit. It’s worse than GAD, in my opinion.

The most prevalent symptom when it comes to PTSD is the nightmares. You relieve your experience, or something equivalent to it. The nightmares are intense, vivid, and violent. They usually wake me up at odd hours of the night, and I send chains and chains of texts to my friends freaking out about it. There was one time I woke up from a nightmare, having direct panic attack, which was fun.

But it’s not always violent. Sometimes PTSD means being inherently afraid of boys, which I was for a while. It means not being able to talk to boys, because you’re afraid they’re just trying to chat you up to use you for your body. It means not being able to participate or listen to a conversation concerning sex, or just, being triggered easily in general. Sometimes I can’t even see sex mentioned in a book; I have to put it down and take a break from it. It also means being sensitive to things that relate to your direct issue, which for me, was domestic abuse. Domestic abuse fucks me the fuck up. There’s a lot of sensitivity, when it comes to PTSD. When people find out, they treat you differently. Like you’re a walking landmine, waiting to be triggered.

Having PTSD also means a ton of panic attacks. I had to take abstain from sex with my then-boyfriend for a full year because it was so bad. We would be having consensual sex when out of nowhere I would shut down, start crying, and have a panic attack. It’s awful.

There’s also so much guilt. The idea of being broken, hating yourself for not being “correct”, being worried that you’re going to hurt other people because you’re broken, never wanting another relationship because you’re afraid of subjecting yourself to others. Being scared of having sex again, being afraid that you can’t have sex again, because you’re broken. Not being able to have sex, not being able to masturbate, not being able to even accept the fact that you’re thirsty because you’re so senstiive…

It sucks.

It’s not as bad as it was before. I’ve healed a lot since then. But it’s one of those things that you think you’re over, but it comes back to bite you in the ass. “Surprise bitch, i bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.”

I wish there was a happy ending to this story. That I can say that even though it’s hard, it’s worth it, or something. But the truth is, it isn’t. It’s shit. It’s really, really shit. And I think the main reason why it’s been so hard is because I never really understood what mental illness was until this year? Or really realized that I had it? When you live with a condition your whole life, you see it as normal. It wasn’t until last year (2016) that I finally admitted to myself that I was mentally ill. It’s been an uphill battle, and it’s hard. It’s really, really hard. Especially because I can’t afford drugs or therapy, it’s been really fucking hard. But I’ve grown a lot, because of it. I’ve learned a lot, dealing with it. I’ve been able to connect with others, because of it.

It was hard… writing this. Admitting this not only to myself, but to you guys.

I hope this helps someone. I hope this inspires someone to talk about their own mental illness. It helps, even though it hurts, and it’s hard.

Mental illness doesn’t get better. But, you do. You become better, and you learn to cope with it.

#bell let's talk #personal #anxiety #long winded text post #bellletstalk

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hatmaker-sophie · 8 years ago

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Into the Wasteland (Self-Para)

“Lettie! Martha! Fanny!” Sophie shouted into the house as she removed her shoes at the door. From afar, she could hear the footsteps coming down the stairs until she saw the source of the noise. A wide smile on Lettie’s face as she jumped onto Sophie and wrapped her arms around her neck.

“Sophie!” she heard another voice cry, her head unable to turn due to Lettie’s restricting arms. But, from the voice, she could tell who it was. “Hi, Fanny,” she said with a smile, hoping her stepmother could see. As soon as Lettie released her grip, she stepped back, holding her sister at arm’s length, and examined her.

“You look thinner, Sophie. Have you been eating? And where did you get this outfit? It’s surprisingly more tasteful than what you usually wear,” Lettie teased. Sophie tsked at her sister when Martha finally appeared. Sophie quickly gave her youngest sister a hug and a greeting before giving her stepmother the same treatment. When Sophie finished all that, Lettie helped her move her trunk up the stairs and into their shared room. Martha jumped onto Sophie’s bed, looking with eager eyes, the same look Lettie was also giving her.

“What?” Sophie asked cautiously, raising her brow at her sisters.

“How’s the magic world? Have you learned more magic? And you said there was a ball? How was the ball? What did you wear? Did you go with anyone? Is magic ball different from regular-people ball?” The onslaught of questions came at Sophie and all she could do was laugh. She should have known that her sisters always had a million questions to ask about the wizarding world.

“It’s good. Yes, I have, that’s why I’m in school. Yes, there was a ball and it was nice. I wore a dress, and I think I brought it home with me. I suppose I had a date, but that was a little complicated. And a ball there is very similar to the balls here, I would imagine, except some of the decorations and things are magical.” Sophie tried to answer all those questions as quickly as possible, even though she knew that her sisters would ask for explanations, particularly the answer about her ball date. Thankfully, just as her sisters were chattering once again and bombarding their eldest sister with questions, Fanny came into the room.

“My, you girls are quite chatty,” she chuckled. “I’m afraid you might wake the neighbors. Besides, it’s the middle of the night. I’m sure Sophie is tired from traveling and from her ball tonight.” Sophie smiled, actually quite thankful that Fanny stepped in to put a stop in the girls’ interrogation. The other sisters, however, sighed and pouted, but ultimately agreed. They decided to save the rest of their questions for the next day as they all got ready for bed.

As Sophie laid in bed, her mind started to wander as her eyes fluttered closed. She recalled the night, the ball, how she went with Holden who had also invited Anna, and yet she ended up dancing with Denahi. It was a weird night. From the beginning of meeting Holden, Sophie knew he must have been playing her, that he saw her as easy prey to tease who would easily get her hopes up. And then Sophie felt bad for Anna; she didn’t know he had asked her, and if she had, she wouldn’t have accepted his request to the ball. It was just all such a disaster, and Sophie felt at fault. If she had just said no to Holden, if she had caught on earlier that he had no serious intentions with her, she wouldn’t have caused so many problems tonight. And then with Denahi. She wasn’t sure what was happening in that area. They danced and she’s cooked for him and she even kissed him on the cheek after their dance tonight, but it wasn’t really anything, at least that’s what Sophie was sure of. Besides, she was positive that Denahi would be better suited to someone who was a little more lively, a little more adventurous, someone pretty. And the more she thought about it, the more she thought the same for Holden. He deserved to have a date who was more fun and more interesting to talk to.

The pestering thoughts kept her from falling asleep quickly, but soon enough, she fell into a light slumber. Dreams began to form as they regularly do for her, but with her last thoughts being so full of doubts and negativity, her dreams soon turn unpleasant. In her dream, she found herself back at the ball, dancing with Holden. There was no music, but there still seemed to be a pleasant rhythm. However, after a few steps into their dance, Holden smiles sweetly and dips her gracefully only to drop Sophie suddenly towards the ground. Except, her back never hits the wooden floor and Sophie continues to fall back into the darkness with Holden now evilly smirking at her from the top. Sophie’s arms wave frantically in the darkness, trying to find something, anything, to hold onto when she lands into someone’s arms. Her face looks up to see Denahi’s kind face smiling at her. At the sight, Sophie let out a small sigh of relief, a smile on her own lips matching his, but only for a brief second as his kind features turned dark. And he too, like Holden, dropped her onto the ground where she found herself falling once more.

This time, after falling for a brief but indeterminate amount of time, she lands on what seems to be a carpeted floor, much like her own living room. The darkness begins to fade into light and her living room comes into view. In the armchair sits her father, looking weary and tired and almost as if under some kind of... spell? Sophie gingerly arises from her spot and slowly approaches her father, calling out to him, first softly and then a little more urgently. His gaze finally looks up at her, but his eyes are dark, as though his pupils have filled the entirety of his eyes. With a gasp of shock and fear, Sophie takes a small step back, and she stumbles back a little more as the figure of her father stands up and moves slowly towards her.

“Sophie...”

The voice is chilling and Sophie seemed to have lost her own ability to speak, a lump formed in her own throat.

“This is what your magic is done to me. This is what your magic has taken from us.”

Black veins trickle throughout his arms and visible skin, starting from the eyes and down his neck. Behind him, her sisters appear, looking the same terrifying way their father does. Fanny close behind stood next to their birth mother, monstrous and horrifying. They all seemed to be closing in towards Sophie, their voices low and drawn out, blaming Sophie for her magic and for the fate that seems to have fallen upon them. Her legs, the only seemingly functional body part on Sophie, scramble backwards until she’s cornered in her own living room. She is face-to-face with a terrifying image of her family, all inching towards her closer and closer until their hands are just inches from her face when-

Sophie let out a small scream as she sat upright in her bed. The darkness of the night still flooded her room as streetlights from the outdoors peek through the window curtains. Breathing heavily, Sophie looked around, checking to see that she hadn’t woken up her sisters and that they were still well. Lettie and Martha both appeared sound asleep, breathing slowly and deeply in their restful state. At least they were safe, and Sophie couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. Still, her nightmare nagged her. Oftentimes, Sophie wouldn’t remember what she had dreamt, but this was all too vivid. Holden, Denahi, her family, all as if to torment her. But it was just a dream... and there couldn’t have been any hidden meaning behind them... at least that’s what Sophie tried to convince herself of.

Laying back in bed did nothing to bring Sophie immediately back to sleep. She was much too worried and frightened about the images and just how real it had all felt. But soon, exhaustion won out and she somehow managed to fall asleep once more.

But not too long into her second slumber did her vivid nightmares come crawling back. Or rather, her family, in their horrifying appearance, crawled closer and closer.

“Sophie...” their voices echo in low, eerie tones.

But Sophie, like earlier, had found her back against a corner with nowhere to run. Her family crawls nearer and nearer until suddenly, Sophie feels a pair of arms wrap around her from behind and pulling her away from the scene as it fades into darkness as if she was falling backward into a tunnel. But the faster she is speeding backwards, the harder she was finding it to breathe as the arms tighten even more with every second. She was gasping for air, unable to free herself from the grip as she struggle to wriggle herself free. Her throat is closing, choking and gasping for any bit of air to enter her lungs and just as she is about to pass out from strangulation, she gasps loudly and awakens.

The sun was up now and her sisters were still lingering in bed. Sophie finally sucked in some breaths as though her lungs had somehow never tasted air before. She smoothed her hair and her clothes. Two nightmares in one night, both vivid, horrifying, and terribly haunting. But, Sophie thought, they were just dreams. They had to be. And with that she let out a sigh and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite the horrifying nightmares, Sophie still had work to do and she still had a hat shop to tend to. She’ll just have to survive the day on what little sleep she got.

The rest of break continued in a similar, routine fashion for Sophie. In the day, she tended to the shop, helped with house chores, cleaned the house. Of course, Lettie still kept trying to persuade Sophie to give up the shop and pursue her own interests. Sophie would only reassure her that keeping the hat shop was in the best interests of the family.

Being at home was quite relieving for Sophie. School had been getting increasingly stressful and difficult and the prefect work was slowly draining her. Usually, she’d be able to handle those things just fine, but she thought back to the nightmare and realized that Denahi and Holden had somehow preoccupied much of her thoughts.

However, those weren’t the main things draining Sophie. She kept it entirely a secret from her family, but the nightmares continued, each night getting worse and worse. The more she tried to ignore it or write it off as something unexplainable, the dreams would become more vivid and more painful and haunting. The images of her family, blaming her for her magic, the feel and look of Denahi and Holden, both expressing that Sophie was indeed not good enough to be friends (or possibly more?) for either of them. And the fact that these dreams, these messages, were reoccurring only seemed to solidify such thoughts in Sophie. That her magic was dangerous to her and her family, that she wasn’t good enough for her friends and for the people she cared about, that ultimately she was just a hat shop girl.

The tiring nights left Sophie restless, often only getting a couple hours of sleep each night before she gave up and worked some more. The concern began to show in her sisters as they tried to persuade her to take a break, but to no avail. By the end of the break, Sophie had all but stopped sleeping altogether. The dreams had become too much, too real, that she became terrified at every moment her eyes would drift close. Now, she just had to keep this up for... the rest of the semester...

#this got super long i'm so sorry #my tenses are also all out of wack but present tense should be dream and past tense should be reality #this is the first of many unfun times for sophie yay #fhogself #into the wasteland #FINALLY FINISHED THIS #self

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imsfire2fanficwriter · 8 years ago

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Running

(NB chapter fic, non canon-compliant; a companion piece to “Escape”)

Chapter 1

He’s become strangely used, these last few days, to running. And to acting on impulse. These last extraordinary days of his life, which so easily could be his very last days, too.

Once you start acting on your first quick thought, time after time, like this, it has a certain momentum. The heart wants to do right, but also to live. So when the grenade lands in the hold, bouncing with its tin-metal sound, he doesn’t hesitate for a second. He’s on his feet and leaping over it, straight out the hatch into the crossfire, because he’s the last man aboard alive and he wants to stay that way, and there’s a slightly better chance outside than in. He runs hunched over, praying. A part of his mind laughs at what he’s doing – trying to avoid getting hit, really, Bodhi? In all this shit you’re still trying to duck, still praying, still running?

Behind him on the landing pad, Rogue One is blasted heavenwards. Wreckage and shrapnel rain down on Bodhi Rook as he runs. He’s going to be running in his last breaths, it would appear. He wants to live.

He breaks through the belt of trees onto the next pad in time to see Chirrut dead on the sand, and Baze, bleeding, fallen a few yards off, turning to look at his beloved. Another grenade explodes and the blast throws him bodily back into the undergrowth and snatches the howl of grief from his mouth. It snatches the very air. He knows they’re dead.

He gasps and chokes, struggling to his feet, ears ringing, blinded by smoke. Starts running again.

He’s limping harder now, the leg wound a tearing pain at every step. He can feel blood in his boot. He runs and ducks and yells his rage and pain and terror. Blaster bolts fly past him. Blood splashes in the sand, in the shallows. The salt water stings.

Another landing pad. A ship. A little, pretty thing, practically a yacht, some senior officer’s private jaunting car or Captain’s gig. Breath ripping in his throat, blood in his footprints and his heart, Bodhi flings himself aboard and into the pilot’s seat. No time to think, no time to panic about keying in the wrong codes or firing up engines and exhausts in the wrong order. He does think of it, his brain running at treble speed, even as he tells himself there’s no time, even as he hits keys, bang, bang, bang; hears the engine start to purr, an absurd sweet sound in the racket of battle. The vibration kicks in, soft as a kitten’s heartbeat, and he hauls on the launch lever. The yacht takes off into the firefight.

She handles like a dragonfly, the most exquisite piece of flight tech he’s ever touched. In any other situation it would be comedy, or heaven.

He flies through the storm, dodging blasts and phaser fire, the delicate little ship almost dancing through the air as he steers towards the transmission tower. He’s their only way out, he has to get there in time.

Beyond the stark line of the tower the whole sky is filled up. Scarif has a twin suddenly, a new full moon looming over her sunny seas. Bodhi gapes at it. There’s only one thing it can be.

It fires. Green lasers vivid as hate, ripping the world open. The ship is spun off course by shockwaves as the energy slices down. He wrestles it back under control, searching the ground frantically.

There. At the foot of the tower. Movement. So far off. Too far off; the worst of nightmares, to see them and be unable to reach them. He turns the yacht anyway, banking, flying straight towards the oncoming blast wave. He’d know those tiny figures anywhere, even stumbling and struggling as they are, even so far away. The boiling sea advances. He’s steering into his own death for them, and he sees Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor embrace, lost and alone on the beach, as the shockwave billows forward and cuts him off from them.

Bodhi’s scream hurts his own ears. But it’s too late. They’re out of sight, they were always too far away. The blast will reach them and he can only choose, but it’s no choice; fly into the flames and die with them or run and live.

He almost does fly into the destruction. Cassian, dead. All of them dead. What is there to live for now? But he wants to live. He’s still running, he still wants to live.

He pulls up and guns the engines, pushing for altitude, running for the sky. Compared to Scarif Base burning behind him, his friends and every last thing he loves burning, the blaze of clearing the stratosphere is nothing.

He dodges and ducks through the ongoing space battle, barely seeing the destruction, the wrecks, the swooping fighters and slow monstrous flagships. As soon as he’s in clear space he inputs calculations he’s done ten hundred times, and makes the jump to hyperspace, and home.

He wants to see the red beauty of Jedha one last time before he dies.

But the face of home is a beauty marred now by a scar half a continent wide. He orbits the planet and knows his home is no longer there. Every street he’d ever run along as a child, every wall he’d ever climbed, every rock he’d ever played on, gone. Everyone he knew, the last few of his family, the last of his friends, all gone. Old friends and new, old hopes and new, all dead.

He’s starting to cry at last as he calculates new coordinates. He sits staring down at the mutilated face of his loss, while the system calibrates and aligns. He can never go home.

He takes the yacht into another jump knowing he will not come back.

Once safe in the flickering blue nowhere-yonder of hyperspace he wraps his arms round himself and begins to sob, and then to howl out loud. Tears pour down his face. He can’t bear it, and he must bear it, and he cannot.

He hears Cassian Andor’s last words to him over and over: Keep the engine running, you’re our only way out of here. Over and over. Life will be agony, for the rest of the time it lasts. He failed them. He killed them. He killed them all, he killed the captain, he killed Cassian.

He’ll never see him again; those beautiful eyes, so kind, so guarded, so hopeful at the last, will never look at anything or anyone again.

Bodhi cries until he’s sick and light-headed, until he wants to throw up, until he is worn out. He falls asleep in the pilot seat, and wakes hungry and cold and drowning in despair. His leg has grown stiff, and every muscle aches; the wound opens again when he moves, and the pain brings on another wave of exhausted tears. But the yacht speeds on, and leaps into real-space again, over Yavin 4. He sits crying at the controls, his running done. He still wants to live.

Chapter 2

The Comm has been shouting at him for some time before he registers it, and realises the voice addressing him is taut as a garrotte with suppressed fear.

“Unknown vessel, identify yourself! We have weapons locked on to you. Identify yourself or we will fire!”

He scrabbles for the microphone, shouting “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Rogue One, call sign Rogue One!”

“The hells you are,” says the Comms operator angrily.

“No, please, you don’t understand, I am, I am! I’m the only one left, I’m the pilot. Bodhi Rook, I’m the pilot…”

“Rogue One was lost with all hands!”

“I know, I know, I saw them, I couldn’t reach them, I’m the pilot, please don’t shoot!”

For a moment there’s no answer, and he is starting to try and calculate coordinates to jump again, his brain chasing thoughts that skitter like raindrops on ice. Of course there can be no refuge for him here. He’ll just have to run and keep running, for the rest of his life.

“I know that voice,” a second operator interjects urgently. “That’s the pilot.”

“Yes!” Bodhi yells, all the half-grasped figures scattering from his mind again. “Yes, it’s me, it’s me!”

“Bring him in,” says the second voice. “Stand down defences.”

He makes himself breathe and breathe again, and say almost calmly “Thank you.” The little yacht sails down, still handling like a spirit even under his hands that shake now with stress and the end of stress. It lands as sweetly as a leaf on water.

Bodhi unfastens his seat belt, powers down the engines, remembers that’s the wrong order of doing things, remembers none of it matters anymore. He stands up and his leg stabs him. He looks out at the chaotic landing field, at flight crew and ground crew working and running, ships preparing for take-off, the line of big hangars ahead. His friends will never see these things again.

He climbs down from the entry hatch and feels the solid surface of Yavin 4 under his boots.

His friends will never come back here. Cassian Andor will never feel the kind ground underfoot again.

They are all gone into atoms, he thinks as he staggers across to the people running towards him. All gone back to dust, dust and the fire-breath of stars. Those wise, kind, watchful eyes, burned out now.

He faints on the concrete, just short of the outstretched hands of help.

He’s debriefed, at length, by men and women who do the job diligently and professionally, without emotion. They pass the roles of interrogator and sympathetic listener back and forth amongst themselves, never letting him relax and trust any of them. He knows it’s necessary, he is a traitor after all; but it’s a strain nonetheless, enduring the games they play, testing his veracity. Once, he snaps and shouts at them to bring their Bor Gullet and be done with it. Blank baffled stares greet his outburst, and he subsides. The creeping monster that sucked its way through his every thought, even that, now, is dust.

Once, he cries. But it’s too easy an excuse, to settle for misery and the label of having been broken by his experiences. He fights through the tears and refuses to run.

That’s when they tell him about Alderaan, and that the plans were recaptured. And for a time his resolve breaks indeed.

But in the end he wants to live, and to help others do so. It may be a tiny end-game, one man’s decision smaller than a single atom in a galaxy crashing to ruin, but he wants to go down holding true to the values and hopes his friends died for.

When the news arrives of the rescue, of Senator Leia Organa and the plans both saved and brought home, he stands at the back of the council chamber listening to the debate. Last time he was here, he stood just behind Jyn, right at the front, willing her arguments to be heard and understood, shaken to the heart when she was rejected. He sensed that he was barely seen, standing there at the centre of the debate. It seems far more natural to be where he is now, behind a wall of people twenty bodies deep. He’s in his proper place, unnoticed, an object of indifference to all.

As soon as the council disperses he hurries to offer any service he can, in the fight that’s to come.

He flies evacuation transports, for the base hospital and then for civilian personnel, nineteen solid hours of hyperspace jumps as they try to save as many people as possible from the approaching Death Star. By the time he lands back at Yavin Base for the fifth time and learns the news, he is dizzy with tiredness, and his newly healed leg is aching again; but he’s allowed no time to sleep, for the biggest party he’s ever seen is erupting. He finds he has no choice but to celebrate with strangers the victory he worked for with dead friends.

He feels strange, adrift, looking from outside himself with disbelief at the unimaginable luck they’ve had.

There’s a lot of drinking, but Bodhi doesn’t drink. A lot of shouting and singing and dancing round bonfires. He sings, picking up the words and the tunes by ear, and joins in the dances though he doesn’t know the steps. He sits beside one of the bonfires and watches an improvised firework display; gets kissed, and disciplines himself to kiss back sometimes.

But all the time, he can see in his mind the faces that won’t appear suddenly, waving in the crowd, and hear the voices that will never cheer alongside his.

Still, it is victory.

Chapter 3

The day after the battle of Endor, the day after victory, he presents himself at headquarters and tells a weary-eyed duty officer he wants to join up. He’s a pilot, and a good one; he can learn to fly anything, it’s the one thing strength he has confidence in. He wants to be useful and this is the only way he can think of.

A hung-over recruiting Sergeant takes his details, swears him in and instructs him where to go to get fitted for a flight suit. Then looks at her computer screen again and says

“There’s a tag on your name in the system. Mon Mothma wants to see you.”

“No, that can’t be right.” He doesn’t mean to say it aloud but it’s true, this surely must be a mistake.

“Right here, I promise you. You don’t want to keep the Commander-in-Chief waiting, do you, Private?”

Hearing himself called Private for the first time is odd, and then suddenly comforting; it’s a start, a first shadow of belonging again. He essays a salute and is sure he’s doing it wrong; tells himself to practice in front of a mirror. But the Sergeant grins, good-humoured, and sends him on his way.

The Commander-in-Chief is almost as relaxed, though she doesn’t have the bleary demeanour of most of the base this morning. She greats him kindly and offers him a seat. Her personal office is small and calm, bright with sunshine from a big window overlooking the forests and towers. The desk she sits down at bears a file of papers, a potted lily with starry white flowers, a carved chunk of ochre-red sandstone. The stone is beautiful, red as homecoming in the clear sunlight streaming through the window.

“I realised I had never thanked you,” Mon Mothma says. “I wished to rectify that.”

He blinks. “Oh. It doesn’t matter. Ma’am.”

“It was an unjust omission,” she says gravely. “The last few days have – been pretty eventful. But none of this would have happened, none of it could have happened, without your courage. Thank you, Private Rook.”

He wants to tell her he doesn’t deserve thanks, but hers is not a face used to rebuffs. The best he can think of is to say weakly “It was a – a group effort. Not just me. Not even mostly me.”

She nods. “Nonetheless. We cannot thank the rest of the crew of Rogue One, though we will celebrate their names. There’s due to be a ceremony, medals for the pilots who fired the kill-shots, a memorial to the dead. It’s not the sort of thing we’ve done in the past, but the mood is in favour of some kind of official recognition. I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to take part. Receive a citation on their behalf, perhaps?”

She is asking, when she could order him. He feels that intensely; this is the good side of the rebellion, the counterbalance to that chaotic council meeting when the lack of consensus destroyed any chance of a decision. The rebels don’t compel free people, and he is a free man, even now as a serving soldier.

He imagines how the team would have reacted to being honoured; the mixture of emotions, deep pride and deep discomfort, cynicism, awkwardness, serene gladness… In that company, surrounded and held in their equal confusion, he could have owned his own joy and proud embarrassment, could even have delighted in them. He could have hidden among his friends and looked into his confused heart, and found a balance there. But this? – standing up alone in front of dozens, maybe hundreds – for all he knows maybe thousands – to represent the dead and be honoured for them? – this is not the same at all.

He swallows and tries to lecture himself into acceptance. It’s recognition of their courage, not of his lack of it. Recognition for Cassian’s leadership, his years of dedication. Himself, just a vehicle. He tries; but it’s no good, and he says so. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“I understand.”

“I’m the one who left them there,” he adds. He, Bodhi Rook, the traitor, the coward, the untrustworthy, to be the face of the heroic dead? “No way does anyone want to honour me!”

“That isn’t true, I assure you.”

“You don’t understand”.

“I think I do, actually,” says Mon Mothma, cool as ever. “It’s natural to feel pain at being the only survivor. And I can’t blame you for being reluctant to take part. I shall have to attend, and I wish I did not. The rebellion has always regarded this kind of spectacle as something the Empire does, not us. I regret the fact that so many people feel a need now to change this.” She gives an almost imperceptible sigh. “I’ll request you be excused from attending. We could say combat stress, maybe?”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t care what reason she gives. He’s ashamed of what a relief it is, not to have to do this.

The Commander-in-Chief takes something out of the folder in front of her and offers it to him.

“I wanted secondly to ask your views on this. It’s only a mock-up as yet.”

He takes the sheet of paper, bewildered, and sees it’s a design for a poster. The Heroes of Rogue One, written across the top of an image of them all. His heart swims, turning like a seal in his breast. He hasn’t seen their faces for days, and there they all are suddenly. Baze looking grim, and Chirrut grimly cheerful. Tonc, who died in the hold of Rogue One beside him; Sergeant Melchi, and Sefla, and Basteren; Pao, showing his teeth. Men who’d never given up, and men who’d known the dark for far too long and then tasted hope again.

There was Jyn, all clear-eyed certainty, pugnacious and alive. The droid, somehow managing to look both confident and sour despite its expressionless face.

Himself. Looking surprisingly calm, considering how terrified he remembers being.

Cassian. Lean and determined, grim as the Guardians, resolute as Jyn. Eyes full of fire. So alive.

He realises he’s been gripping the sheet and staring at it for several minutes. Numbly he says “What is this?”

“Recruitment campaign,” says Mon Mothma quietly.

He tears his eyes away from the faces of the people he couldn’t save. No, no no no, please, no… “Please take me off it…”

Her mouth is an expressionless line. “I have been pushing for you to be kept in.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t. I can’t! I’m not a hero. I left them there! Everyone knows it, people stare at me, everyone knows I’m the man who took them there and left them to die. You should use Cassian as your poster hero, he gave you his whole life, he deserves to be praised and immortalised like this. So do the others. Please, not me.”

He puts the sheet of paper back emphatically on the desk, pushing the dead man’s eyes away from him.

“Very well.”

Is he supposed to wait to be dismissed, or can he ask to leave? Is it acceptable for him to ask a question? He has no experience of interacting with anyone so senior; the Empire’s strict adherence to hierarchy saw to that. There is a silence.

She sits quietly, without impatience. He’s trying to steady his rapid, panicked breathing, and realises she may be waiting for him to get calm again. The idea she may see him as meriting her concern is both a jolt and a reassurance.

At length she says “So, have you given any thought to what deployment you’d like? I can’t promise anything, but if there’s a particular base you would like to be assigned to, say, it might be possible to arrange that much, as a token of thanks.”

“What deployment I’d like?” He gapes. “I don’t understand.” Surely if he’s a soldier now, he’ll be obeying orders, going where he’s sent. He’d hoped that that way he can be a nobody once more. “I – I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“You’re a pilot. Is there a particular squadron you had in mind? We’re re-naming one; would you be interested in serving in Rogue Squadron?”

His heart twists inside him again, and he says shakily “No, no thank you…” But there is one thing he has thought about, a good deal, this last week. “Ma’am, may I ask a question? Were there any survivors? From Alderaan?”

She presses her lips together for a moment, and her eyes lose their calm. In a low voice she says “From the planet itself, no. The destruction was – total. But” – she inhales and raises her head slightly – “from off-planet, yes, a great many. Everything from diplomats and trade attachés to merchantmen, to holidaymakers and even criminals in gaol. All of them refugees now.”

“What are we doing for them? We should do something – we must.”

Mon Mothma nods her head. “There’s a team assigned, to escort any vessels from Alderaan here, and collect individuals who lack transportation. It will be a huge undertaking, but we will bring them to Yavin 4 and give them the hope of a future. Now that there is hope to give. Is that the mission you would like to be assigned to?”

He can’t bring back his friends, or his family, or his home. But he can give his life to atone for failing them. He can run with the desperate, the betrayed, the homeless, and bring them home.

“Yes,” he says. “Please. Yes.”

Chapter 4

By the time the new settlements on Yavin 4 are well-established, and every citizen of lost Alderaan who wants to come there has been found and rehomed, Bodhi Rook is a Sergeant himself. He knows there’s no chance the promotions were another tacit reward for surviving Rogue One, because in the intervening months and years he’s logged more flying hours than any other pilot in any search-and-rescue team in the entire fleet. Two years without a single day’s leave of absence; he has just one thing to live for, and that’s his work.

He still dreams of Scarif.

The first year it was every night. He feared sleeping, but his exhaustion would always overtake him in the end, and then he’d be there on the sandy shore, walking slowly through the battle. Somehow in all the chaos of shooting and explosions nothing ever hit him in his dreams, though he’d see figures fall to left and right, shot, struck down by shrapnel, blasted apart by explosions. Everyone falls; people who were there, people who were not, people he didn’t even know back then, people he hasn’t seen since he was a boy. His family and childhood friends die all around him, and refugees by the hundred, and fellow-fliers, co-pilots, ground crew. He sees Galen Erso there, over and over again, and Mon Mothma and her generals, and the senators who stood round the council table that fateful day and refused to join the assault. All of them dying on the beach at Scarif Base, everyone he’s ever cared about or respected, or wanted to trust, or wished he could have saved.

Every time Chirrut and Baze are there with them; sometimes already fallen, sometimes still on their feet and fighting with a gracefulness and skill that leaves him wanting to cheer, until they are cut down and lie dead in one another’s arms, in their blood. The soldiers are there, battling on and falling one by one, or waiting helplessly with bound hands, trapped prisoners, until they are mown down by AT-AT fire. Even the droid is fighting in his dreams, yelling insults in its cool voice, both forelimbs modified into giant blasters; but K2 falls as well, and the spark goes out in the metal-rimmed eyes, night after night.

He sees Jyn and Cassian, every time, either right ahead of him or far off; always standing face to face, a foot apart. He tries to run to them but his legs are weighed down and he can barely keep moving. Blaster bolts and projectiles fly around the couple as though an invisible force is protecting them; he tries to shout to them to use it, to feel it and use it, the Force will protect them. In the hideous din of fighting they don’t hear. Always. Never. They move together and embrace tightly, a tiny moment of intimacy in the middle of the battlefield; and are gone, as the final blast obliterates everything.

The body grows accustomed to broken sleep, and Bodhi keeps going, even when he dreams the same dream three times a night. He jolts awake with a gasp and lies sweating, listening to his heart try to hammer its way out of his ribs. Hears it steady itself and grow calm again. Tosses and turns and at length goes back to sleep; and is back on the beach, screaming at Jyn and Cassian to save themselves as they die holding one another.

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t know why they are embracing in his dreams. Knows he does. They always embraced with their eyes. All the dream does is let them touch as they never could in life.

He talks to doctors, and is offered counselling, which means reliving that day even more frequently than he already does, and medication that deadens his sleep, but also replaces his appetite with constant nausea. He isn’t blessed with a physique that can bear throwing up after every meal for very long. He stops taking the pills. He talks to a red-robed cleric, who can at least remind him of the clear faith he had as a child, before the Empire came. She reassures him that he is doing the right thing, that his friends and family would be proud of him, that the Force was with them when they died. It’s a comfort; but comfort doesn’t stop the dreams. He learns to get on with life on five hours’ sleep instead of seven, most nights.

It takes a long time before he notices that sometimes there’s a night with only one bad dream, or none at all. The change is very gradual; slowly, over many months, the five hours of sleep increase to six. When the Alderaan refugee mission is finally wound down, and Bodhi Rook is reassigned to Hoth, he feels like a new man.

The nightmares do not stop, he is beginning to suspect they never will; but with this latest change they become, again, less frequent. On Hoth he’s too cold most of the time to be anything but exhausted, and he sleeps deeply most nights, for the first time in two years.

He does supply runs for a while, there, either bringing goods in to Hoth or running blockades to carry aid elsewhere. It’s a happy, busy few months. Until the Base falls.

In the chaos of the evacuation he is grabbed by an officer shouting for a pilot; he scrambles up the gantry-way he’s pushed towards, onto the flight deck of a GR-75. He’s confirmed to himself a long time ago that he really can fly pretty much anything, and he’s trained for the large transports, but he’s never yet taken one up for real. Now he finds himself at the controls of the largest ship he’s ever flown. Almost a thousand lives are depending on him. There’s cannon fire all around as they clear the atmosphere, and the heavens are full of Imperial ships, slow-circling monsters the shape of teeth. For the first time in over a year his hands and his voice shake for a moment, before he makes the jump to hyperspace.

It’s not a regular trip but an escape, running with no end point, the cold stability of Hoth vanishing behind and an empty future ahead. All the hope of two years, falling like a kicked snow-castle.

He wakes up three days later with a burning fever and is sent to the on-board med-bay. It’s his first illness since he defected.

“You have over-stretched yourself,” the medical droid tells him snippily. “Your body is too worn out to resist the virus. I am putting you under orders to rest.”

But a week later he’s back at work. Resting means having nothing to think about. Having nothing to think about means thinking about everything, and out of the blue after months of self-possession he finds that thinking about it means dreaming about it once more, fighting it again and yet again and again. He falls ill a second time and this time is confined to the ward until the medical staff confirm him fit for active duty.

At the end of the prescribed ten days, they refuse to do so.

He reads and watches holos and tries to keep awake. The med-droids give him sedatives and dream-reducers, and he throws up, and is kept under supervision for another three days. Then longer. His sick leave marked “extended” in the medical file.

He’s fought the dreams so many times now. He thought he’d beaten them. He knows he’s ill.

There is psychological help available but it’s prioritised for combat veterans, and Sergeant Rook has only ever flown search-and-rescue and humanitarian aid, and troop transportation, and emergency supply runs, and a few weeks here and there of blockade running; and before that seven years of cargo shipments for the Empire, living in constant fear and loathing himself for it, every day.

He doesn’t think he deserves to have counselling. He tells the doctors so, surly with misery, and it takes a crisply delivered bawling-out from a droid even ruder than the late K2 to get him to accept he must ask for help.

Strangely, the first breakthrough in his counselling comes less than a month in, when he breaks down and admits that he can only remember his friends’ faces now when he dreams of them. His waking memories have grown blurry; even looking at the old recruitment handbill he keeps hidden in his locker can only bring them back with the same expressions as they have in the picture.

He had probably the worst crush of his life on Cassian Andor and now he cannot remember the Captain’s face or his voice, except by allowing himself to sleep and dream of him dying. Is it not enough to feel so much shame at having survived, when others so much more worthy died? Must he himself consign those precious brilliant eyes to oblivion nightly, and forget them every day?

Slowly, gently, very kindly, the counsellor leads him through the minefield of pain, and helps him for the first time to plot out a pathway that doesn’t lead to despair. He knows the Captain was fierce and alive, brave and kind; knows he died for something he believed in. They all did; and they saved not only the rebellion and the dream, and billions of lives, but also him. He owes them everything he has, life, sanity, the chance to do something worthwhile with the remainder of his days. She lets him talk, and asks questions he’d never considered. He hears himself say one day “No, I don’t think Cassian would have wanted me to do this to myself, I think he’d have loathed it. He wanted the rebellion to win so that people could live better lives and be free and happy, not so they could hate themselves” and in a quiet, undramatic way that realisation feels like a new morning.

That night he sleeps without sedatives, and dreams only once; and it’s not of the battlefield but of a sunny room in Yavin Base, where he is giving a distracted recruiting officer his name and qualifications, and asking to join up. The officer writes the details down and asks him to sign; the pen turns into a flowering branch as he offers it to Bodhi, and he looks up and smiles. It’s Cassian. They shake hands and Bodhi wakes in disbelief, with his heart racing.

In the end, he’s off active duty for three months, but the counsellor recommends him for light duties, and he begins again.

He hasn’t seen the last of the nightmares, but once again, very, very slowly, there are fewer of them, and the harmless dreams become more frequent, the sort where regular illogical dream things happen, where pens turn into trees and his lost friends are willing to smile at him.

He vowed to himself two years ago that he would live the life his friends had not survived to see.

He renews that secret oath now, to himself and to the dead; and goes back to work, flying another aid delivery mission.

Chapter 5

At thirty he’s a Lieutenant. The Concordance has been implemented and slowly something like peace is being restored. He wonders if there will be less for him to do, less meaning for his life now, but if anything there is more, for the years of civil war have left billions homeless, and worlds too many to number are crying out for help to rebuild.

At forty, when the final remnants of the Empire’s work are believed cleared at last, he’s a Captain. He’s never flown a fighter in an engagement, but at every other kind of mission a being can serve in, Bodhi Rook has excelled. No-one in the entire Alliance has more experience of the management and delivery of emergency rescues, the logistics of aid missions and humanitarian assistance. People seek him out for his input. His advice has saved lives and mitigated disasters; his life has been a blessing for millions.

He’s long ago laid his ghosts to rest, with love and gratitude for all he learned from them.

At fifty he’s a Commodore, and beginning to consider retirement. He’s had something he never dreamed of when he was young, a career; and not just any career but one spent doing good work. He has learned to feel a kind of satisfaction, a self-acceptance, knowing it was only for that work that he’s received promotion. He’s lived the most spartan of existences and has enough credits saved to buy himself a pleasant small home on a comfortable world if he chooses. But he’s never really enjoyed his periods of shore leave and R&R, planet-side. A quarter-century of being constantly busy, constantly useful, has left him reluctant even to try doing nothing. He’s not at all sure he’ll get anything out of it, even if he’s lucky and it doesn’t bring back nightmares decades old.

He’s shying off from dealing with the question, and reports are starting to come in of the First Order’s expansionist policies. Raids on shipping, then full-blown attacks on independent or Republic-aligned worlds; always with an excuse, some tale of intelligence reports and suspicions of terrorist bases, of mysterious civil insurgencies and local powers requesting assistance. The Republic issues protests and expels diplomats, and tries to pretend this new danger will behave rationally if it’s treated rationally, that it will keep to its own side of the galaxy, that it will not break the Concordance.

He’s seen it all before. His heart twists inside him, and then steadies, and is firm. He won’t run, not from this resurgent evil; he knows exactly what the First Order are. The inheritors of hate, the heirs of the people who destroyed his home and killed everything he’d ever loved.

When General Organa begins formally trying to challenge the policy of polite protest, Bodhi is one of the first to support her. She argues and pisses powerful people off in council; he casts his vote for her plans. She gives up appealing to the Senate and begins sending her own break-away missions, gathering intelligence or looking for ways to support the non-aligned worlds under threat; she takes action and rallies resistance, and he’s with her. He still remembers a council meeting when no-one could agree to take a necessary risk, and a belligerent young woman who decided to take it anyway, on her own if need be. He remembers her force of will carrying enough people before her to win the day, in the end. Himself among them. He’s lived ever since on time borrowed by their courage.

He pledges his allegiance now to the General and her goals.

Dozens of officers, the experienced and tired who never want to see another Empire, and the young and eager who want to commit themselves to their ideals, follow Commodore Rook into the political wilderness, to join the Resistance.

His home is now once again a single room in officers’ quarters, on a hidden base. It feels like a homecoming. He stops worrying about retirement; there are far more serious things to be dealt with and his flying skills are back in demand as the Resistance tries to make the most of the often-outdated ships it can muster or steal. Bodhi is busier than ever, and happy, despite the quiet fear every rebel shares, that they will not be enough to hold off the coming war.

He receives a message one day from the General, asking him to join her at the base hospital.

General Organa hasn’t been well the last few months, ever since the news arrived of her husband’s murder. She drove herself relentlessly on in the aftermath of that blow, and along with the rest of the Resistance, Bodhi has watched with concern. Hearing she’s in the hospital now, he panics. Although it’s incomprehensible why she would send for him in such a situation, nonetheless he imagines her bedridden, helpless, perhaps dying. Yet another person he loves and respects and aspires to be like, brought low by this endless battle against oppression. He spurs himself into something approaching a run, and arrives for their meeting out of breath and tense.

She isn’t in bed. Isn’t even under medical supervision. In fact she’s sitting in a small room adjoining the Physiotherapy gym, and looking more cheerful than he’s seen her in weeks as she chats to two young men. He recognises the one standing up as Commander Dameron, one of their best and bravest pilots, one of the heroes of the recent fighting. The other is seated; a young man, slim, good-looking, and currently running in perspiration.

Dameron is smiling broadly; he stands to attention crisply and the General laughs as Bodhi tells him “At ease, Commander.” Everyone is beaming. He feels as though he’s just missed hearing a grand joke. He tries to catch his breath surreptitiously.

“I’m glad you were able to come so quickly,” General Organa says. “Finn, this is Commodore Rook; Bodhi, I’d like you to meet our newest recruit. This is Finn. I hope you’ll be able to help him adjust to his new life.”

By the looks of it, the younger man has just completed some kind of strenuous physio work-out. A stout brace is wrapped around his torso and he’s wearing grip-gloves on his hands. He’s wiping his face with a towel and he smiles past it from Bodhi to Dameron to the General and says a cautious “Hello.”

Dameron brings forward a wheelchair, and bends to help him up from the bench he’s sitting on.

Bodhi says “Good to meet you, soldier. I’m happy to help, Ma’am, although I’m not sure how much help I can be.” He has no experience of working with disabled veterans. What is he here for? And how can the young man be a veteran anyway, if he’s also a new recruit? It doesn’t make much sense.

And then the name clicks, and he says “Oh, wait, you’re the young man who? – you’re the Stormtrooper?”

Finn looks stricken for a moment before replying in a quiet voice “Yes, sir.”

Dameron lays a hand protectively on his shoulder.

It would have been good, Bodhi thinks, to have people stand beside him like that, all those years ago, to have had someone support him as he learned to live again. A counterbalance against the many who looked askance, who read in his face the guilt bleeding inside him, and wondered if he was trustworthy. This is the defector who helped them destroy Starkiller Base. The unlooked-for hero, the rebel of conscience; the real man who stepped out from the unassailable faceless ranks of white puppets. His eyes are so bright, bright as his heart must be; and, Force alive, he’s so young.

He knows how much courage it must have taken, for this boy to stand up and do the things he did. Knows intimately and deeply how hard that choice must have been, and how hard it will go on being. People will doubt Finn even though he’s committed his life to them; people will look at this eager, brave young face and see a traitor, and expect him to prove himself, no matter how many times he does so.

He knows without a second’s hesitation; he’ll do anything in his power to help. He reaches out, and now he’s beaming too. “May I shake your hand, young man? It’s a real honour to meet you.”

Finn shakes his hand, but his expression is uncertain.

The General says kindly “Finn has been worrying that he’ll never really be accepted here. I thought it would do him good to meet a fellow-defector.”

Finn gapes “You?”

Commander Dameron grins. He knows the story. Perhaps everyone does, Bodhi thinks, mildly surprised even now by the idea.

“Commodore Rook betrayed the Galactic Empire to come over to the Alliance,” says General Organa. “And as you can see, he’s made a solid career since then, and done a great deal of good. In fact I’d say he’s something of a hero around here. If anyone can advise you on learning to live with us, it’s him.” She stands up, and Bodhi and Dameron both straighten and salute. “I’m so glad you’re making such a good recovery, Finn. Boys, take care of him. I’m counting on you.” She smiles at them all and leaves, a small walking sun-core of dignity.

“So,” Bodhi says, taking her vacated seat. “What can I do to help you, young man?”

The ex-Stormtrooper sighs. “I don’t know… I don’t even know enough to know what I don’t know, if that makes sense.”

“Well, let me start by telling you that this won’t always be easy, but it will always be the best decision you’ve ever taken. And any time anything makes you wonder if you were mad to follow your conscience, don’t forget there will be people like me, like General Organa, like Commander Dameron here, who will stand beside you no matter what.” He wishes he could say more, but only one other thing occurs to him; words that call up a long-ago memory, words so potent to him that although they may sound odd now, he does add them after a moment. “Welcome home, Finn.”

Chapter 6

Bodhi mentors the boy Finn for several months. It’s clear from the start that there is something very special about this modest young man. He cannot remember when he last felt so intently that someone was a fulcrum, a being about whom others would gather and from whom they would draw courage. Probably not since he was no older than Finn himself; meeting Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor, all those years ago. It’s a joy to him now to see someone as brave and committed as them, not ignored and oppressed by orders but alive and thriving, applauded for his courage. But his recovery continues, and in time it takes Finn away. If it were not too melodramatic a way to look at the chaos of life, he’d say it was his destiny.

Bodhi tries not to worry about the lad. There’s already too much to worry about, if he allowed himself to. The First Order’s aggression continues unabated. He is just one soldier, but he must do his duty, just like Finn.

He refuses a desk job, for what feels like the thousandth time. Instead, he requests transfer onto the rescue mission for the millions of Hosnians made homeless by the single ghastly use of the Starkiller. The operation has been struggling on for months, and the monumental task of co-ordinating it properly is painfully familiar, but it restores him even as it also breaks his heart all over again. So many refugees, none of whom can ever return home, their whole system reduced to dust floating in space, a scar on the face of the galaxy.

And things are not going well. The Resistance has terrible set-backs, and for a time it seems as if they are doomed to fail in their fight. If this is how it’s going to finish, Bodhi decides, then he will at least fight through to the end. Too many good people have given themselves selflessly for this cause; he can never do less, without betraying their memory. Memories he still holds dear, even now. He will, they all will, endure, somehow.

He reminds himself of young Finn, bright-eyed fulcrum of hope, and of all the people who need someone like that to renew their convictions and inspire them to stand and hold their ground. The Finns and the Jyns, and the Cassians; the guiding lights who don’t go out, even at dead of night, even when everything dies. He can’t be one of them, is sure he never was and never will be such an inspiration; but he can still stand and do his best.

He carries in the breast pocket of his jacket a copy of an old recruitment handbill. The original is now too dog-eared and fragile to touch, but he had it framed years ago; it hangs on the wall of his room on base, next to an ancient watercolour of Jedha City. He looks at the copy sometimes, at the faces that are now vivid only in this one picture.

He wonders sometimes whether there is any hope. Reminds himself there always is. Reminds himself of the day he was told that you take each chance, until either you win, or the chances run out; and that that in the end is all there is to it.

At possibly the lowest point in the whole campaign, he accepts an assignment to a training camp, passing on his expertise to a group of recruits who will be running blockades throughout the Torranix sector. Most of them are more than capable pilots but have never studied logistics in their lives. He wishes there was time to give them more than just a short course, time to take them on training runs and real-life simulations. But these days, the Resistance has to take learning speed over learning depth. Time is more precious than the finest ores and gems. Bodhi works to bring the youngsters on as fast as possible; sends them to replace people lost in battle or taken captive. Begins work with the next contingent as soon as they arrive.

The tide of the times is against them right now; maybe always will be. It doesn’t entirely surprise him when Worru’du Base comes under attack.

He’s felt for a long time that his luck would run out, one of these days. Perhaps he is too old for the fight. Perhaps he should have taken one of those admin postings, or sneaked away and tried to enjoy a few years of retirement, let others do the hard work and bear the wounds, now.

He finds himself instead hiding out, underground, in a bunker three miles from the main base. He’s sent the recruits on ahead, getting them off-world in the only spaceworthy craft they could snatch; their lives, their training, their youthful strength and energy, are more use to the Resistance than his. A handful of civilians and ground staff escaped with him and through a spy-eye they watch as First Order troops burn their headquarters to the ground and torch the remaining ships.

They have food for four or five days, perhaps more with careful rationing, but water for three at most. If help can reach them at all, it will take at least a standard day to get there from the nearest Resistance-held system. He’s the most senior officer there, and on the evening of the second day he decides to take the gamble of calling for an extraction. Then issues suicide pills, in case the message is intercepted.

When help arrives, it’s in the middle of the night and it isn’t an official extraction at all but a damaged freighter. A voice crackling on the Comm unit saying “Is anyone there?” and a ship looming in the shoulder-high grass, a tall dark-skinned woman with braided hair running towards him as he peers out of the access tunnel. She greets him gladly. “I caught your distress call when I put the channel on to make my own. I can trade you space for help; I need a co-pilot, mine got shot on Galand by a First Order patrol. How many are you?”

“Sixteen. Two with minor injuries.”

She looks over his shoulder at the figures gathering behind him; points back at her ship. “Can any of you fly one of these things?” The ship looks Bothan, and it’s a good size, a boxy dark bulk against the moonlight and the star-field.

“You’re Resistance?” he counters. If she isn’t, he’s a dead man anyway. But this is such a crazy way to begin an entrapment that he’s pretty sure she’s genuine.

“Hells, yes! What do I look like?” She grins as more bleary faces appear round him in the tunnel mouth. “Hi, folks, I guess I’m your ride out of here. Is there anyone here who can help me fly my ship?”

She gestures again towards the craft behind her.

“I’m a pilot,” he says. If they’re going to get shot down running, it will be good to be at the controls of a star-ship again at the end. “I think everyone else is ground crew or civilians, though.”

“One pilot is all I need. Okay, people, get aboard. I’m Lieutenant Shammen, by the way, Deyaa Shammen.”

It’s a Jedhan name, and he grins in the near dark as he answers “I’m Bodhi.”

The other base staff are hurrying past him, into the open hold of the ship; light pours down from the entry port and catches on the pips on his uniform.

She curses. “You’re a Commodore? Damn and blast, if they know there were senior personnel here they’re probably monitoring traffic all over the sector by now.”

“Can you just get us off-planet? We’ll decide what to do about me later? I’m responsible for these people, I need to know they’re on their way to safety.”

Deyaa Shammen nods. “Yes, sir.” She leads the way onto the freighter. “Let’s get moving, people.”

Once into the relative safety of the hyperspace lane she turns to him. “I can only think of one thing I can do with you and your people. Luckily it’s easy to get to from here. It’ll mean you’re all out of active service for a while, but it’s your best bet to lie low unnoticed.”

“You know a safe house?”

“Yep. I know the people who run it. It’s the start of a whole network, an Underground Railroad; runs right through the Ag Circuit. My Mom helped run the routes into it for years, I’ve been going there since I was a kid. You may have to be separated, but it’s the best way I can think of to get you all out of a mess like this. And the people who do this run always use old tin cans like this rig; so nobody’ll think twice about me ferrying a whole bunch of you.”

“Fine,” Bodhi says. “And thank you.”

He’s tired, after two nights without sleep, watching over the fifteen souls hidden with him beneath the grasslands. A safe house sounds painfully appealing suddenly.

He sets the co-ordinates Lt Shammen gives him; his new destination, for who-knows how long. Salliche.

Chapter 7

He sits in the co-pilot’s seat, watching the hectic blue swirling past the main viewport. It’s hypnotic. They’re on course and holding steady and there’s relatively little for him to do, and he catches himself yawning. Shakes his head and says “I ought to warn you.”

“Yes, sir?” says Deyaa Shammen, after a time. After another pause she prompts him “You’ve never flown a Bothan freighter before?”

“What? Oh, no, it’s not that. I’ve had no sleep for the last couple of days. My reaction times may not be at their best.”

“But you can fly this thing, right? Sir?”

“I can fly anything,” Bodhi tells her ruefully. “I am a pilot. But please keep me talking, so I don’t nod off.” He looks away from the blue of hyperspace smearing across the windscreen, focuses on the controls in front of him again. “I probably could fly in my sleep, but I’d rather not try the experiment just now.”

“What should I talk to you about, sir?”

“Anything you like. And please, don’t feel you have to keep calling me ‘sir’. I’m in charge of the people in back, but this is still your ship, Lieutenant… Tell me about where we’re going. It sounds as though you’ve done this trip before.”

“Oh hells, yes. My Mom used to courier people here during the Civil War and when things started getting hot again a few years ago I picked up her old run since I already knew the ropes and the routes, and the people.”

“They can’t be expecting us; is that going to make any problems?”

“I’m sure they’ll be cool with it. I’ve done this run three, four times a year since I started, Galand to the Ag Sector and back, and half the time I don’t know what I’m picking up till I get to the drop-off. Some trips, it’s a pile of shipping containers or something, and sometimes it’s people looking for a hide-out and I’m the one who got the job because I can get them to Solondori. The Hallik’s have been running this network for a good thirty years, they’re used to unexpected arrivals. It’s just a railroad run like a hundred others to them.”

“Any passwords or anything I should know?”

“Not for a formal delivery like this. It’s probably different if you arrive freelance. Back in Mom’s day it used to be that you had to say you wanted to be a fruit picker.”

“You want to be a fruit picker?” It’s certainly not what he expected.

“Yep. There’s a long tradition of itinerant labour in this system. That’s why it’s so easy to cover up bringing people in. You’re all supposed to be farm labourers looking for work.”

Bodhi realises something; turns in his seat and calls down into the hold “Everybody, you’re going to need to take off uniform jackets, anything with insignia, anything that makes you look like Resistance. We need to look like farm workers if we get inspected.”

“There’s a false floor in the starboard compartment, you can hide stuff there,” the Lieutenant adds over her shoulder. “Once we’re through customs we can get gear for you.”

Weary groans from the people in back; but he sees jackets being stripped off, shirts turned inside- out so the stripes are hidden. Hopefully it will be enough; Deyaa Shammen seems to think so, anyway, she nods and turns back to the controls.

“You’re very certain of these people,” he says.

“I’ve known the whole family since I was six months old. Solondori’s been the major entry point for the network for forty years and it’s never been hacked. The Halliks know what they’re doing.”

“Okay, that’s good to know…” He yawns again. “Damn. Tell me about – tell me about your ship. I noticed your operating systems are pretty high-spec; did you ask for the additions or did it come like that?”

“I built that myself. I like customising things, getting them to their highest capability. My Pa’s an engineer so maybe it runs in the family. My Mom once cannibalised an Imperial TIE fighter to build an escape ship, so there’s that to live up to, too. I’ve just been tinkering with ships all my life.”

“Your family name’s Jedhan, isn’t it?”

“Yep. I’ve never been there, though. Pa won’t go back, says he can’t bear to.”

“I know the feeling. I was born in the Holy City.”

“You know what he’s talking about, then. Those evil bastards.”

He grins at the casual frankness, and at the way she’s accepted him asking her not to call him “Sir”. Lt Shammen has a mixture of calm good sense and belligerent assertiveness that delights him. She reminds him of everything he’s admired, over the years, about the rebels. That whole “never give up” view of the world. It took him so long to learn to think like that, after a childhood living under those whose message was “never believe you can change this”; and to her it comes naturally.

So long as there are people like this fighting, surely there’s still hope. Like knowing young Finn; it’s heartening to see there is always another generation who won’t accept being trodden down and held in slavery. There have always been so many things wrong with the way they fought, the way they dithered, the way the cynics argued for the crudest possible direct action and the politicians for no action at all, or only for actions that would get them re-elected next year. But there have always been the quiet people, and the cheerful loud ones, who do their jobs and hold their ideals close, and do not give up.

In the end, he does doze a little, sitting upright in the co-pilot seat. Just for an hour or so. No dreams. He wakes and feels everything still solid, the Bothan ship still flying, the Resistance still fighting on, Lt Shammen still at the controls.

“Thank you for letting me catch a nap,” he says, and she grins sidelong at him and tells him he needed it, and besides, this is an uneventful as any flight she’s had in months.

Suddenly they are coming out of hyperspace and sweeping into a planetary system, approaching the misty blue ball of Salliche. He looks down at wide green continents, skeins of shining rainclouds, the miniature drama of a giant lightning storm over the southern ocean. The Comm unit comes on with a buzz, and Deyaa Shammen answers it and gives a string of authorisation codes to the bored-sounding Imperial Landing Controller speaking from planet-side. And then they are swinging down through the upper atmosphere and the cloud banks below, and coming in along the flank of a long range of low, rounded hills, in steady light rain.

“I already pinged my friends,” Deyaa Shammen says cheerfully. “They’ll be there to meet us.”

As far as he can see, the landscape is farmland, and green; stock animals grazing on hillsides and meadows, fields of ploughed red earth blushed with the first growth of crops, orchards full of spring blossom and new foliage, the delicate colours blending in the muted cloudy light, soft and fresh, acre after acre.

It’s all so peaceful; unnervingly so. It’s beginning to scare him, how easy this has all been. Can escape really be this simple?

The soil colour haunts him, that faint sheen of green over that terracotta-red. It looks like Jedha after the winter rains. The standing fields, the groves and orchards below the ship, all those are far too green; but that red plough-soil is precious and beautiful, a ghost in his eyes, a tiny momentary echo of things he lost more than thirty years ago.

Even if this is the day when finally everything goes wrong, he can remember home now and feel satisfied. He’s done his duty and held his truth, for decades; he’s avenged the destruction of Jedha, the dead of Alderaan, the lost souls of Scarif, as best he could. He’s lived the life that Cassian Andor laid down his life to build. He won’t die ashamed.

They land at a small spaceport on water meadows in a river delta; just three landing pads, and farmland all around, right up to the perimeter fences. There’s a big open-backed skimmer truck just arriving at the main entrance, and the driver looks across at the freighter coming in, and waves. Bodhi sees a young man, slim, dark-haired and bearded. Deyaa waves back from the viewport.

A guard in a creased uniform waves the truck in, hops onto the back to ride over to them. Deyaa says “Better check your people are ready.”

For a moment he feels again that twinge of alarm. Everything is going so smoothly. It can’t be this easy. Is this the day his long, long run of luck is finally going to run dry? He scrambles through into the hold, pulling off his jacket with the shining pips on arm and shoulder as he goes; rolls it and carries it under his arm. His mouth is dry as the gangway opens. But the inspection is ludicrously casual; just that one trooper, glancing inside and taking a head-count, Deyaa handing over scan-docs that are barely scrolled through. Either this is rigged, or someone somewhere has been paid a lot of bribes; or there actually are places where the First Order’s ruthless efficiency has not yet taken root. Maybe this really is the perfect place to run a safe house.

The young man from the truck is waiting, parked right outside. At close quarters he’s scruffy and handsome; mid-thirties at a guess, untidy collar-length hair, clear brown eyes and a smile that goes out to one side first and then the other. He’s grinning at Deyaa Shammen, and she marches down the ramp to greet him.

It’s all too easy, too easy. He hates this nagging, oppressive feeling of premonition but he can’t shake it. This is all going to go wrong.

They climb into the back of the vehicle. The young man introduces himself as Esperanz Hallik, shakes hands, scrambles back into the driver’s seat, Deyaa climbing up alongside him to chat. They drive for half an hour, through paddocks and groves and along the river bank on a way-marked route above a levee. The air is fresh and smells of recent rain, and insects sing in the orchards. At last the truck turns into a gateway, and bounces down a farm track between ranks of trees, towards a group of farm buildings.

The farm is all whitewashed timber and red tiles; twin frame barns piled high with bales of fodder, low workshops and outbuildings around a big old house with a stone-framed door and lines of gleaming windows. Fowl scratch in a vegetable garden in front of the house, and across a broad muddy yard; stout post-fences pen back a pair of healthy-looking banthas. There’s another skimmer truck parked beside one of the barns, stacked with crates, and as the last of the party climb down stiffly from their ride two people emerge from one of the buildings. They hurry over; a man a little younger than Esperanz, equally dark-haired and good-looking, and a younger female with olive skin and cropped blue-black hair. They both hug Deyaa Shammen for a moment before surveying the strays she’s brought with her.

“Volunteers?” asks the woman.

“Yep. Sorry about the unexpected delivery. Now of all times, too; Esper just gave me the news. Galen, Em, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks…” says the second young man quietly.

“I can move them further on, if you’d prefer, see if one of the other houses can take them in?”

“No, it’s okay, stay, please. We’ve been trying to carry on, it’ll do us good to have some new arrivals to think about.”

“I’ll get Ma,” says Esperanz. “She’ll want to meet you all. Can you get everyone inside?” He lopes off towards the farmhouse without waiting for an answer.

“I’m Emren Hallik,” the young woman says to the whole group. “This is my husband Galen. Right, let’s get you all indoors and then we’ll sort out who needs what. I can already see someone’s limping; Gale, do you know where Hosk is?”

Bodhi stares after the second young man as he nods and heads off. Galen. However many years is it since he heard that name? It’s never been fashionable, but he knows that if he’d ever had a son, he might have called him that. How curious to meet a Galen now...

Emren Hallik leads them past the animal pen into a large cruck barn, Deyaa strolling beside her talking in a low voice. Since he can’t see what else to do, he follows with the rest of the group. He wonders what the bad news was. His tiredness is starting to catch up with him again, and knowing that makes him still more ill-at-ease. If anything goes wrong now, he’s going to need to be quick and decisive, and he feels neither of those things. He’s still responsible for fifteen other lives. His own, in the end, doesn’t matter; but he’s seen missions go wrong, teams not come back, too many times before. He’s responsible for getting these people safe home. He’s no longer sure he’s up to it.

He sits down slowly, on a straw bale at the back of the barn.

Maybe he is too old for this game. He’s only sixty-one, but he’s been working pretty much without ceasing, all his life. Maybe that desk job would have been a wise move.

The barn smells of stored grain and fresh-ground flour, wholesome and dusty, with undernotes of sweaty animals and something fruity and fermented. All around him now people are slumping onto the planked floor or sitting on crates and hay-bales. Everyone looks as weary as he is. Slanting afternoon light works through the planked walls and paints their faces in stripes of gold and shadow.

Dry fodder stalks prickle him through the seat of his pants, the wheaten smell is making him want to sneeze. Warmth seeps into him, a soothing touch along each bar of sunlight. He shakes himself; he can’t afford to fall asleep, not now.

Emren Hallik is talking, describing fresh clothes, sleeping arrangements, a mess hall behind the farm, a local medic who’ll see the injured personnel sorted out. Behind her a door slides open, the full height of the building, and the pattern of light and shade moves, flickering across the rows of weary listeners. Two figures, silhouetted; one of the men and someone much shorter, a woman carrying a data pad. They begin to move through the group, and he hears voices speaking one by one, names being taken and logged. His hands tighten into fists and he digs his nails in.

The figures are in front of him. He’s going to be one of the last to give his name. He looks at the woman with the pad as she approaches. She’s quite old; white-haired, with a round, kindly face and a mouth that has smiled a lot in the past but is expressionless now. Blue-green eyes, almost as tired and sad as his own. Eyes that widen, slowly, unnervingly, as they look at him; in shock and disbelief, and something more; alarm, perhaps, or horror.

So, this is it, this is the instant when things go wrong. This is what that subtle tug of premonition has been whispering about to him, this moment, this being seen by someone who sees what he is. Someone he feels horribly, totally, known by and seen-through by. He doesn’t know what in all the hells is going on, but certainly something is, because that is not the way an agent logging arrivals at a safe house looks at an old man like him.

Bodhi Rook stands up calmly, because damn it, he’s been holding his ground for thirty-six years, he isn’t going to start running again now. He’s the senior officer present; he’s responsible, he brought his people into this situation and whatever it is, he’s going to face it on his feet. He straightens up and puts his shoulders back, and gives his name, and rank, and serial number.

The woman stands staring at him.

After a long moment she puts out her right hand and touches the sleeve of his shirt, and his arm inside it. He tenses. Her mouth opens but no words come out.

“Ma?” says Esperanz Hallik. “Are you okay?”

She has to pull herself together visibly; she pushes the data pad at the young man saying “Take the rest of the names, please, I – I can’t”- and turns back to Bodhi. Still staring, still wide-eyed. “Is it really you?” Her sad, tired face has fallen open, like a broken thing.

“Do I know you?” he asks helplessly.

“Ah,” she says. “Oh, I don’t know how to say this. Yes, yes, you did, once. You don’t remember me. Bodhi, it’s me; it’s Jyn.”

It is Jyn. The reason he is known by those sea-coloured eyes is because they are the eyes of a dead woman, a woman who knew him once and trusted him, and was betrayed. Jyn Erso.

Bodhi’s knees give way and he sits down hard on the straw bale. “Uh…” His lips have gone numb, he can’t remember even the simplest words. She’s still touching his arm and he stares at her hand, incredulous. It’s a thin strong hand, the fair skin heavily tanned and scattered with small scars. There are crescent-corners of dirt under some of the nails. She must be, what, fifty-six, fifty-seven? The white hair had deceived him into thinking her much older.

“It is you,” she says. Her voice is small, as though she hasn’t enough breath to speak up. He raises his head and looks at her.

“It’s you,” he echoes. It’s her. “Jyn! How? How did? -”

She suddenly starts and looks around; at her son, staring, at the other faces clustering around, some listening openly while others politely pretend to be oblivious. Her expression twists painfully and he feels her tremble as her grip tightens. “I can’t do this here,” she says, and steps away from him.

He breathes deep and pushes himself to stand up, shrugging his jacket on again; follows her out of the barn and away from the astonishment there. His own shock walking beside him , tearing the oxygen from his brain. He goes across the farmyard unsteadily in the late afternoon sunlight, and Jyn, white-haired frail Jyn, leads him into her home and down a stone-flagged passage, to a large room at the rear of the house. There’s a giant double stove and bake oven, a long table set with benches; huge dura-steel pans hang from nails in the walls. A wooden dresser holds enough crockery for several dozen people, and on the topmost shelf is a set of old-fashioned holo-frames, running on low power; little groups of silvery ghost figures, standing looking about them blithely.

Jyn turns in the middle of the kitchen and faces him. Her posture is almost confrontational, and now he knows it’s her she’s unmistakable. Jyn, who escaped. Somehow. Jyn, who has a son; no, two sons. Esperanz and Galen. Jyn, who lived and paired up with someone and had a family, and runs a safe-house network in the Ag Sector.

He didn’t kill them all.

She says “We thought you were dead. We saw the ship blow, it went up like a firework. I’ve never forgotten it, seeing that, knowing we were all doomed. If we’d had any idea you were still alive…”

We. She keeps saying we.

He manages to reply. “I thought YOU were dead.” Horrible, hopeless, obvious words. Words that do not excuse him, because now nothing can. He didn’t kill them all; but he still left them. “I thought you -”

Jyn interrupts, shaking her head. “No, no, we made it. Deyaa’s mother picked us up. Ell. I’m so glad you didn’t die, that you’re alive! But if we’d known you were alive we would have…” She breaks off with a gasp.

He’s seeing it all again, the advancing cloud of fire and steam, the vaporised stuff of the planet itself rolling in to block his flight path and cut him off from them. Jyn and Cassian, holding one another in their last embrace. He imagines she’s reliving her own memories of those same few seconds, and shivers. But she lived. And - we. She said we, and again we, she keeps saying we.

“I had nightmares about it for years,” he tells her.

“Yes. Yes, we both did, too.”

Jyn is beginning to cry, and he wishes he could, too. His mind is ringing like a hollow sphere, like something struck and left echoing, a cave nightmarish with darkness and the ghost-voices of bats. He remembers the two slim, handsome men outside. Dark hair and beards, brown eyes, keen smiling faces. Long slightly hooked noses, narrow jaws, high cheekbones. Esperanz. Galen. Her sons.

He knows he ought to be telling her everything, he ought to be asking how she survived, how they came to be here, how did all that happen, that and apologising, explaining, begging her forgiveness. But the only words that come out are “You keep saying we. We. Jyn, who else made it out with you? Was it – was it Cassian?”

It has to have been Cassian. Surely those two bright-eyed young men are Cassian’s blood.

She said we, she said we…

Jyn puts her hands over her face, and standing in the middle of her sunlit kitchen surrounded by all the clutter of a good and busy life she cries as though her heart is breaking.

He’s steeling himself for the words she will say next, because this can only mean one thing. It wasn’t Cassian. She lived, she got over it, she met someone else and had a life. That’s what she means by this “we”. It was only her who survived; “we” is whoever she paired-up with, after.

Bodhi breathes and breathes deeper, and waits while she cries.

Even those few moments of thinking Cassian Andor might have lived have hurt him with a feeling like a hard cold punch, a blow somewhere deep in his gut. He swallows and stands his ground, to hear the inevitable. He’s an old man, and this shouldn’t matter as much as it does; but it does. He failed someone he loved, once, over thirty years ago, failed him and left him to die, and his whole life from that day to this has been built on atonement for that death. Why would that change now?

He makes himself walk over to Jyn, makes himself put his hands on her forearms gently. He’s shaking almost as much as she is. She raises her face to him; she’s shorter than he remembers, but her expression still has that clear-eyed certainty, and her voice even choked with tears is strong.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “He died last month.”

There’s a strange sense of delay before the gut-punch of shock comes again. It WAS Cassian, he did survive, he lived and loved her and had a family with her; and now he’s dead.

Last month. Only last month.

“Now of all times,” Deyaa Shammen had said apologetically when they arrived here. “I’m so sorry,” she’d said. This is why. This family, taking him and his people in, saving all their lives, they’re in mourning. They’ve lost a husband, a father, a father-in-law. They’ve lost Cassian.

All this time, he was alive; but it’s too late to do anything except slowly let himself hug Jyn, and bow his head as she puts her arms round him in response; and, finally, begin to cry.

Later - a good while later, maybe as much as hours, he can’t be sure – she has got him to sit down at the table and has put tea in front of him, and bread and blue cheese and a jar of sour pickles. Two cups, two plates, two sets of cutlery. She’s made him eat, and taken a few bites herself to keep him company. It’s odd, and charming, to know that short-tempered Jyn grew up to become a woman who shows care by feeding people. The bread is fresh and the tea is hot, and very welcome. The sun is low now, oblique light filling the kitchen and gleaming on the crockery and the hanging pans. He asks “What happened?”

“To Cass?”

“Yes.”

“It was his heart.” She runs a hand over her hair, fiddling with the bun at the nape of her neck. “It was very sudden. He was out in the upper pasture, taking fodder up for the banthas. It was a beautiful spring day, he’d been talking just that morning about what a wonderful day it was. When we found him he’d fallen in the long grass. He was looking up at the sky. The medic said it would have been instantaneous, that he wouldn’t have suffered at all. He looked more surprised than anything else.” She looked at Bodhi with a faint smile. “This is the first time I’ve talked to anyone about it. It feels strange to put it into words. I’ve always known one of us would die, either I’d leave him or he’d leave me. We were due to go together, on Scarif, but things didn’t work out that way. We’ve had thirty-six years of borrowed time. And now I can’t get used to him not being around.”

It feels crass to ask, intrusive to the point of cruelty; but he can’t bear not knowing. “Were you happy? Did he – did he have a good life?”

“We were very happy…” Jyn’s voice shakes, but she’s smiling again. “Truly, we were. He’d had – we’d both had – lives that weren’t really more than just surviving; and then this. Neither of us had ever expected to be so happy. Oh Bodhi, yes, Cassian had a good life. He did things he believed in. He saved so many lives. He was a brave man who lived his truth, and he was a good husband and a wonderful father. He had a happy life and I was happy, and so blessed, to be with him.”

She pushes back her chair a little unsteadily and goes to the dresser; takes down one of the larger holo-frames from the top. “Here – this is Galen and Em’s wedding, three years ago.” She brightens the image intensity, and sets it down on the table-top in front of him. “The whole family.”

A shining group of figures caught endlessly hugging and smiling, turning to one another and back in a feedback loop of happiness. Galen and Emren are in the middle, Esperanz and another woman, and another younger man, to their left, throwing grain and petals over them; Jyn and Cassian to their right. Through the faintly silvered cast the holo lends to other colours, he can see that Cassian’s hair and beard are grey. He is smiling, lines creasing the corners of his dark eyes; he has one arm round Jyn’s waist and with the other hand, over and over, he reaches into his pants pocket to produce another handful of flower petals and throw them at his son and new daughter-in-law. The sound is turned off but Bodhi can imagine the laughter and the jokes.

“Who are the others?” He points to the two figures he can’t put names to.

“That’s Esper’s girlfriend. Douny. She’s lovely. She’s a midwife, she works at the Solondori med-centre. She’s the one who put us in touch with Dr Hosk. And the other man – that’s our youngest. Bodhi.”

“Yes?” He looks across at her, puzzled.

She shakes her head for a second. “His name is Bodhi. Bodhi Hallik, officially; we’re all officially Halliks. Cass was Willix Hallik from the day we arrived her, I was – I am - Lianna. The boys know their real family name is Andor but none of us ever use it. False names are very odd at first and then you just forget about them, they’re part of your life, like having boots on your feet and gun at your side, and a baby in your arms.”

“You called your son – after me?” It’s a pebble in his throat. Bodhi Hallik; Bodhi Andor. Esperanz, Galen, and Bodhi. “I – I don’t deserve it.”

Jyn shakes her head again, firmly this time. “Don’t say that. Cass always said you were the bravest man he’d ever met. We always knew if the third child was a boy he’d be a Bodhi.”

He picks up his mug and takes a long gulp of the cooling tea, trying to mask the fact he has no words to speak.

“Esperanz,” Jyn says “Is ‘hope’ in Cassian’s native language. He would have been Esperanza if he’d been a girl. And Galen is for my father, obviously.”

“I always used to think if I’d had a son I’d name him Galen.” It seems safer to go sideways in the conversation than to stay here, looking at this astonishing idea of Jyn and Cassian’s child named after him; to think of them honouring him, never forgetting him. He picks at the crumbs on his plate. Cassian remembered him.

“You have kids?” Jyn’s voice is warm, and he wonders if she’s imagining his life as like hers. A farmhouse, tall sons, maybe grandchildren to come; building something, saving something, happy to remember the love you’ve lost, even through tears.

He sighs and says “No.” Hesitates, looking at her. There are things he can say, and things, he suddenly feels, that he cannot. He trusts Jyn, and maybe one day he’ll admit the whole truth, but it would be unfair to do it now, when her bereavement is so new. “I would have adopted, but – my work – it would have meant being an absent father so much of the time and, and, I didn’t want to put a kid through that if there wasn’t another parent at home with them, and I – I never met the right guy.” He looks away from the sadness in her face. This was meant to be the less-painful version of the story, not the version that would make Jyn cry again. He’s shaking slightly inside. But it’s probably shock. “It’s okay,” he says “I would have been a lousy husband and father.”

“I doubt that very much.” Jyn reaches out and lays a hand over his. “Why are you being so hard on yourself?”

“All I’ve ever done,” Bodhi says “Is run away.”

She raises an eyebrow, and for a second she is the caustic quick-tempered woman he remembers. “Running away? Is that why I see all those pips on your sleeve, Commodore? Seems to me you’ve got a strange way of running. Bodhi, you must’ve atoned for your time with the Empire a long time ago. I cannot believe you have anything to be ashamed of. How did you earn that rank if all you’ve been doing is running?”

“Well…” He looks into her eyes. Pugnacious still under all the motherliness, tough as a thief, all clear certainty and bravado and solid core. He always liked Jyn; he really couldn’t blame Cassian for having loved her. No more than he could blame her, for having given her love in return, to the man whose memory he’s tried to live up to all his days. “It’ll take a while. I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

“We’ve got all night. Tell me about your life, Bodhi. Tell me what you’ve done with yourself, all these years.”

He tells her his story, sitting at the kitchen table with the hologram smiling up at him. Finding, carefully, the words to explain his life, to her and to himself; all the decisions, all the choices and fears, the will to live, the same of death, the memories that guided him and had to be repaid. Finding, slowly, that perhaps, in the end, he has been strong enough, and he has done enough. Finding that in the end he is telling one life, well-lived and full, to another.

Finding himself beginning to smile back, at the kind remembered face in the holo.

Perhaps now at last, here in the sunset in Cassian’s home, he can stop running, and rest.

#star wars fic #my writing #Bodhi lives!#eventually also #rebelcaptain

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