#it would never go anywhere. he's like in his forties i think and guy like him. probably married . but i can think my thoughts

[july-19th-club]

there's a guy who i dont work with but who works from my building as a consultant for a job-center type organization, and whenever he comes in he like. sets such a good example of patience, compassion, good manners, and...i dont know, gentleness that it makes me try harder not to be irritable or impatient with patrons. two totally different jobs, we never even speak unless he's asking for the stapler or we're saying hi and bye on his way in and out of the building, but every thursday good old boring average chris shows up to set up his laptop at one of our public tables and meet clients, and he's so goddamn nice i'm like okay i have to be nice too . so thanks chris

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Part Six

Steve wakes with a start, yelping and then immediately panicking when the bed covers feel constricting – it passes almost immediately when he realizes where he is and what woke him.

“Hi Eddie,” Steve sighs, blinking the rest of the way awake. He rubs at his crusty eyes, the bedside clock glowing three forty seven at him. Great. “What’s up buddy?”

“Stee,” Eddie says quietly, like he somehow understands the sanctity of the middle of the night, “ow. Dead later,” and then he makes a noise like a fly buzzing. Or a bee. It’s a fair attempt at a gentle ‘bzzzz’ing noise.

Steve sighs, “okay buddy lets go.”

Eddie turns at the top of the stairs and goes down them on his butt, which Steve’s pretty sure he would find amusing if he wasn’t half asleep and half annoyed.

The ground outside is cold enough that Steve hisses when his bare foot hits it, and he does a silly hopping jog to follow Eddie onto the lawn. It is a bee, and it’s moving sluggish and confused on the grass. The weathers getting colder, the time of year plus...probably it’s old?

Steve knows fuck all about bees, but he’s pretty sure individual bees don’t live for that long, and that maybe they sort of hibernate in the winter? Or something? Isn’t that what all of that honey is for?

Maybe they could bring it into the warm and give it some sugar water or something, Steve’s pretty sure he’s heard that from someone, somewhere along the line, “okay little bee guy, here we go.” Steve uses a finger to encourage the fuzzy bee onto his hand.

Steve stands; there’s very faint, and probably first of the year, patches of frost on Eddie’s tent. It hasn’t formed anywhere else, so it’s probably not that bad yet, but still, it’s chilly enough that Steve hops back across the lawn with some urgency.

In the kitchen, Steve says, “here Eddie, you take him,” and transfers the bee into Eddie’s cupped hands. He mixes a tiny mount of sugar water in the bottom of a glass, with no idea at all if it’ll help or not. The bee should probably be asleep, right? Steve can’t remember ever seeing a bee at night, so he assumes they go to bed like sensible bees.

Steve drops a tiny bit of the sugary mixture onto Eddie’s palm, right in front of the bee’s face; he drinks it, so Steve does it again. “Okay, I think we should all try and get some sleep. Eddie, you want to sleep on the couch?”

“Sleep on the couch.”

“Yeah,” Steve rubs his arms, making ‘brrrr’ing noises and generally pretending he’s in arctic conditions. He points to the door, “cold outside. Warm here.”

Eddie cocks his head, but seems to get it, so Steve takes the bee, setting it dead center on a couch cushion, and goes back to bed.

Steve wakes again at a much more normal time; blinking at the nine thirty now on his clock and thinking that is way, way better. He wonders vaguely if the bee lived, but he doubts it. Eddie will probably be sad about it; like the bird.

If that was even sadness; if Eddie even understands the concept of death. Steve has no way to know what Eddie thinks about it.

He heads downstairs; vaguely planning his day. He needs a coffee and some breakfast, then get ready; they probably need some groceries. Working opposite shifts to Robin really sucks; he hasn’t seen her once yet this week. They talk on the phone though, and she swears she's working on Keith. He should check when he goes in later for a day they both have off so they can hang out; if such a thing even exists.

Maybe the kids will come over for a movie night; Steve does now have unfettered access to all the newest releases...and is it sad that Steve’s lonely enough that he wants to invite over that bunch of mongrels? Maybe, he’s not going to think to much about it.

Steve sets the coffee going then heads into the lounge; Eddie’s curled up into a tight ball, his spine bent at a really fucking weird angle and his tail wrapped around himself; Steve knows then that he’s never seen Eddie sleep before, because he’s definitely never seen whatever the hell is happening here. It’s like a cat. Or a snake, maybe. The way he’s all curled up tight on himself; makes Steve’s back hurt just looking at him.

At the other end of the couch is the sad, still, little body of the bee. Steve stares at it, listening to the faint noise from the kitchen; the coffee pot gurgles a little.

Eddie blinks awake, unwrapping himself.

“Morning Eddie.”

“Morning Stee,” Eddie blinks sadly at the bee, and then, very gently, leans over and nudges it with a claw tip, “dead?”

“Yeah buddy, I’m sorry. But at least he was comfortable, right? Warm and...sugared up.”

Eddie hums noncommittally, watching as Steve scoops up the bee and following him into the kitchen. Steve very nearly puts the bee in the trash can, but veers off at the last moment. It feels a little wrong, throwing the little dude out; he also doesn’t know what Eddie would thinks and feels vaguely like Eddie might...judge him.

Steve heads outside and deposits him in a plant pot instead. When he comes back in, Eddie’s raiding the fridge, “pear inied. Grapes inied. Celery inied.”

Steve sighs, “I know buddy, I’m sorry. I’ll go and get more, okay?” Steve goes out to the freezer in the garage and comes back with a whole bag of frozen peas, and that seems to completely make up for it. He pours Eddie a bowl of peas, and himself a bowl of cereal, sticking a spoon in both. He downs the coffee so he doesn’t have to make two trips.

“Couch, TV?”

Eddie nods, following Steve. Eddie turns on the TV since Steve’s hands are full, and they sit side by side on the couch, Eddie very carefully using his spoon.

“Called?”

“It’s a toothbrush.”

Eddie watches from his seat on the floor next to Steve; he’s high enough to easily lean his elbows on the counter top.

“Why?”

And ‘called?’ Steve can handle all day long, but ‘why?’ has rapidly become a tricky thing to navigate.

“To clean.” Steve grins big as he can, clicking his teeth together, “teeth.”

“Teeth,” Eddie snaps back, then turns to the mirror, clicking his teeth at himself. “Eddidie clean teeth?”

Steve snorts a laugh, and Eddie looks at him, tilting his head but smiling too. Steve figures that a solid ninety five percent of the time, Eddie’s just happy to be involved.

“Okay buddy I think I have…” Steve rummages in the cupboard under the sink, “ah ha!”

“Ah ha!”

“Here you go,” Steve unwraps the new toothbrush, really, really fucking glad it’s a different color to his own. “Steve’s is blue, Eddie’s is purple.”

“Purple.”

“You got it buddy,” Steve wets the bristles of both, and then puts the tiniest little dab of toothpaste on Eddie’s before putting the proper amount on his own.

“Here you go.” Steve hands it over, and then Starts brushing his teeth. Eddie holds his own brush, watching Steve closely in the mirror before attempting it himself. His movements are slow and cautious, be he definitely gets the idea.

Steve rinses his brush under the water, leaving it running as Eddie does the same. Eddie has no trouble dropping his toothbrush into the cup next to Steve’s.

Eddie explores the bath next; all this shit must have been here when Eddie spent a night in the tub, but Steve was beaten to hell and still a little fucking high on Russian truth serum when all that was going on, so he honestly doesn’t really remember much of those first couple of days. “Called?”

“Shampoo. It’s to clean hair,” Steve tugs on his hair to demonstrate, “hair.”

“Eddidie clean hair?”

“Uh. I mean, if you want to?”

Eddie gets the cap open, squeezing the bottle carefully and sniffing the hole, “good.”

Steve’s current shampoo smells like apples, and Steve realizes what’s going to happen just as it’s too late to stop Eddie from sticking his tongue out.

Eddie smacks his lips together, looking truly disgusted, “fucking gross.”

“Hey! Language!” Steve takes the bottle from a grinning Eddie. He looks so pleased with himself Steve can’t stay mad, “damn kids,” he sighs. Eddie definitely got that one from Max, the little reprobate. “Okay, if we’re going to do this, in the tub.”

Eddie points, “in?”

“Yup.”

Eddie manages it, hoisting himself up and the flicking his tail and sliding his ass over the edge, “Eddidie in tub.”

“You got it buddy,” Steve takes the shower head down, pointing it away from Eddie while it warms up, then moving it a little onto his tail, “feel okay?”

“Warm,” Eddie reaches out to feel the water, “good.”

“Okay, here we go then.”

Eddie sits patiently, head tilted back as Steve wets his hair down and then adds the shampoo. Eddie’s hair is thick, like, insanely thick, and it takes a bit for Steve to work the lather in. The individual strands are thick too, coarse and a little wiry. The back of Eddie’s scalp feels strange too, like his skull had ridges on it; lines that all join together right at the back of Eddie’s head. You’d never be able to see it through his hair.

Steve goes through half a bottle of conditioner on him, but Eddie sits patiently through all of it, flicking his fingers through the water, even when Steve combs it through and catches on snags, Eddie’s doesn’t complain at all. He tilts his head back easily when Steve directs him to, “okay, nearly finished.”

Once they’re done, Eddie climbs out of the bath and onto a towel, sitting on the floor while Steve dries his hair; he gets the idea and dries his arms and torso himself. Steve’s so used to looking at him that he doesn’t find the lack of belly button and nipples at all odd any more. Just looks normal. Looks like Eddie.

“Okay buddy, just let me grab a shower, and then you can help me write a grocery list,” Eddie follows Steve into the bedroom, watching as Steve grabs clothes before heading for his shower. Steve clicks the lock on just in case; Eddie’s not exactly worked out stuff like boundaries or personal space yet.

When Steve comes out, Eddie’s waiting patiently, sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed, wearing his yellow sweater.

Part Eight

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Hello! First I want to say I really like your fae story! The world building in it is insane and I'm so glad Buddie is finally together. Second, you don't have to answer but why have you been posting stuff with tommy? I don't understand why any Buddie shipper would like him, he's such a pos in the begins episodes...why write him with Buck? You don't have to answer, but there are lots of Buddie shippers switching sides and I don't see why.

Hiiiii.

So, first off thank you! I'm so glad you're enjoying Come Away, and I hope the ending coming up satisfies :) Second, ngl, I did consider not answering that question cause I really don't like wading into fandom drama...but that was a super respectful ask and I DO quite like the character so...fuck it, we ball.

This is probably gonna be long and rambly but the TL;DR is I think the fact that Tommy Kinard IS introduced as a piece of shit makes for really interesting nuance to the character and also I'm a multishipper...just cause bacon and pineapple is my favorite pizza flavor doesn't mean I DON'T like pepperoni or have decided never to eat it again (also, I have less than 10k words of BuckTommy on AO3 and, like, almost 300k of Buddie, so I don't think I've switched sides, lol)

As for why I can like Tommy and specifically Tommy and Buck together despite the aforementioned POS'ness, sure I'll cop to part of it being I am just so damn excited for bi!Buck, I'd have been happy with just about anyone awakening that in him. But also because Tommy, to me, is a fucking interesting character and DOES make a lot of sense as someone that Hen and Chim could forgive and be friends with, and that could be good for Buck.

First off there are some things I think we have to acknowledge about Tommy that are factual or can be inferred as factual from the show. 1. For his timeline to make ANY sense, he can generously be in his late thirties to early forties. For it to make sense without him being some kind of prodigy in a couple areas, he has to be in his mid-to-late forties. 2. He was at LEAST partially raised by someone who reminds him uncomfortably of Gerrard, a CARTOONISHLY boorish, evil, bigot. 3. He was closeted for a very long time.

All of those factors together make for someone who honestly, it would have been nearly IMPOSSIBLE for them NOT to be a piece of shit, and a textbook example of how patriarchal systems, toxic masculinity, and white supremacy are also harmful to the people who benefit from them.

Let me preface this by saying I don't think the harm Tommy suffered was anywhere near as great as what Hen and Chim (or any person of color) go through. And, of course, Hen and Chim don't owe him shit. Forgiving him or not is entirely up to them and the right choice whatever they choose.

My point is, Tommy almost certainly grew up in an environment where his worst flaws and character traits were just...normal. I think a lot of people don't understand how much LARGER the world has gotten with the modern day internet, how much easier it is to be exposed to things outside your own bubble. I'm either right around Tommy's age or a little younger, depending on the estimate you use and guys...I just don't have words for how INSULAR my worldview was growing up compared to now. How much everyone around you, even in larger cities, tended to be Just Like You. You had to live in true sprawling metropolises to be exposed to the kind of diversity that we take for granted now. It is a terrible thing, but when everyone around you, everyone you look up to, everyone you love and care about, and who is supposed to love and care about you thinks the same thing, you don't tend to question it. You don't even notice it. My own loving, wonderful, give-you-the-shirt-off-her-back grandmother, who was educated af in a time women really weren't as a rule, and spent her life as a teacher was racist as FUCK. And the really insidious kind...the "I don't hate them, but why can't they just stay on their side of town?" kind, the passive-aggressive comments that only sting the people they're aimed at so no one thinks to defend the victim kind. It's the weirdest cognitive dissonance to know someone as kind, loving, and moral and ALSO realize that the kindness, love, and morality only included certain people. If my parents had not moved around so much, exposing me to different environments (or if they'd been a little less lenient with my internet access when it started exploding) I honestly can't say whether or not I would have ended up just like my grandma. I like to think I wouldn't have, but that's the point...it's a frog in slowly boiling water situation. I think we can all safely say a parent like Gerrard was not creating an environment in which it was safe or even possible to question the hate.

And from that homelife Tommy had to have gone straight into the military during the heights of DADT, wherein hiding your true self from everyone around you was the acceptable compromise to just straight up having your life ruined (if not completely ended).

Now. Does any of this EXCUSE Tommy being a pretty racist, sexist piece of shit in the begins episodes? No. But it is an EXPLANATION and a true-to-life example of how those systems that everyone has to operate in are harmful no matter what. At the time, given what was almost certainly his background, Tommy would almost certainly have to have been INCREDIBLY self-aware and self-actualized (and honestly, really, REALLY fucking brave) not to have been molded into...precisely what he is. A pretty racist, pretty sexist piece of shit who is throwing anyone and everyone he has to under the bus (consciously or not) to divert attention from his own deviation from the "norm".

Okay, HocusPocus, you might say, so this still begs the question why the hell you think Tommy deserves to even breathe the same air as your favorite blorbo.

And let me again preface by saying I acknowledge the show leaves a lot to inference here. As 911 is wont to do, extremely important character moments are handled "off-screen."

That being said, we do get to see Tommy acknowledging he was wrong about Hen and Chim and getting to a place of mutual respect, if not friendship (personally, I think the going away party when Tommy leaves the 118 shows they've made it to friendship...I don't care how much you respect someone, cake, balloons, and a surprise party are strictly friend things). When Chim calls Tommy to take them out to the cruise ship like...Tommy's risking his life AND his career there, if not outright jail time. Just on Chim and Hen's say-so. Again...that's FRIEND level actions, not just "I respect you as a colleague". We see, either right there on screen or through deleted scenes, that everyone around Buck trusts Tommy with him. When have we ever seen the 118 be shy about expressing their displeasure over one of Buck's LI's? If Hen and Chim still harbored resentment towards Tommy, and didn't truly believe he'd changed and was good enough for Buck, do we REALLY think that wouldn't have been expressed?

Are there valid criticisms of the character? Sure. I think a lot of it can be explained by the rushed nature of season 7 with such a large ensemble cast, but yeah, Tommy's not super developed and a LOT of the issues between him, Hen , and Chim are left to inference. That's fair.

But I think the show MEANS us to make those inferences, that Hen and Chim's actions and interactions with him show that Tommy has done the work to change, and they accept that he's changed and it also says a lot about them that they can forgive him and be friends with him (which, again, he is NOT owed and they would have been perfectly valid in denying him).

So, yeah. I like him. I think he's interesting and while Buddie remains my OTP, I am very interested to see where Tevan goes this coming season.

Also, Lou is fucking pretty ;)

[mochiwrites]

an mmau drabble.

( mentions of unconfirmed character death )

reblogs do more than likes!

Scar sits in a park.

His cane rests against the bench beside him as he leans back into the seat, eyes taking in the scenery around him. He watches the happenings of natural life, seeing families out with their children, couples going for a stroll on the path. A man plays frisbee with his dog, and Scar nearly becomes well acquainted with said frisbee as it nearly smacks his head. He catches it in time, the man running up to him with an apologetic smile as Scar returns it.

The man has sandy blond hair, and for a moment, Scar’s eyes play a little trick on him.

He sees brown instead of green, a red sweater instead of the plaid button up.

Scar feels a bit numb as he passes the frisbee off to the stranger, who runs back to his dog and throws it in the air again. Scar’s eyes follow the movements of the frisbee, watching how it soars through the air.

He entertains a fantasy, just for a little bit. One where he’s watching not a stranger, but someone he knows very well. Someone who is his other half. He entertains a world in which nothing ever happened to them, and Scar never needed a cane on the hard days. He entertains a world in which there is still a plastic ring on his finger, maybe even a real gold one, and he is the happiest man on Earth.

The frisbee is caught midair by the dog, who happily runs back over to its owner, the plastic firmly between its teeth.

It’s been eight months since everything happened. Two months since Scar tried to find Grian with no luck. It’s been two hundred and forty-three days since Scar was left behind, and sixty days since he was forced to face the very possible truth that Grian was dead.

He hasn’t heard anything about the apartment, no sight of Grian anywhere even remotely nearby. There hasn’t been a single trace, not even a small clue. The thread is gone, and Scar might have missed his window of opportunity forever.

Nearby, a group of pigeons land on the ground, picking through some crumbs spilling from bags on the ground. They coo and jerk their heads, and Scar looks over at them. Something tugs at his chest as he sees one of the pigeons lift its wing to poke its beak through the silver-gray feathers.

It feels like grief.

(“What do you say to getting a cat one day?” Scar looked down at the man curling into his arm, a curious expression on his face. “A new home, new pet. A lovely little companion for us!”

Grian snorted as he pulled the blanket up to cover his bare skin from the chilly air. He rested his head on Scar’s arm, looking up at him. “I think you’d spoil that cat absolutely rotten.”

“What?!” Scar made a playfully offended gasp. “I would never do such a thing!”

“You would.” Grian grinned at him. “There’d have to be a limit on treats though. The cat’s health is important.”

“Of course, of course!” Scar nodded along before his face softened. “You’d get a cat with me?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound so wobbly, but sue him, he was an emotional guy! The idea of getting a cat with his boyfriend made him happy!

Grian looked at him with a look that on the surface screamed annoyed, but Scar knew better. He could see the fondness in those brown eyes, the slight quirk of his lips. “Obviously. Someone’s got to be the responsible Cat Dad.”

“Cat Dad!” Scar couldn’t help but gasp before bursting into tiny giggles. “And hey! I’d be a very responsible Cat Dad!” He playfully squeezed Grian’s side in retaliation. Grian laughed in return, getting comfortable against Scar as he was pulled closer to him. Scar moved to rest his chin on Grian’s hair, pressing a kiss there first. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Mhm. Do you have any animals you’d want to adopt?”

Grian moved his head to rest more comfortably under Scar’s own as he hummed in thought. And then, “A parrot.”

Scar chuckled, “I should’ve seen that one coming.” He was fully aware of Grian’s love for birds, how much they meant to him.

“We’d have to keep Professor Beak away from the cat though,” Grian replied, and Scar couldn’t help his fond little laugh at the bird’s name.

“Professor Beak?” he questioned. “Gosh G, has anyone told you how cute you are? I can feel my little heart just melting!”

“Professor Beak is a perfect name for a bird!” Grian exclaimed defensively, moving to look at him. Scar could see how pink his face was. “It’s sophisticated and elegant.”

Scar only melted into further laughter. Grian grew more embarrassed by the man’s reaction, squawking some kind of defense for himself. Yet all Scar could focus on was how much he loved the man in his arms.

Silencing Grian, he used the arm around him to pull him forward until he could kiss him. It was something sweet, loving, and light. Grian sighed against him, a content noise as Scar held him within his arms.

When they pulled apart, Scar grinned, “A cat and a bird then.”)

They never got the bird. Scar never got Grian, and he probably never will, with the man quite possibly being dead.

It’s not something he’d put past Them.

He watches as one of the pigeons takes flight, seemingly uninterested in the pile of garbage on the ground. Scar follows the bird as it flies, and he can’t help but wonder. If Grian really is dead, perhaps in his next life he’ll be a bird. It’d be a beautiful gift, for the man to finally have the wings he envied so much.

It was something Grian used to talk about a lot, having the ability to just fly anywhere, any time. He was envious of it, of that much Scar was certain. Grian had always seemed so trapped, and not even Scar’s shitty apartment could break him free of his cage. There were nights where Scar often wondered who held the key to Grian’s chains, who kept him grounded and clipped his wings.

Maybe such kindness shouldn’t be offered to the man who left him to die. Who betrayed him. Yet Scar found himself giving it to him anyway. He’d give Grian a lot of things, he thinks. Forgiveness could be one of them, depending on the reason. Besides, Scar is too tired to hate. He’s too tired to be angry and hold contempt. He doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to.

Besides, he thinks he let it all go the moment he realized Grian could very well be dead. He still held out hope for the man, but two months and… maybe it was time to move on (Scar knows he never will. Not when a piece of him will always belong to Grian. Maybe it shouldn’t, but Scar is a man in love, even now).

He’ll just have to bury his need for answers and live.

As he watches more of the pigeons fly away, he hopes that Grian is among them. He hopes that Grian has his own flock to call his family, and that he is able to soar in the skies like he’s always wanted. Scar hopes that wherever Grian is now, he is happy. He hopes it’s a lot better than where he was.

Scar certainly knows he’s much better than where he was.

And even if it’s not with him, there’s a part of him that hopes Grian can finally fly free.

[tetsustation]

[ BREAKING THE ICE — PART I ]

pairing :: eren yeager x f!reader

synopsis :: eren’s partner is out on injury, or so you’ve heard from across the ice. it’s a shame, considering the fact that they were an award winning pair. for that reason alone, you’re not entirely sure how to react when you’re recruited as her replacement. eren does, however—and the emotion is anything but positive.

word count :: 3.4k

genre :: modern!au, figure skating!au, kind of e2l, kind of hurt/comfort

warnings :: swearing

notes :: i've been working on this for like two years now on and off so i'm posting the first half—there's more than this but I just want to gauge if this is something you guys are actually interested in. no better time than the present!

Where do you belong? That phrase has never been anything but foolish rhetoric to you, and at its core, easy to answer—no where, because no match is made in heaven, no shoe has ever been crafted for your foot, and your fate is nowhere near predetermined. That being said, the closest place you could rule as such is on the cool, shaved ice. 

Although right now, you wish to be anywhere but. Colliding with the sleet in a rather dramatic manner, you watch your useless limbs as you glide backwards—giving into gravity until your figure makes a full stop. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel after all, you flop onto your back and let the condensation soak your sweater.

“What do you think you're doing?” The exhaustion drips from his tongue, and yet he refuses to drop.

“Napping,” You remark sarcastically—clearly conscious. From a distance, you can hear the scratch of his skates as he glides over.

When coming to a stop, he makes a point of pivoting his feet to send loose snow directly into your face. Sputtering, you sit up—albeit, struggling slightly due to the lack of grip. He’s staring down at you, gloved hand on his hip, he strangely resembles your mother whenever she scolds you for something utterly ridiculous. 

Frankly, you have no interest in speaking first, and he catches onto that fact. He releases a sigh that holds the weight of a day's work, before looking around the empty rink, and back down to you. 

“Is this your way of telling me you're giving up?” 

You scoff, “The rink closes in forty minutes, Eren.” Gesturing to the red, ten foot clock behind him, masked as a scoreboard, “I think this matter might be beyond us.” 

And he rolls his eyes at you, the same way that makes your jaw crick uncomfortably. The green looks dull under the fluorescents, but piercing, nonetheless. Sinking to the floor with a steady knee, he leans into you, and as a result you lean back half-heartedly, “As soon the rink opens tomorrow, we’re trying again.”

You go to speak, retort that overworking yourselves would do no good, but as he skates away, he turns around and consequently halts your hesitant tongue, “No excuses!” With that, he’s gone. Hopping off the ice and into the locker rooms.

Flopping back down, you letting the chill soothe your aching calves, you wonder how persistent he’s going to be. Mentally, you curse Jean for convincing you to do this, but then again—if anyone’s going to push you to do your best it's him (and as reluctant as you are to admit it, so is Eren). 

A weak groan slips your lips as you use the energy you have left to curve your spine into an upwards position. In front of you, your legs are spread apart as you stretch—but it only sends the shooting pain back up to your hamstrings. These bruises might not ever go away, but a bath might make them feel better—or so you hope.

Mikasa Ackerman broke her ankle a week and a half ago, two weeks from tomorrow. When you heard the news while tying the laces on your skates, you scoffed, “Poor Eren—there goes their qualifier.” It was a little apathetic, you can admit that much now, yet the world loves to play its cruel hand with you because soon enough your own partner had offered you up as bait in her place.

“—She’s great, really! Adaptable and flexible.” Jean argued, pushing you forward by the shoulders to a miffed Eren, “The two of us aren’t going to make it this year, not with our fiasco of a choreographer—but you two, together? I can see the headlines already, man. Trust me.” A piece of meat up for auction, was the only way you could describe how you felt.

“Jean, quit it.” You turned your head to the side, and whispered through gritted teeth (as if Eren wasn’t right there, and couldn’t clearly hear the words as they left your mouth). 

“No. If you win with him it’ll be good coverage for the both of us.” Meanwhile, the man staring you down looked more disinterested by the second, most likely not interested in taking a fresh Senior skater in to replace his partner, two months before qualifiers. Honestly, you weren’t too sure why Jean tried so hard in the first place, it was a matter for your managers and sponsors. 

Still, he didn’t let up, “If you win this with her, you and Mikasa can take the win to the finals,” you wondered if he fact-checked that, most likely not. “A couple did it in the ‘80s, if you have a viable reason there's a loophole to switch partners between the competitions, so long as the male partner remains consistent.” He explained, rather adamantly. 

Eren nodded, not entirely convinced—yet, he didn’t not turn it down completely. Candidly, you weren’t sure which outcome you preferred. Yes, it would be a great opportunity, but then again, you weren’t entirely sure you could reach the bar set high by the skating enigma of Mikasa Ackerman. Eren’s death glare told you, you couldn’t—but Jean’s shook your shoulders so vigorously your vision got cloudy. 

“I’ll think about it,” Is all Eren said, and he did. 

The next day, Eren took you on as his partner, for the sole reason that he hates losing, especially after putting so much work into this program. Still, he vaguely insults your talent in comparison to his usual partner, which erupts a fire underneath your skating skirt. 

As the days pass, Eren only expects more of you, and you can’t blame him. It’s going well, but not as well as it would’ve gone with Mikasa. His coach notices, and so does the choreographer—still you don’t let up, not that he lets you, anyways. 

The connection that Eren and Mikasa have is almost telepathic. In all the times that you’ve watched them practice in your shared rink, not once have you heard them speak to each other on the ice. They communicate through eye contact, the occasional nod of a pointed chin—any verbal communication they do is reserved for behind closed doors.

Suspicion is what it arouses in you, but their scores are near perfect in the eyes of all the judges in the province, so there is no grounds to protrude on their methods. Yet, you never expect to take her place, to be forced to cooperate with the King of angry glances, meant to speak a thousand words. 

That’s why this is so difficult for you, or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to. Mikasa has come to watch you practice, made notes on your technique and passed a sheet of crumpled note-paper to you after your daily practice, but not enough to make a dent in the supposedly flawless instruction of his—now your—coach. 

It’s difficult, and frankly, you miss the days where people just said what they meant. Jean was never like this, you can’t help but think. However, this isn’t Jean, and in a way you're happy it isn’t. An irritating challenge is a challenge nonetheless, and you’ll be damned if Eren Yeager blames his lost ticket to finals on you.

Especially after the number of bruises you’ve acquired, from all the times he’s dropped you.

Deep down, you believe there is a reason why Jean put you up for this program (aside from Mikasa’s obvious injury). Despite Eren’s reserved nature of fending for himself in the rink, the set was for the most part, separated. A collection moves that we're paralleled, adjacent to one another, instead of moves that lie in the hands of both.

That is, except for three instances within the seven minutes in which the classical hymn plays. These are virtually unavoidable. While you can perfect your own moves alone, and mirror Eren’s stature down to a ‘T,’ there’s only so much you can do for yourself when he’s lifting you up with a single hand, palm nearly shaking against his own. 

It’s not that you don’t trust Eren—although, it's kind of a stretch to say that you do—the problem at hand is that he doesn’t trust you, because you're not Mikasa and you can’t hold your own against the stiffness of his locked elbows. Or at least, you’ve explained that much to Jean and Sasha on the benches outside of the rink, while adjusting your shoes with vigor. 

“It’s gonna be a process to adjust to each other.” Your former partner reasons, stretching out the blades of his shoulders, “The jumps are going to take a while, I don’t suggest pushing it—or you’ll seriously get hurt.” 

His vague allude to Mikasa doesn’t slip your mind, but you give Eren the benefit of the doubt, there’s no way he actually would wish malice upon his partner of over a decade. You, however, are unfamiliar to him, he’s not used to your agility, and you're not used to his rigidity. There’s a frozen sea separating your techniques, but Jean is right, adjustment is everything.

“You should talk to him,” Sasha suggests, standing against the glass and watching Niccolo practice his triple axel for the umph time, “If he’s too stiff, of course you’re going to fall.” A hiss slips from her lips as the blonde in the rink misses his landing, wiping out not-so-gracefully. 

A yank of the wrist and the sound of strained laces is music to your ears, “I feel like everything I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.” You adjust, “He’s convinced his way is the only way, he’ll listen to me but the second it seems unnatural to him he shifts back to what he’s used to.” 

Standing up, you grunt, “When is he going to learn I’m not Mikasa?” It’s a bitter fallacy on your lips, but aggressive nonetheless. It could even pass as a growl, if you listen closely. However, when you hear the door open and close, and watch Eren walk past the bench you're standing in front of with a stoic expression—you hope it’s meek and unintelligible through the glass doors. 

Behind him is Eren’s coach—your coach—you stand a little straighter. Levi Ackerman is small, and not very menacing from afar, but he has the bite of a bark and the skills of a lion. In your core, you fear him, but out of respect more than anything else. The coach you and Jean shared was much nicer, but then again, you and him weren’t up for finals, now were you? 

“Stretch out, and on the ice in twenty.” He snaps a pointer finger to the rink where Niccolo is currently stepping out defeatedly, “We’re doing the lifts again today.” 

The bruise on your hip from yesterday aches at the mention, but alas, your work is cut out for you. Jeans sends a half hearted condolence your way, already marking up how much ice you’ll need for your bath tonight to soothe the pain. Stepping onto the ice is anything but unfamiliar, but today it feels distant—somehow, the momentary skate to Eren feels grueling as he waits for you with crossed arms.

“Play the track!” Levi yells elsewhere, where someone is waiting from the booth above the rink, “I want to see how much ground you covered without me.” 

The melody is crisp, and echoes through the rink with a boom. Sometimes you can’t help but like a bat in a cave, this climate isn’t welcoming to the typical person—but you’ve become adept at it after so many years that you can navigate it like the back of your hand. The ice is where you live and breathe, fly to the best of your capability against the push of gravity. It’s freedom, but at what cost? 

Eren nods you off, to which you follow him in a series of turns, he glides and you mimic, the two of you look as if you're attached by an invisible string that strains each time the direction of your skates change. The ice comes up in flakes of snow, and they sting your nasal cavity as you take a deep breath in, readying yourself for the upcoming lift.  

Levi is standing against the rink, his skates perpendicular to sustain balance, and his arms crossed in premeditated judgment. You’re painfully aware of the fact that he doesn’t expect much from either of you, the condescension of your ‘adjustment phase’ still at the forefront of your mind. Still, he’s there to guide you, you keep going.

“Start crouching! Give him room for the lift!” 

A good eye is what Levi has, he can tell you’re milliseconds out of sync, and that's all it takes to send you belly up to the unforgiving ice. Crouching, you make a straight line to Eren—his eyes don’t give you the confidence you need to latch onto his palms and lift yourself, but it’s too late to stop. 

Grasping his palm flat in yours, fingers outstretched and face one another, your grip and jump—to which Eren lifts you over his shoulder. The only thing holding you up is the grip on his hand, and he’s barely paying any attention to it, already attempting to move away from the spot in which you hopped from.

It becomes increasingly difficult to keep your legs still, as he moves quickly across the ice—you can feel your forearms shake slightly, and that's all it takes to come tumbling down. 

Eren barely has enough time to recapture your hand, before you slip behind him and onto the ice with what might as well be a splat. The blades of your skates clang, and you can feel a multitude of eyes stare down your splayed figure. Only taking a moment to take back your stolen breath, you sit up and brush off. 

Never is Eren entirely apathetic, as he skates over and leans down to your eye level, where you're just barely holding yourself up by the frozen heel of your hands, “Are you alright?” His eyes flick downward, falling on your hip, “Same spot as yesterday,” he looks up again, “Does it hurt?”

No shit, you think, ‘Course it hurts.

The nature of his question is polite, but you can tell by the way his hand is twitching that it wasn’t an invitation to rest—instead, he’s eager for you to get back up, refusing to be stopped by something as measly as a fall. Nodding, you grab his hand and hoist yourself back up. 

“My bad,” Is all you shout to the room. 

“Good.” Levi affirms, “Let’s keep moving.” 

The empathy that Eren shows you the first couple of times you fall dissipates as the day goes on. With each flop on ice, he becomes more irritated—clearly frustrated with evident roadblock you’ve seem to have placed in his otherwise ‘perfect program.’ When stepping off the rink, he doesn’t give you a goodbye. 

It’s grueling on you, honestly it is. To come in everyday and take his attitude along with Levi’s insistence on perfection. Perfection goes both ways, you believe, and Eren is hardly upholding his end of that promise. The only comfort you find on the rink is Levi, though he can only do so much for you, and you’re not sure if his mild surges of pity are endearing or degrading. 

Frankly, you can’t remember the last time you had this many bruises, up down the sides of your legs and alone the cranes of your pelvic bone. The locker room is the last place you want to be, although for the first time in a while you find yourself smiling upon entering,

“Long time no see.” 

Jean is propped against the lockers, Niccolo is next to him motioning about this and that while holding up a blunt skate. “You’re one to talk!” 

 You watch him stand up straight, striding towards you, but is cut off by Sasha who is closer by just a couple feet—having been seated on the bench untying skates of her own. She’s quick to come hug you, nearly knocking you off your feet, but it’s the last tumble you're worried about taking today and quickly reciprocate her affections. 

Once your autonomy was returned to you, you walked over the bench and threw a leg over the other end so that you were straddled—a stretch that always made you feel comfortable enough to sit for long periods of time. It all felt too familiar—the red plastic beneath you, and the friendship you seem to have neglected over the past couple of weeks—while training with Eren, he became your life, and the rest faded to fuzz and scratched ice. 

They smiled down at you like you were the face of the hour, an enigma, it wasn’t praise but from the people who established you at this rink—you couldn't help but feel some sense of gratitude as they spared you their silent approval.

“So,” Jean started, “How is training with Yeager?” 

The smile you wore dissipated to crumbs of false pride when you recalled just how awful you truly felt—how demeaned you felt beside Eren who stood tall despite his own shortcomings. And you hated how noticeable it all was, how your momentary joy fleeted and the exhaustion in your shoulders hit you like the initial fall, your shoulders slouching as you looked anywhere other than directly into their eyes. 

“Awful,” was all you said, “It’s awful.” 

Ever distasteful towards the awkwardness of competition Niccolo cleared the air with a clap, “That’s Yeager for you, he’s a real stiff one.” 

“You're telling me, he’s got a real stick up his ass. Just—shoup—right up there.” To which Jean had accompanied with a rather lewd hand gesture. 

This was news to you—yes, you had heard tales of Eren being a diva to some extent, but he was practically a god amongst others at this rink and in all the competition magazines. Him and Mikasa owned the region’s senior competition stats, it was impossible that sleazy locker room talk was enough to dethrone him of that.

Sasha, always blunt in her sentiments, places a hand on your own, “He’s nothing but a name without Mikasa, don’t take it to heart—do your best.”

Jean picks it up, “We recommended you for a reason, you’re the best of us without all the unnecessary press.” 

“Plus you challenge Yeager,” Niccolo chimes, “No one challenge’s Yeager.” 

“No one challenges him because he’s a fucking prick,” Jean couldn’t seem to help but blurt. 

His eyes swell like saucers when the locker room door hits the opposite wall with a slam, and none other than the subject-of-conversation himself briskly walks past you and Sasha, only to open his own locker with another slam. The room falls painfully silent, and Jean opens his mouth to speak only to subsequently close it—as rectifying the situation is really beyond him at this point.

Eren manhandles his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder. When he closes the locker he looks around the room, scanning for the eye contact that no one will make with him. He huffs, and mumbles something that vaguely resembles a bitter affirmation that you were indeed discussing him. Knowing the walls and the echo of the place better than anyone, it was unlikely he missed the comment that brought the conversation to a halt. He stormed out in the same fashion in which he came, and you were all left to your devices. 

Niccolo kicked Jean for his ignorance, to which he took with nothing more than a grimace. Sasha turned to you again, the color had faded from your face, and she didn’t quite have the words to console you, so she only said, “At least it wasn’t you.”

Though, it might have well been. Jean was your partner before you were Eren’s, just like he was bonded to Mikasa in such an all consuming way, something similar could be said about you and Jean. Thus, his sentiments were yours and vice versa. 

Yes, you missed your friends dearly, and for a moment it did feel nice to joke with them. Although, you knew that the consequences of such were only going to make practice that much more difficult for you tomorrow. Grabbing your belongings half heartedly, you said your salutations. The smile that sat on your face didn’t quite come back for the rest of the night.

[ TO BE CONTINUED ]

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2023; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

[yamcha-thelonewolf]

🫀The Heart's Savior.

Guys, we have come to the end, but how is it that they say? The end of something will be the beginning of something else. There will always be so much to say about Yamcha and I don't want to stop that soon. For now I would like all Dragon Ball fans to consider this topic, not because I wrote it. I am well aware that I am not the first person to talk about it, and I am glad that someone other than me has noticed, but in Yamcha's case it is never enough. The more the merrier! Even at the cost of repeating ourselves…. It doesn't matter! In latin they used to say repetita iuvant, meaning that something by dint of being repeated is eventually learned. Can it stew? Maybe. But it's still better than keeping quiet, right? And I believe that all of us Yamcha fans have a sacred right to protect one of the most misunderstood and unnecessarily mistreated characters ever.

Well, it's time to begin, but before we go into the last, most important chapter, I would like to remind you one last time of the previous two parts, so that we have a clearer and more obvious situation. I mean, at this point it's really impossible to ignore that Yamcha is useless. PART 1: The Past PART 2: The Present

PART 3: The Future

It is no accident that I wanted to divide the topic in a temporal sense. As I had said at the beginning, in the Androids and Cell Arc, Yamcha has seriously contributed to improving the past, the present and the future. He didn't fight with his muscular body, but by bringing the resounding strength of his heart into play, he made sense of Dragon Ball's most important chapter. At least it is the most important to me. Not only because it is the first and only time the warriors are really all together, but also because this is where the story begins to expand with the appearance of alternate realities. Everyone does their own thing, and while I regret that Yamcha was not given a real action moment in which to shine (with the exception of the fight against that Cell Junior together with Tien to save Goku), I'm still glad that in the same arc in which Toriyama tried to completely sideline him, Yamcha left his mark. And believe me, it is a very important mark.

We could say that Yamcha saved everyone's mood, everyone's heart, everyone's soul…. The meaning will always be the same. We are not on Planet Vegeta, where everyone is callous and devoid of humanity. We are on Earth, on that planet that made Goku an outstanding saiyan and especially the protagonist everyone has loved for years. This means that if you can't feel pure emotions, you can't go anywhere. You can't even get on the Flying Nimbus! We learned this with OG Dragon Ball: if you don't act from the heart and for the heart, you certainly won't make a good end. This is what Jackie Chun/Muten Roshi explains to Tenshinhan when he tries to convince him to abandon the path of evil and take the path of good. It was an important teaching, and it saddens me that Akira Toriyama has completely forgotten it since forty years later he has failed to reward the character who most of all was a living heart.

If you think about it, this is really Goku's strong point: his heart. In the beginning he always acted for the sake of someone else: he wanted to look for the dragon ball with four stars because it reminded him of his grandfather, then he collected them all to bring Upa's father back to life, then again to save Krillin, Muten and Chiaotzu. Always thanks to his heart he became a Super Saiyan for the first time and thanks to his good feelings he was able to save the earth many times. So it is really his heart that made him legendary. It is because of it that he was able to go on, become stronger and be the ultimate hero. ...So... Why should Yamcha be any less? He is a human, so what? He possesses superhuman strength. There is nothing different from a saiyan awakening his feelings. Both of them go against the grain. They are two sides of the same coin. Whatever...

To recap:

Yamcha saved the past. He has taken care of Goku since he was little, helped him when Goku's innocence hindered him, always supported him, and always stepped forward whenever he was in danger of getting hurt. Finally, he took care of his heart, the most important core of Goku's character, during his illness.

Yamcha saved the present. While everyone feared the worst or simply struggled without much success, Yamcha was always ready to comfort and warm that chill that could have turned the present into Trunks' horrible future. He took care of Tien, or at least he would have liked to, then Gohan and finally Krillin, helping him to hope on his chance with Android 18. It seems little, but in everyday life such a turnaround is more important than a victory against an invincible monster. After all... What remains when peace returns?

Although The Past and The Present show how big Yamcha's heart is, we still have to admit that up to now he has taken care of his friends. This is an easy thing to do. I mean, any human with a heart of gold would do all this for someone he loves, but Yamcha's value goes beyond that. After all, it is when you leave your comfort zone that you truly realize how much you are worth, and that is what I am referring to when I say that Yamcha has been the strongest of all. Nietzsche once said:

Love your enemies because they bring out the best in you.

It's true. By loving those who hate you, those who have hurt you or simply those who do not appreciate you, you become incredibly better, because you can overcome the evil you get and make it your strength in a sense.

That's exactly what Yamcha does, but you know, I even believe that he doesn't do it completely to feel better. I think he does it because he knows how to love. That's always the point: by knowing how to love he automatically knows how to forgive and overcome the hatred that he would have the right to feel. Therefore, dear friends, today we will talk about how Yamcha cared even for those whom he was not bound to love for different reasons. I want to say this will be the part that will touch me the most. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be sentimental as hell but I can't help it. Yamcha is a treasure chest of emotions and I want to express them just as he would. To talk about what follows means first of all having to come to terms with the most humiliating thing of all: Yamcha and Bulma's breakup. I don't want to dive into details, not in this topic, but what I do want to point out is that for me Yamcha never cheated on Bulma.

Look at him. One who has cheated would not react like that. You can see that he is pissed off and disappointed, rather than mortified or distressed about the mistake he made. I am more accepting of the speculation that Bulma simply preferred Vegeta, although here we open a big digression about yet another writing problem in Dragon Ball. Consequently, as I see it, Yamcha suffered the breakup as a real tragedy, came out as a victim of it, and therefore his heart was severely wounded by it. With these things in mind, it is logical to think that what we see from this point on is literally a saint-made man, because not only does Yamcha accept the new reality with Bulma, but he even stays by her side to continually watch over her until the end of DBZ.

Once again Yamcha stays. He is there, he does not back down, and with his head held high he faces the greatest disappointment of his life, because without ever forgetting this we must consider that his goal was (is) always love. He strongly desired to marry Bulma and have children with her, but in the end she chose to do this with the one who had once killed her boyfriend.

Heartbroken and disillusioned, Yamcha would have many reasons for never speaking to Bulma again. Yet he does. He stays close to her, and in facing this great humiliation he proves not only that he has that usual big heart, but also that he is seriously better than those who treated him as if he were worthless. Yeah, I am really talking about Vegeta. I hope I am not annoying any Vegeta fans, but believe me, for any Yamcha fan it is impossible to accept certain attitudes that the saiyan prince had with the earthling.

Don't worry, though. I am not going to denigrate a character to glorify Yamcha. It's not my style and frankly he doesn't need it. He already shines on his own, it's just that unfortunately his brightness is obscured by super energy attacks. I will simply show the evidence, but more importantly I will talk about how Yamcha loved even Vegeta and Trunks.

Actually, why he helped Trunks should not surprise us. Trunks did nothing wrong to Yamcha. He is simply the son of Bulma and Vegeta, and even if that means Yamcha has lost his Bulma forever, that is certainly not a valid reason to hate this boy. Well, if we clearly allow ourselves to be guided by instinct and the most impetuous emotions, it is quite normal to think that Yamcha may also have felt frustration at seeing that son who should have been his. Trunks is the most concrete form of Yamcha's humiliation: not only is he not his son, he is even Vegeta's son. From this point of view, Trunks represents the beginning of a new hope for the planet but also the end of Yamcha's hopes. It's a subplot that nobody gives a damn about, but as much as I love Trunks, I can't help but think every time I see him, "oh boy, Yamcha's downfall is coming."

Whatever… These are assumptions we don't have to worry about. Yamcha may have had a small moment of annoyance with little Trunks, but he is still an innocent child, and what's more, although he is Vegeta's son, he is also Bulma's son, and Yamcha loves Bulma. Now as a friend, but he still loves her. So loving Bulma necessarily means loving Trunks as well. This to me is a great proof of his inner strength that I mentioned earlier, although at this point I wonder... Is his strenth really that inner? It seems so damn noticeable to me. Now let's take a closer look at the whole situation.

Through Trunks' words we learn for the first time about the breakup between Yamcha and Bulma. Trunks very naively explains that the main reason was Yamcha's attitude toward the girls. Bulma got fed up and so she broke up with him once and for all. Leaving aside the fact that Yamcha playboy is a kind of joke, because we have seen many times how in reality he has always been the exact opposite, it is highly probable that this statement is unfortunately the result of Bulma's usual hysteria toward Yamcha. I say "usual" because we have plenty of evidence on this. For example, in OG Dragon Ball we saw how she was pissed off at Yamcha simply because a fanclub of pretty girls had formed for him. This trifle had been enough for Bulma to leave Yamcha alone in the city, and go with Goku to search for the dragon balls. It is not hard for me to imagine that much of Yamcha's alleged faults were simply in Bulma's head. Perhaps she feared losing him and consequently imagined realities that Yamcha would never allow.

The fact is that in my opinion Trunks' explanation should not be taken as true. Future Bulma told his son a lot of lies, surely for good, because living in such a tragic time it was right to ease the boy's soul by telling him about his father's noble deeds. The point is that Future Bulma knew perfectly well that Vegeta was neither a saint nor a hero. She never knew the Vegeta of the Buu Arc. She had only experienced the impassive, distant, indifferent, and untamable Vegeta, the one you still had to worry about because you still couldn't tell if you could trust him or not. But Vegeta was still the father of her son, and her son was the only thing she had left of Vegeta. So out of love for her son, Bulma has elevated Vegeta, and as one does when telling a fanciful fairy tale in which one exaggerates many things, Future Bulma necessarily has fictionalized how she and Vegeta ended up together. I try hard to think of it that way. I find it in very bad taste that Future Bulma spoke ill of Future Yamcha, who died and did not have a chance to tell his side. So I just assume that she told this bullshit not to insult Yamcha's memory but to comfort young Trunks. As I said, the lie about Yamcha is not the only one. To glorify Trunks's father, Future Bulma also tells that Vegeta had a hidden and "warmer" side, but in reality even she was not sure about that because in the future Vegeta had never shown affection toward their son. It was a supposition she made up to give her son hope.

In short, through Future Bulma's words we can imagine that Future Yamcha is a moron, while Future Vegeta is a pretty decent man. Cold but decent. Mind you: accusing Yamcha of being "something of a playboy" does not just mean that he is a jerk who gets off on girls. Above all, it means that Yamcha is unintelligent, vile, and without dignity. But when Trunks gets into the time machine and goes back to the past, which for us is the present, all the cards get messed up and a very different reality jumps out. From here on, the paths diverge. There are those who believe Future Bulma's words and those who find the whole thing a terrible stretch. True or not, everything Yamcha does in this saga completely negates the idea that he was a shitty person with no brain or heart. Trunks sees that, but he also sees something more important: Vegeta is not as worthy as he thought.

In this scene, the tension is very high. It is not just a clash between a saiyan and an earthling. It is a clash between one who has lost everything and one who has taken everything. After all, Vegeta took Yamcha's life once and a few years later he took his girlfriend. The way Vegeta tries to cut Yamcha out of Dragon Ball has always bothered me, simply because many fans have taken all his insults against Earthlings as true. Nowadays, unfortunately, there are many who believe that Yamcha is really scum. Seeing him in this scene with that clenched fist, his gaze threatening but equally filled with goodness tugs at my heartstrings. However, the best part of this scene is really Trunks' reaction.

He seems really upset. Somehow it's as if he wants to stop it, but not just because Vegeta is taking it out on Yamcha. Trunks comes from a future where love no longer exists. There is only fear, anger, frustration. He lives in a world where there is no time to laugh, joke, play, simply feel human, and he suffers a lot from that. His warm melancholy is directly proportional to the cold evilness of the two androids. With this interpretation in mind, I am quite convinced that in this scene Trunks saw the two androids in his father. Or rather, it is as if Trunks was upset by his father's coldness very similar to that of androids. Understand me, it is as if he at that moment is witnessing the confrontation between the two times: Yamcha represents the happy past, Vegeta the ruthless future. Moreover, Trunks in those days is fully experiencing the reality he desires in his time. There is his father, there is Goku, there are his friends, laughing is still possible but most of all, the planet is so alive that hope and love do not even have to be searched for in a mad rush because they are part of it. They have not yet been eradicated as in his future. As I had already said, hope and love are precisely what convinced Trunks to accomplish this feat. Not only that. If you remember what I wrote in the previous part, I openly stated that Yamcha is the representation of these two feelings. So... Joining all the dots, it really seems that in this scene Trunks is standing up for his own ideals. If Yamcha is love and love is what Trunks wants back in a world now filled with hatred, it is only natural that he would side with the earthling. I mean, he is fed up with witnessing injustice. Besides, Trunks has respect for Yamcha as Fighter-Z. He knows that Yamcha also tried to fight against the androids and that unfortunately he did not succeed, so it is natural for him to stand up for him. It is that code of honor that is created between warriors. Well, I really think Trunks realizes here what I was saying at the beginning: Yamcha is not that much of an asshole and Vegeta is not that much of a saint. At this point Trunks seriously needs proof that negates everything he is observing. It is just a detail. The best is yet to come.

Before we get to that, I would like to briefly address the relationship between Yamcha and Trunks. We have come to understand by now that Yamcha acts out of love and precisely because of this he does not look the recipient in the face. The fact that Trunks is Vegeta's son does not matter to him. Trunks is a good guy who even though he materialized the separation between Yamcha and Bulma still saved the world by going back to the past. Moreover, as already mentioned, he is Bulma's son. All this is enough for Yamcha to respect, love and protect him.

This is a decisive moment. Trunks' death acts as a catalyst for the final fight, but more importantly it makes Vegeta bring out that "side." Everyone remembers the prince's anger against Cell after seeing his son die, but... How many remember who was the first to rescue Trunks?

Come on, seriously?! I would never have said that. ...Yes, hell, yes. Of course would have said that. There are so many characters who witness this tragic death but it just so happens that the first one to intervene is Yamcha. I don't think it's random. And even if it was, that's pretty damn consistent with his character. You see. He reaches Trunks even before Vegeta, but that certainly does not mean that Vegeta loves Trunks any less. I just mean that, despite all that Trunks represents to Yamcha, Yamcha rushes to save him, moved again by that unconditional love that distinguishes him from all others.

The very brief scenes in which Yamcha protects Trunks' corpse together with Tien are wonderful. For two sensitive souls like Yamcha and Tien, it is really the least to defend the one who allowed them to live a little longer. It is really moving to see how Yamcha and Tien take care of the body to prevent it from being profaned. Little does it matter to them that there are dragon balls and that Trunks can be brought back to life even if full of scratches and wounds. The respect for the corpse is the only priority, with or without dragon balls, and this attitude is so human that it brings tears to my eyes every time I realize how special these two earthlings are.

I mean... Trunks's corpse could have been lying there somewhere and been picked up at the end. He was dead, not unconscious like Android 18. Watching over his body was not strictly necessary, but Yamcha and Tien do it anyway. And they do it because they are the best characters in Dragon Ball their humanity is their secret weapon. A pity that for Toriyama it is just a joke.

The relationship between Trunsk and Yamcha is only part of the whole. We could trace it to the same kind of paternal bond that Yamcha establishes with Goku and Gohan, but in Trunks' case it becomes even more fascinating because he is literally the son she would have wanted with her Bulma. Of course, it's just a feeling. I highly doubt that Yamcha ever realized that he possessed "daddy-like" attitudes, and then we also have to say that protecting someone younger than you doesn't mean you do it because you have the makings of a father. To be precise, Yamcha does have it, but he certainly doesn't act thinking that everyone is his missing child. That's just the way he is, and that's why I insist on the idea that he could have been a perfect dad. Perhaps the most perfect.

I am insisting on the father figure because Future Trunks strongly misses his dad. He tells us that he was too young to remember him and that the idea of meeting him for the first time in the past moved him. But why did it move him? Let's remember it: thanks to Future Bulma. With her fantasies about Future Vegeta she colored Trunks' dark life a little, even though at the time she was not sure what she was telling. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Trunks at least grew up with the idea that the past was a good place thanks in part to his father. As we read in this scene, therefore, we understand that Trunks has a serious need to create memories of his own. It is also a way to give a visual image to his mother's stories, like when a child prefers a book with pictures to a book with only text. That is why Future Trunks stays close to his father, observes him, that is all he needs. As we have noticed, however, things are not quite as he imagined them to be. Vegeta is not what he expected, but the joy of being able to be with him is enough for him to accept him as he is. But... Is it really enough? Think about it. After such a long and difficult journey, after so many legendary tales and especially after so many expectations, how much can it hurt to return home with fewer answers and so many more questions? We do not know exactly what happened during the training between Vegeta and Trunks in the Room of Spirit and Time, but we can safely assume that Vegeta did not open up as Trunks would have liked. It was certainly an emotional moment for him, but not enough to say, "yeah, man, he's really my dad."

The decisive moment occurs precisely during Trunks' death. Earlier we saw that the first one to rescue him is Yamcha, but "obviously" nobody cares because all the attention goes to Vegeta. I understand that. This is the moment when the saiyan prince finally shows his feelings for someone else for the first time. It is not just revenge. Behind Vegeta's reaction is love, and this very feeling will make him frighteningly strong. This naturally amazes everyone, but I am sure that the reaction of the Z-Fighters is due not so much to the increase in his strength as to the fact that Vegeta is having an emotional reaction of this caliber. No one has ever seen him like this. He has officially changed for the better. I am sure Vegeta fans recognize in this scene the split between the ruthless Vegeta of the saiyan saga and the Vegeta we will see in the Buu saga. A new Vegeta has just been born, and everyone has noticed him, even Yamcha who has not had a positive idea about him until then. Actually, it must be said that Yamcha had forgiven Vegeta before anyone else. When Yamcha was still with Bulma, he had agreed to let the saiyan be hosted at his girlfriend's house.

Tien had been the voice of truth. Perhaps his third eye had glimpsed the future, I don't know, but it is quite disturbing to think that some time later this fateful decision would seal the break between Bulma and Yamcha.

What matters for now is that Yamcha has the gift of forgiveness. He did it with Tien when he broke his leg and, although in a different way, he did it with Vegeta who committed much more heinous acts against him. The only difference is that Vegeta never apologized. Once again it is Yamcha who takes a step forward, or rather three steps forward: he forgives the man who killed him, he forgives the man who took away the woman he loved and finally he forgives the man who deprived him of the chance to become a father. Excuse me, but I believe that these three battles are much more intense and difficult than any of the battles we see in Dragon Ball between our heroes and strong monsters. Especially if we think about the fact that Yamcha stays, which doesn't mean that he is just there: the way Yamcha is, it means that he learns to love even those who hurt him and especially to act for their good.

There is only one problem. Trunks cannot see all the love that Vegeta radiates for him. The essence of this scene lies precisely in the fact that finally Future Bulma's tales of Vegeta become real, but what good is all this if Trunks has no way to witness it? A new tale is needed, but this time a real one, based on facts and no longer on memories. A tale that can definitively confirm that Vegeta has a good side and especially cares about his son. So someone must necessarily step up and help Trunks hope again just because of this fantastic news.

...You again, Yamcha?! Then it is a vice! Or maybe you are simply the most beautiful Dragon Ball character ever. Well yes, guys, it is indeed Yamcha who tells Trunks about Vegeta's unexpected heroic feat. He could have told them Krillin or anyone else, but Yamcha's sensitivity precedes all others. In a sense it is as if he is the first to realize that Vegeta has actually changed. We are at the end of the battle. Trunks has been brought back to life and everyone is at Kami's palace. After some small talk and the twist between Krillin and Android 18 (to which Yamcha contributed), the fighters part ways to return home. Yamcha and Trunks head to West City and it is during this journey that Yamcha confesses to the boy what happened. To many it may seem like the least, but think about it very carefully: how many in Yamcha's place would have done the same? I mean, at that moment Yamcha is praising Vegeta for what he did for Trunks. In different words, Yamcha is praising the very man who took away his life, his woman, and the possible marriage he has dreamed of all his life. He had no reason to do it, yet he did it. He could have kept quiet, or told Trunks anything else by deliberately omitting the part about Vegeta out of some sort of personal revenge, but he does not. He does not do it because Yamcha's big heart does not allow him to act in such a mean way. At this very moment he no longer cares what Vegeta did to him. It was enough for him to see him go crazy over Trunks' death to change his mind and accept the fact that Vegeta has changed. That is all Yamcha cares about. Yamcha cares that love guides people, and in this case he cares that Bulma and little Trunks are finally in good hands. The rest no longer matters. The disappointment, humiliation, and anger he feels toward the whole disastrous situation that happened between him, Vegeta, and Bulma is water under the bridge. Yamcha has officially moved on. But it's not just about that. Here Yamcha demonstrates superhuman empathy. He never heard the revelation that Future Trunks told Goku when he first appeared. He did not hear that Trunks had no memories of his father and that this distressed him terribly, yet Yamcha senses this. We have seen how he has formidable intuition, so I am not surprised to believe that he sensed this need in Trunks. He must have imagined that in the future he misses his father figure, and so without a second thought he wanted to give him that warmth that you feel when your father loves you. Once again Yamcha went further and reasoned about situations that are much broader than people think. He took care of the present, but he also took care of the future, and this time without receiving anything in return. Telling Trunks about Vegeta doesn't change his life, but it certainly improves it. It enriches him and he just through all this love that he literally gives to anyone feels stronger and better. Making others feel good is his personal mission. Here we can see that he did it, he got his victory. Trunks' face as he says "my father did?" is full of pride because simply the circle has come full circle. Trunks got the confirmation he was looking for because he knew because of Future Bulma, but he needed to verify it. Yamcha gave peace to his tormented soul.

So guys... I hope it's clear to everyone that if this iconic scene exists, it's really because of Yamcha. I mean, surely Vegeta and Trunks would have said goodbye to each other regardless. But the power of this scene lies precisely in the fact that Trunks knows exactly what happened, what Vegeta did for his son, and as we have seen if he knows it is precisely thanks to Yamcha. In short: Yamcha helped redefine the relationship between Vegeta and Trunks. Yamcha, who as we have seen is the bearer of hope, finally made sense of why Trunks embarked on this journey. He made all of Trunks' dreams come true and in a way allowed him to become stronger, because let's face it, what allows Trunks to beat the androids in his future is not just the super training and battles he does in the past, but more importantly the chance to have experienced all the emotions he was missing and that motivated him to improve his time.

When Trunks returns home, one of the first things he does is tell about the very thing his father did. And if he tells it, let us remember, it is always because of Yamcha. Do you see what I mean? He doesn't give a damn about winning against Cell and the androids. What Trunks takes with him is mostly the emotions accumulated during this incredible experience. Telling about how those monsters were beaten would not have added anything new, because they live in a world where people fight for survival. Telling instead how love and teamwork made all the difference is completely new for him. That is what really matters. We are humans, not robots. There is no point in struggling if you don't have emotions with you. Trunks finally got them. He is finally different from the androids and can now defeat them.

I think the best part of this scene is Future Bulma's reaction. Here we learn that she had indeed ventured a little in telling Trunks about Vegeta. She was not sure about Vegeta's good side either, but she still told her son about it to comfort him. We can see how shocked she is to learn such news. From here we can infer that Future Vegeta was not even a partner in attendance. Somewhat like the Vegeta of the present. In fact, his closeness to Bulma and Trunks occurs after Cell Arc. Not having been able to experience it, Future Bulma was left with the idea that Vegeta had an unexplored good side that she never really saw. She only guessed at it. Therefore, we can say that Yamcha's words have resolved even Future Bulma's doubts. In the present, Yamcha must have noticed the substantial difference between him and Vegeta vis-à-vis Bulma. If Yamcha was affectionate and close, Vegeta is distant and cold. He probably resents that Vegeta behaves this way toward Bulma. Assuming Yamcha sensed that Trunks' future was loveless, it is easy to imagine that he also thought Future Bulma was left alone with her conflicts. After all, Vegeta's change occurred only in the past because some events were changed with Trunks' arrival. It is an exception. I like to think that Yamcha also wanted to help Future Bulma by letting her know that Future Vegeta could learn to love if he had a little more time. Why he did this we will never know. We may think that he did it because Yamcha still loves Bulma, but that would be reductive. Yamcha did it because he just loves. Giving hope is what he does best. It is quite ironic that Yamcha helped the same person who besmirched his memory by telling that he was some kind of playboy. I think it is particularly noticeable here how great Yamcha actually is. Of course he does not know what Future Bulma actually told about him. Trunks only reveals it to Goku, and the only one who hears it is Piccolo. But I am sure that even if Yamcha had known that Future Bulma did not speak highly of him, he would still have done his best to take care of her in every time arc. Lastly he simply enhanced Vegeta's own image. I think it is the most immense act Yamcha could do: to love his greatest enemy. I proudly say that Yamcha, after taking care of the past and the present, has saved even the future. Without exaggeration, he is the one who maintained the link between these three time arcs. If I may say so, he is precisely the one who most represents the theme of this saga.

I would like to conclude with two thoughts...

Any nostalgic Dragon Ball fan knows full well how important Goku's grandfather is. Son Gohan is a kind of angel who watches over the little saiyan from the very beginning, via the dragon ball with the four stars. There is one scene in particular that moves me so much. This is the exact moment when Son Gohan relinquishes this role of guardian angel to Goku's friends. If we want to dwell on Yamcha, I think he is the one who most of all took these words literally. Not only because indeed Yamcha took care of Goku during his illness, but especially because he extended this commandment. Yamcha has really taken care of everyone who is connected to Goku for some reason, precisely because Goku's happiness also depends on those around him. Taking care of Goku also means taking care of his affections, and Yamcha, as we have seen, has done this with everyone. He took care of his wife Chichi, his son Gohan, but also Tien and Krillin, two of Goku's great friends, and finally the saiyans and Bulma. I like to think that it all starts from this very scene, even though Yamcha has always been inclined to help anyone.

At the end of the Cell Arc, the carefree atmosphere of Dragon Ball returns. The one we can't do without, the one that brings us back, when gags were the soul of this story. The reason for all the laughter we witness at Kami's palace is Yamcha. He is the one who makes people laugh because he is afraid of Android 18 and he is the one who relieves the tension by entertaining everyone with his jokes. Among these jokes is one really particular one that on the surface makes him look like an idiot.

Theoretically we should mock him because he has not exactly been lucky in love. His one experience was shattered. Bulma even describes him as a playboy, so his line seems rather grotesque. Butl... After all we've seen, did Yamcha really say bullshit? Okay, he may not be lucky in love relationships, but who says that the love he is talking about is only that which is born between two guys? We saw through him that love is not only between lovers. Love can be between friends, brothers, fathers and sons, ex-girlfriends and even rivals. It doesn't matter who gets it and how they get it: the important thing is only to get it. Yamcha is the one who most spreads love in Dragon Ball. He is the one who gives soul and humanity to Dragon Ball. It is sad to think that he is the one who does not get love in return. But he doesn't care. By giving love he feels loved.

Since hope is what Dragon Ball is based on…. I continue to hope that Yamcha, too, will one day get his well-deserved victory in battle. Because... Let's face it, as a character he has long since won.

Thank you, Yamcha.

Thank you for coming so far. This is definitely my most difficult and exciting topic. It was crazy to write so much about Yamcha but it was worth it. I don’t care how many people read. Having left this opinion could be useful in the future, maybe not, but it’s okay: analyzing Yamcha’s soul was like rediscovering the beauty of being human. I think that’s the most important thing.

[panfluidme]

A Picnic and A Movie

Fandom: MSM Ship: Parksborn TWs: None

Harry paced his room, debating on calling Peter. He only wanted to hear Peter's voice but didn't want to admit that to the spider. He couldn't think of anything they could discuss nor knew if Peter was free.

Harry sat on his bed, sighing.

There was nothing for him to do. Everyone he knew was busy. His father was out of town, and he would be too busy even if he was in town.

Harry didn't have a lot of friends. He and Peter had been friends since elementary school. They've been dating since late middle school, not that anyone knew.

Harry grabbed his phone, deciding to scroll through his photos. Most of them were of Peter and him or just of Peter. Peter didn't know that the picture was being taken in the ones of just Peter, so he wasn't looking into the camera. Those were his favorites.

Harry sighed softly, staring at Peter. The boy was working on his science homework, the sun in the background giving him a glowing outline. It was before the spider bite, so he wore his glasses. Harry did miss those glasses.

He was disappointed when Peter stopped wearing them, believing Peter gave in and wore the contacts his aunt bought him. The glasses were adorable on Peter.

Harry smiled. This was his favorite picture of Peter. He loved how excited Pete got with science, even his homework.

"I miss you," Harry mumbled. He hasn't seen Peter in almost a week.

As if summoning him, Peter called Harry. Harry's heart skipped a beat as he answered.

"Hey."

"Harry!"

"Everything okay, bud?"

"Yeah. I was wondering if you wanted to go out. I got some extra money, so I can pay."

"No, no. I'll pay. Where at?"

"Dunno."

"Hm. We could get sandwiches, and stuff, then do a picnic."

"That sounds fun!"

"I'll bring the food. Meet you under our tree in forty?"

"Yep! See you."

Peter hung up. Harry stood up, grabbing a pair of shoes. He put them on in the elevator, humming happily. He was so excited to see Peter.

He went to the store, grabbing two of Peter's favorite sandwiches and one of his favorites. Peter ate a lot now, and Harry could provide his needed food.

Harry arrived before Peter did, as per usual. He leaned against the tree, tracing his finger on the heart carved into the tree. Inside was "PP + HO."

They carved it out last year. It had been Peter's idea.

"Hey, Osborn," Gwen's voice startled Harry out of his thoughts.

"Stacy."

"I'm guessing you're waiting for Peter?"

Harry nodded. "I am."

Gwen smiled. "You two are close, yeah?"

"We are. Do you have anywhere to be?"

"Nope. Miles and Anya are meeting me here. Would you and Pete like to come?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. He and I were going to have a picnic."

"Oh, fun."

"Yep."

"Gwen, Harry," Anya greeted as she arrived.

"Hey, Anya. It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you, Harry. Is Peter on his way?"

Harry nodded, crossing his arms. "He's late."

"Of course he is."

Harry shrugged. "He's never on time. He has never been."

Anya rolled her eyes. "Don't get me wrong, I like the guy, but he needs to learn to manage time better."

"He's getting better, trust me."

"I do. What are you two going to be doing?"

"Having a picnic. After that, we might hang out at his place."

"Huh. We're going to the movies; you're welcome to come with us."

"Maybe." Harry looked around, searching for Peter. He sighed and pulled out his phone, planning on texting Peter.

"I see him. He's with Miles."

Harry glanced up, his eyes landing on Peter. Peter held a couple of bags, laughing at something Miles had said. Harry held up his phone, opening his camera. Zooming in, Harry took a picture of Peter and grinned stupidly to himself.

Harry bit his lip and sent it to Peter with the caption 'cutie.'

Peter's phone buzzed, catching his attention. He pulled out the phone, finding a text from Harry. He tapped it, his cheeks reddening.

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"You good? You're red."

Peter nodded as he put his phone away. "I'm fine."

"If you say so."

"I see Anya and Gwen with Harry."

"Think Harry would like to see a movie?"

"He'll want to eat first. He's so grumpy when he's hungry."

"He is?"

Peter nodded, smiling at the thought. Harry was adorable when he was grumpy. "Yes, he is."

"That's funny."

"Mhm."

The two reached the other three. They greeted each other.

"I brought a lot of food, so you three are welcome to join us," Peter said as he set the bags of food down.

"Are you sure?"

Peter looked at Harry, who nodded, before nodding. "Yep!"

"Did you bring a blanket? It completely slipped my mind when I left."

Peter nodded. "I did bring one, but it isn't big. Aunt May didn't want me to ruin her nice blankets."

"That sounds like May."

"I like May," Miles added.

"Aunt May's awesome."

"I don't think I've met her."

"That's right. You haven't." Peter hummed. "You'll have to at some point, Gwen. She'll like you."

"You think?"

Peter nodded. "You're cool and fun."

Harry nodded, typing on his phone. He was a little upset that he didn't get any one on one time with Peter, but he was happy that he got this time.

"Who are you texting?"

"What?"

"Who are you texting?" Miles repeated. "Your girlfriend?"

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Really?"

Harry nodded. "I don't have a girl."

"You'll find one eventually."

"I don't want a girlfriend."

"Why not?"

Harry shrugged as he unwrapped his sandwich. "I'm happy with the relationship I have now."

Miles stared at him. "But you don't have a girlfriend?"

"I do not. I do have a boyfriend."

"That's a thing?"

Harry nodded. "Yep."

"Cool."

==Time Skippy Skip==

The group went to the movies, getting five tickets to watch the newest Disney movie. Peter sat next to Harry and Anya. Gwen was next to Anya, and Miles was next to Harry.

Peter yawned, leaning against Harry's shoulder. He was exhausted from the day. He spent most of it as Spider-Man as he didn't have school. His body ached from the big baddie he fought, but he would never admit that. Especially not to Harry.

Peter knew that Harry didn't like that he was Spider-Man. At first, Peter thought this was because Harry hadn't been a fan of Spidey's, but he learned that Harry was worried that Peter would get hurt. It was nice to know that Harry cared so much about him.

He hummed, struggling to keep his eyes open as the movie started.

Harry glanced over at him, chuckling quietly. He brushed some hair from Peter's face.

==Time Skippy Skip==

The credits rolled across the screen. The lights faded on, causing the sleeping Peter to groan.

Peter had fallen asleep halfway through the movie. When Harry realized this, he didn't move, so he didn't wake his love. Peter deserved a good nap.

"I liked that," Anya commented. "What now?"

"Pete's house?"

"I don't see a problem with that. Pete, what do you say?" Gwen looked at Peter. "Pete, bud."

Peter snuggled closer to Harry, humming. Harry's cheeks reddened at the closeness, and he put his cheek against the top of Peter's head.

"Is he asleep?"

Harry nodded. "He is. He doesn't sleep much."

Gwen sighed and shook Peter. "Pete, wake up."

"Why?"

"So we can keep hanging out."

"Oh." Peter rubbed his eyes and sat upright. "Where to?"

"We were thinking your place?"

"Sure."

[tonguetiedraven]

Birthday Wish

“You’re making a mess!” Yukio worried, and Nagatomo looked over at  Mimumi with a raised eyebrow. The older exorcist gave a knowing nod as Rin hissed back a, “Shut up! I’ve got it!”

“They’re making something.” He said sagely.

Nagatomo frowned. “They’re not using the stove, are they?”

“Does it matter? We’ll have to eat it either way.”

“Yeah, but… Rin.”

Misumi paled. “Surely Yukio will keep watch?”

Kyodo appeared around the corner. “What’s that smell?” He frowned at seeing the other two exorcists huddled together. “Guys?”

“They’re making something,” Misumi explained.

Kyodo’s entire face scrunched up. “To eat? Not eggs. Please tell me it’s not eggs.”

Nagatomo looked entirely unimpressed. “Why would they be making eggs today?”

Kyodo looked between them. “Today? What’s today?”

“Seriously?” Misumi asked before shaking his head and peering back around the door. He squeaked and pulled back, pressing himself back against the wall with a look like he’d seen a decaying Demon King in their kitchen.

“Misumi?” Nagatomo encouraged, shuffling a little closer like he wanted to peer around the door as well.

“Think they saw me. But… whatever they were pouring in the pan was lumpy. Lumpy and green.”

“Green?” Kyodo mouthed while Nagatomo looked towards the hall.

“You better not be spying on us!” Rin shouted, sounding furious while Yukio muttered about the temperature and time and rain.

“No one is spying!” Nagatomo called, giving Misumi an annoyed look for getting them caught. “We’re keeping watch.”

Rin appeared in the door way, covered in a thick green batter with a wild scowl and his hands on his hips. His apron was on backwards and tied in a messy knot and there was something sticky in his hair and on his arm, and his blue eyes were fierce.

“Well?” He demanded.

“Well what?” Kyodo asked.

“Where is he!”

Misumi spluttered and Nagatomo sighed. He didn’t know how any of them managed to keep any secrets with how shit they all were at lying and thinking up stories on the go.

“He’s going to be back in the next hour. He’s not here yet.”

Yukio yelped inside the kitchen and appeared around the corner with messed up glasses and a worriedly flushed face.

“What? But—“

“That’s enough time. It only takes forty minuets for the cake to bake.”

Nagatomo’s eyes turned to Misumi’s in worry. That was long for a cake, wasn’t it?

“But we’ve got to clean up!”

Rin rolled his eyes. “You worry too much. They’ll help.”

“We will?” Kyodo asked, looking like he regretted coming down the hall.

“’Course ya will!” Rin marched behind them and gave them a push into the kitchen with no idea he shouldn’t be able to push them anywhere.

Calling it a mess was underselling the sheer destruction the twins had caused. There was flour and sugar and egg and butter and milk and dye everywhere. On the counter and the fridge, on the cabinet and ceiling, on the stove and the sink. At least a metric ton of sugar had been dropped on the floor and was gritting under foot, and they would be blessed if they only got ants from this.

“Yukio’s right,” Nagatomo declared. “We’re in trouble.”

Rin huffed. “That’s quitter talk. I’ll get the ceiling.”

Misumi caught him around the middle and hauled him off the counter. “You’ll cover the floor. Kyodo will handle the ceiling.”

“I will?!”

“You will,” Nagatomo said, pressing a cloth into his hand. “Quickly.”

— — 🎂◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜🎂 — —

Shirou knew the minute he got home that something was happening. The hall was quiet, and this place was only ever quiet when something was up. There weren’t any report cards or tests due, and Shirou hadn’t been accosted by any complaining parents, so it wasn’t a fight, which meant it had to be something because of today.

It always baffled him a little how they all kept up with it so effortlessly when he could never get any of them (except Yukio) to keep track of anything else.

There was a strange scent in the air a little like burnt sugar that had him thinking Rin had left something in the microwave for too long again, and there was a distinct tension in the air that had him strolling a bit louder so they’d know he arrived.

There was a squeak, a hurried mumble of words he couldn’t distinguish, the scrape of feet, and the light in the kitchen went off, leaving that end of the hall dark.

Definitely a surprise then.

Shirou took a bit more time than he needed going those last few feet, and then he was pushing the door to the kitchen open and making a show of reaching for the light.

He flipped it on, and immediately found himself assaulted by bright light and happy shouts (and screams) of “Happy Birthday!”

The boys were standing in front of the table with a large platter held between them. It was something absolutely slathered in whipped cream with a few candles quickly falling into the creamy depths and disappearing from sight. It was strangely lopsided and Rin was wearing a fair bit of the cream on his arm and cheek.

They were both beaming up at him, and the others were behind them, looking torn between pride and exhaustion, and he couldn’t possibly help the size of the grin that spread over his face.

“A birthday cake?” He asked. “For me?”

“Yeah!” Rin declared, hurrying forward and dragging Yukio along. “A homemade one! Extra cream!”

Shirou looked over there head where the others looked worried.

“The boys made it,” Misumi explained. “All by themselves.”

Shirou looked back down at the cake. That explained the shape of it then.

“Well then we better cut into it.” Shirou said, dropping his hands on their heads and ruffling their hair. (Both of them sticky in different ways.) He motioned for Rin to set the monster of a cake on the table and walked to get a knife to join the plates and forks they’d set out already.

The floor was gritty and there was a bit of something green on the front of the drawer, but he got the knife and returned to them, ignoring the irritating grit under boot.

Rin insisted on cutting, so Shirou let him, watching closely and snickering a bit at Misumi’s palpable worry. He cut easily through the cream, a bit less easily through the cake, and reached the platter with a loud clatter of knife hitting ceramic.

He repeated the process again and pulled out a surprisingly neat slice, plopping it on the plate and giving Shirou a glimpse of shockingly green cake. (Which was absolutely a Rin idea and a Yukio save, because he had no doubts Rin forgot his favorite color and Yukio knew everyone’s.)

The cake was strangely flat and spongey and crusty on the edges and there were patches of something that looked like scrambled egg, and a scent that wasn’t quite pleasant, but it really couldn’t be worse than the eggs, and the wide-eyed and hopeful looks the twins were giving him was enough to have him grinning widely and bringing the fork to his mouth.

He bit down, found the texture every bit as strange as it had looked, and that it mostly tasted like food dye, which was probably the best thing it could have tasted like. The cream wasn’t at all sweet, but it was cool and not salty, so he nodded at them and grinned all the wider. Better than the eggs had been.

“Delicious!” He lied, and didn’t feel bad about it.

Rin beamed enough to show his missing teeth and grabbed the knife to cut another slice before Yukio made an upset noise.

“Your candles!”

Rin slapped his forehead, thankfully not with the hand holding the knife, “We forgot!”

“Just light ‘em now,” Kyodo offered.

“It’s not too late?” Rin asked. “The wish will still work?”

“Course it will,” Shirou hummed as he pulled out his lighter. He knew nothing about the finer points of birthday magic, but he didn’t see any reason it wouldn’t. (He couldn’t remember if he had ever actually blown out birthday candles. Was there a trick to it?)

Rin hauled the candles back out of their creamy prisons and scowled until Yukio helped him get them to stay upright while Shirou lit them. (With a bit of trouble. Cream didn’t want to ignite.)

“Alright,” Rin bossed, “now ya blow it out.”

“And make a wish,” Yukio added, adjusting his glasses and moving some cream coated hair out of his eyes. Shirou might just have to hose them off in the backyard before bath time.

They both gave him entirely determined expressions, implying the importance of this act and the wishmaking it was, and they had taken time to make a cake for him and color it green because he loved it, and they didn’t want him to miss his wish, and they’d remembered his birthday and spent one of their days off doing this when they could have been outside having fun, and they’d made a mess but cleaned it up, and the others had clearly helped and known, and…

“Blow ‘em out and make a wish.” Shirou nodded. He pulled in a breath, didn’t look at the other three who would probably realize this was something he’d never done (or might realize it later) and let out as big of a breath as he could, catching all the little flickering flames with his exhale.

“You did it!”

“Whaddya wish for?”

“Don’t tell! It’s against the rules!”

“Is not!”

“Is so!”

Shirou shook his head with a growing smile and picked his plate back up. Against the rules or not, he didn’t think he could verbalize his wish anyway.

[mothguillotine]

Chapter 6: Let’s Get Them Russians

Main Masterlist

cw: swearing, descriptions of death, and violence

word count: 9.5k (I am so sorry and I don't wanna talk about it)

Summary: It's time...

You weren’t exactly sure where your life went wrong. Before you found yourself spying on Russians you would have said when you first realized that you liked girls, or when you realized that you just did not like boys. But given recent events, you would definitely say your family moving to Hawkins was the worst idea ever. However, you can’t find yourself becoming too upset with your dad about taking that stupid job offer because, in the end, it resulted in you holding Robin's hand. 

Even in the most terrifying moments of this ordeal just seeing her face, well, it made everything okay to you. You weren’t sure when in the last 48 hours you realized that you were in love with her but looking back on it now, it seems rather obvious that you love Robin and she is holding your hand right now. Given at the moment she is drugged and may just need extra help running through the back halls you don’t wanna hope too much. 

“Come on,” Dustin urges the two of you, “We need to lay low for a little bit.”

“And how exactly do we do that?” you ask him, “We have two drugged friends and a whole bunch of Russians after us.”

“Just trust me,” he tells you, opening the door he was leading you to, then peeks out. 

“All clear,” he says after a moment, moving out of the doorway.

The rest of you run out and you realize that Dustin has taken you all to the movie theater. You follow him into one of the theaters still holding Robins's hand. Dustin throws open the double doors and runs down the stairs to the front row.

“You two sit,” Dustin tells Robin and Steve.

“No, no, no,” Robin says, “These seats are too close and I wanna sit by her.”

“Okay,” he tells her, “How about we compromise and you sit here and she will sit on the ground.”

“On the ground?” you ask him in a low voice.

“Yes, on the ground,” he tells you, “Watch them.”

“Fine,” you tell him and sit down on the ground next to Robin.

“Dude, these seats blow,” Steve tells Dustin.

“Then don’t watch the movie,” he tells Steve.

“We wanna watch it,” Robin tells him.

“Then watch it!” Dustin shouts at them.

“Shh!” you hear from someone behind you.

“Shh!” Robin turns and tells the person who did it first.

“Whatever you do,” Dustin instructs them, “Don’t Go Anywhere.”

“Fine, Dad,” Steve retorts and Robin chuckles.

Dustin and Erica both run down to the other side of the row to find seats, “Do you want some popcorn?” Steve leans down and asks you.

You look at him confused, “Steve, where did you get that?”

“What?” he asks, looking at the snack in his hand.

“I-, you know what, never mind,” you tell him, “I haven’t eaten in forty-eight hours so I don't care.”

“All of this popcorn is making me thirsty,” Robin moans.

“There is a water fountain right outside the movies,” Steve tells her.

“No,” you tell them, “Dustin said we need to stay put and to lay low.”

“Oh, come on,” Robin pleads, “I haven’t drank anything in forever!”

“Okay, okay,” you tell them, “But we need to be quick.”

You stand up and crouch down with Steve and Robin behind you all of you run out of the theater. Steve directs you towards the exit and to the water fountain. Steve runs over to it and puts his entire face into the stream. Robin leans back on a wall full of different movie posters.

“Is this what all drugs feel like?” Robin asks out loud.

“No,” you tell her.

“oh,” Robin stops and thinks then quietly whispers to you, “do you do drugs?”

You let out a laugh, “Yes, Robin,” you tell her and then match her low whisper, “I do drugs.”

Robin starts laughing as well.

“That’s amazing,” Steve says after waterboarding himself for a minute straight, “You guys need to try this.”

“Were you guys paying attention to the movie?” Robin asks changing the subject, “Because, like, I wasn’t totally focused on the movie or anything, but… I’m pretty sure that mom was trying to bang her son.”

“Wait, wait, the hot chick was Alec P. Keaton’s mom?” he asks, confused.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” she tells him.

“But they’re the same age,” Steve says.

“No,” Robin says dramatically, “But he went back in time.”

“Then why is it called Back to the Future?” Steve asks her.

“He has to go back to the future,” Robin explains, “Because he’s in the past, So, the future is actually the present, which is his time.”

Steve stops and thinks for a moment, trying to process this new information, “Wh- what?”

“No, no,” Robin says and pushes Steve out of the way, “It’s my turn. You’ve had enough.”

Steve walks away from the fountain, “Can you hold my hair back?” Robin asks you.

“Yeah,” you tell her and pull back some stands.

“Wow,” Steve says and just stares at the ceiling.

“You okay bud?” you ask him to which you get no response.

“Hey, guys,” he says to the two of you, “You gotta check this out.”

Robin stands up from the drinking fountain and stumbles over to where Steve is standing. You follow her over and look up to see what Steve is looking at, “Check this out.”

“This… the ceiling,” he tells you both, “It’s beautiful.”

“Oh, wow,” Robin says.

“Do you see it?” Steve asks you and grabs your shoulders.

The ceiling is made out of glass, nothing remarkable, “Uh, yeah Steve,” you tell him, “We should get back in there though we don’t want them worrying.”

“I uh,” Robin says and clutches her stomach, “I’m gonna barf.”

Robin runs to the right where the restrooms are followed closely by Steve who is also holding his stomach.

“Oh, that’s just great,” you mumble but follow them into the bathrooms anyway.

By the time you open the door both of them have claimed separate stalls to barf into, “Are you guys okay?” you ask.

“No!” Robin shouts and then immediately gets sick.

“Oh, God,” Steve moans, “It’s in my hair.”

“Do you want me to hold back your hair for you?” you ask him jokingly.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

You take a moment to look up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, let out a breath, and then you agree, “Okay, fine.” 

After quite a long time of making sure no vomit gets into Steve's precious hair his stomach finally seems to calm down. He flushes the toilet one last time and wipes his mouth, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well after everything that's happened,” you tell him, helping him sit next to the toilet just in case, “The last thing I'm worried about is getting your puke on my hands.”

Steve laughs but then groans in pain, “The ceiling stopped spinning for me, is it still spinning for you?” you hear from the next stall over.

Steve looks up to examine the ceiling, “Holy shit,” Steve says, “No. You think we puked it all up?”

“Probably,” you tell him, “Or it’s just been long enough that you guys are coming down.”

“I definitely feel less druggie,” Robin confirms, “Ask me something. Interrogate me.”

“Okay, interrogate you,” Steve says, “Umm, when was the last time you, uh, peed your pants?”

“Today,” Robin says truthfully.

“What?” Steve asks her, surprised.

“When the Russian doctor took out the bone saw,” she explains.

“Yeah,” you laugh, “Makes sense.”

“Oh, my God,” Steve says simultaneously and starts laughing hysterically.

“It was just a little bit, though,” Robin tells him.

“I’m gonna go make sure Dustin and Erica aren’t freaking out since you two are feeling better,” you tell them and leave the bathroom.

Outside the putrid-smelling room, you find Erica and Dustin wandering around, presumably looking for their missing friends.

“Hey,” you call to them which makes their heads turn around, “They are in the bathroom right now, I would not go in there.”

“Why?” Erica asks you.

“It smells really bad,” you tell them.

“Did they shit themselves?” Erica asks.

“What?!” you ask her, taken aback, “No, they just threw up.”

“Oh, well I can handle that,” Dustin tells you and strolls past you followed by Erica.

“I mean okay,” you say mostly to yourself.

You just take a moment to think about how absolutely fucked your life has become. Somehow moving to a small town in Indiana got you involved in extra-dimensional monsters and Russian spies underneath your workplace. If only your family could see you now, your parents are probably freaking out right now and your sister, god, you have no idea where Tee is. 

You can only hope that she isn’t wrapped up in all of this but you know she was hanging out with Dustin's group. Realistically you know that she probably is. When you catch up with Dustin and Erica you hear laughter coming from the bathroom.

Back in the bathroom, the smell has significantly decreased but the mood is still the same, hysterical laughing coming from Robin and Steve. Dustin and Erica stand there looking at each other and the two on the floor. 

“Okay, what the hell,” Dustin says, which makes Robin and Steve laugh more, “I told the three of you specifically to stay in the theater, not to go anywhere.”

“I thought you wanted us to not attract attention?” you ask him, “Do you think the two of them barfing in the middle of a movie was a good way to achieve that? If someone made one radio call about two people throwing up in sailor costumes we all would have been screwed.”

“Okay,” Dustin says, “That is true. We will just have to wait till the movie is over and leave with the crowd.”

“I think that’s a good plan,” you tell him. After another twenty-ish minutes, you hear chatter from the movie being done. All of you peek out of the bathroom and look around for any trouble.

“Blend,” Dustin tells you all and joins the crowd of people making their way to the parking lot. Most people talk about how amazing the movie was but you all have a different focus. The five of you walk amongst the patrons, making sure you haven't been spotted or followed.

“Well, shit,” Erica says, “It worked.”

“Of course, it worked,” Dustin tells her, “Now we just have to get on the bus with the rest of these plebes, and home sweet home, here we come.”

“Uh, Dustin?” Steve says.

“What?” he asks.

“Yeah, we might not want to go to your house,” Steve tells him.

“Why?” 

“Well, I might’ve told them your full name,” Steve explains.

“What?!” you ask him, “And you didn’t think to tell us sooner. What else did you guys say?”

“I’m sorry okay,” he tells all of you, “I was drugged, we were drugged.”

“So?” Dustin asks.

“So?” Steve repeats.

“So you resist,” Dustin tells him, “You tough it out. You tough it out like a man.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says sarcastically, “It’s easy for you to say.”

“Guys?” Robin says in alarm.

All of you look in front of you and see people checking IDs, most definitely the Russians. 

“Abort,” Dustin says, then makes eye contact with one of the guards, all of you run back the way you came into the crowd of people. 

Robin leads you all to the escalators which are closed off for the night. Behind you two of the guards are coming after you, Robin gets into the space between the escalators and slides down with all of you going down one after the other. When you get to the floor you stand up and run behind one of the food stands hoping that no one saw where you all went.

All of you just sit quietly for what feels like forever, trying not to move or make any noise. You opt to put your head on your knees like you're in a tornado drill, knowing it won’t actually make you any safer. You can hear the passing of shoes every so often but at some point something doesn’t sound right. The sound of people approaching seemed to draw more and more near. All of you are holding your breath at this point waiting for gunshots or an attack.

Suddenly you hear a car alarm go off, likely the prize model sitting in the food court. After a moment of the car alarm going off you hear a gigantic crash, all of you slowly look over the counter at what happened. 

When you do you see all of your pursuers lying in blood on the ground and the car smashed against the other side of the room. When you look back you see a girl and a few moments later you see the kids you hit with the car, Dustin's friends, which of course includes Tee. As well as two people who look about the same age as you that you don’t recognize.

All of you run toward the escalator, “Tee!” you shout and run towards her giving her the biggest hug you possibly can.

“I can’t breathe,” she tells you and you release her, scanning her for any injuries. 

“Are you okay?” you ask her, “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I should be asking you that,” she tells you, “You’ve been gone for days.”

“I know,” you tell her, “You wouldn’t believe what happened to me. Are Mom and Dad upset?”

“I told them you were staying with your friend for a few days,” she says, “A little upset that you didn’t ask, but for the most part okay.”

“El, you flung that thing like a Hot Wheel!” Dustin yells and runs to two of his friends and pulls them in for a hug.

“Lucas?!” Erica says confused.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas asks her.

“Ask them,” she says pointing at the four of you, “It’s their fault.”

“True, yeah,” Steve confirms, “Totally true. It’s absolutely our fault.”

You nod your head in agreement with Steve, “To be fair, it's not like we forced her to do it,” you tell him.

“I don’t understand what happened to that car,” Robin says.

“Steve didn’t tell you about her having powers?” you ask Robin, “Dustin told me a while ago.”

“A while ago?” Dustin asks, “It was only a few hours ago.”

“Okay, well my sense of time really got fucked when we were locked in a basement for a few days,” you tell him.

“She has powers?” Robin asks, confused.

“Yes,” Dustin says, “Keep up.”

“I’m sorry,” Robin says, her brows furrowed, “What does that mean?”

“Superpowers,” Dustin says, “She threw it with her mind.”

“That’s El?” Erica asks.

“Who’s El?”

This is your first time to really take in the whole group, “So is this like everyone?” you ask.

“I’m sorry,” one of the teens who came in with the others says, “Who are the both of you?”

“I’m Robin,” she says, “I work with Steve.”

“I, too, work with Steve,” you tell her, “And Tee is my sister.”

“They helped crack the secret code,” Dustin explains.

Steve nods, “Yeah, that's how we found out about the Russians.”

“Russians?” the other new one asks, “Wait, what Russians?”

“Wait,” you say, “You guys don’t know about the Russians?”

“The Russians!” Steve says and points to the dead bodies.

“Those were Russians?” Max asks.

“Yeah!” you exclaim, “We were locked in their basement!”

“But, that was only some of them,” Erica tells everyone.

“Yeah, there are a lot of them,” you tell them, “Well, I guess less now, but still a lot.”

“What are you talking about?” Lucas asks.

“Didn’t you hear the code red?” Dustin asks.

“Yeah,” Mike says, “We couldn’t understand what you were saying.”

“Goddamn low battery,” Dustin curses.

“How many times do I have to tell you with the low battery,” Steve yells.

“Well, everything worked out, didn’t it?” Dustin yells back.

“Worked out?” Erica repeats, “We almost died!”

“Girls, you are both very beautiful but let's get back to the task at hand,” you tell the two of them, “Russians remember.”

“I uh, don’t really think that’s the most concerning problem,” Tee says and scratches the top of her head.

“What do you mean?” you ask nervously, “What could be worse than a Russian invasion?”

Everyone pauses, “Guys, what’s- what's going on?” Dustin asks.

The five of you look as confused as you feel, and then you hear a thump and a grunt come from behind you, “El!” Mike yells and runs over to El who is lying on the ground turning her onto her back, “El?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Erica asks and El starts crying, in obvious pain.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asks El.

“My leg,” El gets out between sobs and reaches down pulling one of her pant legs up, “My leg!”

You take a step back and watch as they pull up her pant leg and reveal a wound that was patched, “Get that off,” the girl your age says and the other pulls it off.

Deciding that nothing you can do will help you decide to pull Robin off toward one of the undamaged eateries. 

“What are we doing?” Robin asks.

“When was the last time you ate?” you ask her, to which you get no response, “None of us are gonna be any help if we are about to pass out from malnourishment.”

You both make your way towards the pizzeria and you hop over the counter, and start to gather as much food as you can carry. Robin follows your lead and starts gathering food. 

The screams are starting to get louder as they echo through the empty mall. You hear someone run down towards you both and they hop over the counter throwing open the drawers. Until he finds a knife and lights the oven holding the blade over the flames.

“What are you doing?” you ask, concerned.

“Surgery, I guess,” He explains and runs back to the group.

“Come on,” you tell Robin behind you, “We need to get back over there.”

You riffle through the cabinets under the counter, finding a few things of mushrooms and other dry goods. A window loudly shatters as El lets out a gut-wrenching scream and lights go crazy. You stand up and turn to look at what happened. Unfortunately, Robin has the same idea as you from the fridge and you run into each other dropping everything that the two of you were carrying.

“Oh, shit,” you say under your breath and drop to the ground trying to pick up all of the food, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Robin tells you and crouches down to help you. 

“I should have been more aware of my surroundings,” you tell her, “Especially right now.”

“Hey,” Robin says and grabs your hand which makes you look up at her for the first time, “It’s okay.”

You swear you see Robin look down at your lips for a split second before looking back up at your eyes and just like magnets the two of you draw closer together, closing your eyes you lean in. Not a second later you feel her soft lips press against yours and it feels like only a second before she pulls away. Looking at your face for any signs of disgust.

“Was that okay?” you ask her after a moment.

“I-” Robin starts but is interrupted.

“You guys okay?” you hear Dustin ask.

You gather some of the food and stand back up, “Yeah just had a spill,” you tell him and put the food on the counter, “Help us carry it back.”

Dustin starts to pick up some of the supplies from the counter and you hop back to the other side, “Robin what did you get?” Dustin asks.

“Uh, some pepperonis and cheese. A few peppers,” she tells him, still picking up her things from the ground.

“Okay, let’s get back,” Dustin encourages, “The chief is here now.”

“The what?” you ask him.

“The chief of police,” Dustin explains, “He’s El’s dad.”

“So are the rest of the police here or what?” you ask him.

“No, just him, unfortunately,” he tells you and walks back to the group.

You turn back around to the counter and start gathering the food but Robin notices a look on your face.

“What is it?” Robin asks, putting her food on the countertop as well.

“I uh,” you pause trying to find the right words then whisper, “I have a joint.”

“What?” Robin asks, “Where?”

“My bra,” you tell her and see her look down and back up.

Robin takes a moment to answer, “I think out of everything he is the least concerned about a little weed.”

“Yeah,” you say, “That’s probably true… but it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Robin hops over the counter landing on her feet next to you, “How are you paranoid without smoking?”

“Fuck off,” you laugh and elbow her in the side, “Grab what you can, and let's get back.”

The rest of the group are all patching themselves up as you approach, “We brought some food,” you announce to everyone including the newcomers, the only actual adults here. Laying out the goods on a nearby table.

“Oh thank god,” Steve says and goes to get sustenance.

“That’s not my name,” you tell him, shaking your head.

“Hardee har har,” Steve says dryly, “You should have a comedy show.”

“So are you guys gonna explain what's going on now?” you ask the others.

“Yeah, I’m really confused,” the adult woman says, “What is going on? And who are you?”

“Oh uh yeah, I, well we,” you say gesturing to Tee, “Just moved here and I got trapped in the Russian basement with Steve and Dustin. To be honest they kinda dragged me, Robin, and Erica into this mess.”

“Hey, that is not true,” Steve defends, “I take total fault for Erica but Robin wanted to!”

“Yeah, well you weren't completely honest with us,” you tell him.

“Okay, children!” a balding man yells, “Can we focus on what’s important.”

“What is important?” you ask him, “Because if you say Russians I’m gonna smack you upside the head, I was in a goddamn Russian underground base for days. So if you think I don’t know that, I do, so add something new to the conversation, or don’t speak at all!”

He doesn’t respond and instead walks off, “The Russians are the least of our problems right now,” Mike tells everyone, “The Mind Flayer, it built this monster in Hawkins, to stop El, to kill her, and pave a way into our world.”

“And it almost did,” she says, “That thing was just one tiny piece of it.”

You look towards the sluggish-looking piece of mush that she gestured to, “Ew,” you express.

Everyone ignores your comment, “How big is this thing?” the chief asks.

“It’s big,” Jonathan tells him, and the rest of them mummer amongst themselves.

“Thirty feet, at least,” Mike says with the agreement of the others, “Kinda looks like a big spider.”

“Just don’t ask what it’s made out of,” the older girl says and cringes.

“Well, you can’t just say that and not tell us,” you say to her.

She takes a moment and bluntly states, “Humans.”

“It sorta destroyed your cabin,” Lucas tells the chief, “Sorry.”

“Okay, so, just to be clear, this… this big fleshy spider thing that hurt El,” Steve says, “It’s some kind of gigantic… weapon?”

“Yes,” she says plainly.

“But instead of, like, screws and metal, the Mind Flayer made its weapon…” Steve starts, “With melted people.”

“Yes, exactly,” she confirms.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, “I- yeah, I’m just making sure.”

“And this is what you have been dealing with for the last few days?” you ask Tee.

“Yep,” she confirms, nodding her head.

“Are we sure this thing is still out there, still alive?” the woman asks.

“El beat the shit out of it, but, yeah, it’s still alive,” Max tells her.

“But if we close the gate again-” Will says.

“We cut the brain off from the body,” Max starts.

“And kill it,” Lucas finishes, “Theoretically.”

“Yoo-hoo!” you hear the balding man call from behind you, turning you see him flapping around papers and walking over to a table.

All of you make your way past the more than totaled car and gather around him.

Robin takes a seat at one of the surrounding tables and you follow her lead, taking a seat next to her, “Okay, this is what Alexei called “the hub,” the balding man says and traces down the map, “Now, the hub takes us to the vault room.”

The chief, who is looking over his shoulder at the map, asks him, “Okay, where’s the gate?”

“Right here,” the balding one says, “I don’t know the scale on this, but I think it’s fairly close to the vault room, maybe fifty feet or so.”

“More like five hundred,” Erica exclaims, “What, you’re just gonna waltz in there like it’s commie Disneyland or something?”

“I’m sorry,” the man says sarcastically, “Who are you?”

“Erica Sinclair,” Erica tells him, “Who are you?”

“Murray…” he pauses, “Bauman.”

“Listen, Mr. Bunman,” Erica says to Murray, “I’m not trying to tell you how to do things, but we’ve been down in that shithole for twenty four hours. And with all due respect, you do what this man tells you, you’re all gonna die.”

While all of this is going on you can’t help but feel a sense of recognition at the name Murray Bauman. Looking at Tee you can’t tell if she is experiencing the same, leaning over to where she is sitting next to you, you whisper to your sister, “Do we know him?”

“You know,” she pauses, “He looks really familiar, but I just- I don’t know, I just can’t place him.”

“Yeahhh,” you drag out, “Me either.”

“She’s right,” you hear when you tune back into the conversation, Dustin backing up Erica, “You’re all gonna die, but you don’t have to.”

“Excuse me,” Dustin tells Murray and moves toward the map, “Sorry, may I?”

After Dustin corrects himself, Murray moves out of the way, “Please.”

Dustin sits down and pulls the map towards himself. You decide to stand up and move closer to get a better look, on the map you see a very small version of the Russian lab, probably 1/10th scale of the actual basement.

Dustin points at one of the rooms, “Okay, see this room here? This is a storage facility.”

“That’s where the cages were,” you add.

“The cages?” the chief asks you.

“Uh, yeah,” you tell him, “Like eight feet tall, made out of metal, like most cages are.”

“Anyways there is a hatch in here that feeds into their underground ventilation system,” Dustin continues ignoring you, “That will lead you to the base of the weapon.It’s a bit of a maze down there, but between the three of us, we can show you the way.”

“The three of you can show us the way?” the chief asks.

You nod and Dustin responds verbally, “Don’t worry, you can do all the fighting and the dangerous hero shit, and we’ll just be your…” Dustin looks at the two of you.

“Support,” you add.

“Well I was gonna say navigators,” Dustin says, “But whatever.”

The three of you look back at the chief nodding in agreement, “No.”

All of your smiles fade, “Why?”

“Well all of you are children,” he tells you.

“They are children,” you tell him, “Few more months and I won’t be.”

“And when was the last time you closed a gate?” he asks you, “You shouldn’t even be involved with this.”

“Oh please,” you tell him, “You don’t even know me.”

“Which makes your idea even worse,” he says.

“Okay, fine,” you tell him, “You're gonna go down there and die, not from the gate, but from Russians.”

And to that he just nods with a smile, “I might.”

After that you all disperse from the table and the area around, you see Robin and Steve walk over to one of the food stalls. Steve decides to lay down over the counter dramatically with just enough room for you and Robin at the end. Robin sits on the counter and pats the space next to her. You pull yourself up on the counter and sit down.

“How are you guys doing?” you ask, after all they were just drugged.

“Tired,” Steve answers first.

“I think we all are,” Robin tells him.

“I cannot wait to sleep for a whole day after this,” you tell them.

“I think I might sleep for a whole week,” Steve says groaning, “At least when I was high my face didn’t hurt.”

You pat his leg, “It’s okay bud. Next time we all will have a much better experience.”

“Next time we get locked in a Russian basement?” Robin asks.

“No!” you exclaim with a laugh, you take a moment to make sure no one is around, “I meant next time we get high.”

“Ohhhh,” Robin says, “That makes more sense.”

“You guys can come over to mine,” Steve tells you, still laying on the counter, “My parents are never there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you tell them.

“Now we just have to get out of here,” Robin says.

You watch as the chief, whose name you learned is Hopper, runs around gathering supplies. He walks up to one of the Russian guards and takes his gun off of his corpse.

“You know I gotta say,” you start, “Today has been the weirdest of this whole experience.”

Robin huffs then says, “Yeah.”

Steve takes a moment then he too agrees.

“So who are the other people, like I know Mike’s whole group, and Hopper,” you start, “But what about the two that came in with my sister and the woman?”

Robin starts laughing and Steve moans and puts his hands over his face, “What? What did I say?”

“That’s Nancy,” Robin explains, “And her new boyfriend.”

“Ohhhhh,” you say, after all you had worked with Steve for almost a month at this point so you had heard about Nancy, “Damn Steve, you dropped the ball.”

“Yeahhh,” Steve drags out, “I know.”

Both you and Robin break out laughing, “It’s not that funny,” Steve tells you.

“I disagree,” you tell him and wipe away a faux tear, “Okay, what's everyone's names though.”

“You know Nancy, she is Mike’s sister, her boyfriend is Jonathan, Will’s brother,” Steve tells you, “The woman is Joyce and she’s Will and Jonathan's mom.”

“Okay, I think I got it,” you tell them, “Why is everyones siblings here?”

“You know,” Steve says, “That’s a good question.”

“Yeah, it’s like only you guys, Dustin, and Max,” you tell them, “It’s really weird, hopefully no one else's shows up.”

“Oh Steveeeee,” Dustin calls, “I have some keys for you!”

Steve shoots up from the counter, “What am I driving, Henderson?”

Dustin throws the keys to Steve, “Let’s go look.”

You and the OG’s, Steve, Dustin, and Erica, all go out to the promised land, the parking lot.

Steve opens the double doors allowing all five of you to get through at once, “Oh, man, now this…” Steve says, “This is what I’m talkin’ about!”

“The Toddfather?” Robin asks and looks at you.

“This is disgusting,” you cringe and shake your head.

“Oh, screw Todd!” Steve shouts and lunges over the car door landing in the driver's seat, “Steve’s her daddy now.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in third person?” Robin asks and opens the door for you, like a normal person.

“Ew Steve,” you shake your head and get in the car followed by Robin, “If you ever say anything like that again, I swear.”

“Did he call himself daddy?” Dustin asks and gets in the car.

“Just… don’t,” you tell him as Erica jumps into the back.

“All right,” Steve says, “Where are we going?”

“Weathertop,” Dustin tells him.

“Weathertop?” Steve asks.

“Just drive!” Dustin yells.

“Okay,” Steve says back and starts the engine, “Jesus.”

He puts the car in reverse and the five of you squeal away from the mall for the first time in days. I’ll be it in a car with the license plate, TODFTHER, and well, with a license plate like that you can only imagine what has happened in this car.

“Let’s listen to some jams,” you tell them and push in whatever is in the cassette slot.

When you do that you are met with a cheery tune that you recognize, and soon enough Jackie Wilson's voice fills the car, “Why did you do this?” Dustin asks.

“I need something,” you tell him, “I’m this close to having a full mental breakdown and I just wanna listen to this goddamn song.”

“Okay,” Dustin says, a little worried, “You can listen to the song.”

“Okay, good,” you tell him, “Because that’s what I was gonna do anyway.”

Out of your view Dustin and Erica look at each other in the backseat and give each other a look, “Steve you are gonna make a left up here.”

“Okay,” Steve says and turns further out of town.

After the song ends it loops back to the beginning, “Is this like just ten hours of this song?” Steve asks, “Like over and over again?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him, “Only one way to find out.”

After the song plays a few times it’s clear all of you are starting to get frustrated, with the music, and with how long this is taking.

On the fourth time the tape plays Steve has had enough, “Jesus, how far is this place, man?”

“Relax,” Dustin tells him, “We’re almost there.”

Out of the speakers you hear Jackie sing his iconic line, ‘your love, liftin’ me higher.’

“I can’t take it anymore!” Steve yells and grabs for the cassette, to which you smack his hand away, “What the fuck?”

“Leave it alone, Steve,” Robin tells him.

“No,” he says and reaches for it again knowing you will hit him out of the way he is still able to grab the cassette.

You reach over to Steve and try to grab it back, “Give it back!”

“No!” he yells, “I’m done.”

Steve then moves his hand to the window crank and begins opening it, throwing the cassette out onto the road.

“Bro!” you yell at him, “What the hell!”

Steve looks at you, taking his eyes off the road, “It’s all gone now!”

“Turn left!” Dustin yells, catching both you and Steve off guard.

Steve turns at a complete ninety degree angle throwing you against Robin and her against the door, “Jesus, Steve!” Robin yells.

The car runs down a completely innocent fence, “WHOA!” Steve shouts, “Henderson, where are we going?!” 

“UP!” Dustin yells back and when you look ahead of you, you see what he is talking about.

Steve speeds up the car as you all approach a really big hill, trying to gain as much momentum as possible. The RPM’s hitting the very max that will allow as the five of you speed up this hill.

“We’re not gonna make it!” Robin shouts.

“Yes, we are,” Steve tells her, “Come on, baby. Come on, baby!”

Not a second later you get stuck on the hill, Steve presses the pedal all the way down trying to move the car. But the tires just spin, trapped in the mud.

“Guess the Toddfather has its limitations,” Robin tells Steve.

All of you move to get out of the car and run the rest of the way, as much as you wanna poke fun at the car, it did get you halfway up the hill. The doors slam as the five of you run up the remainder of the hill to the top.

When the five of you reach the top you see the giant antenna that Dustin built, “Damn,” you huff out between breaths, “That’s- pretty- impressive.”

“Thank- you,” Dustin says, breathing hard.

You give him a thumbs up, Dustin walks over to the radio and picks up the walkie, “Bald Eagle this is Scoops Troop, do you copy?”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that name,” you tell Robin under your breath.

“Well, do you have any other ideas?” Dustin asks, hearing what you said.

You wait a second, thinking, “No.”

“Okay,” Dustin says and presses the button again, “Bald Eagle, I repeat, this is Scoops Troop, do you copy?”

“Yes,” you hear Murray say from the otherside of the radio, “I copy.”

Dustin smiles and looks back smiling, “Call sign?”

“Bald Eagle,” you hear him huff out over the radio.

“Please repeat?” Dustin asks, voice laced with mischief.

“Bald Eagle,” Murray repeats, “This is Bald Eagle.”

“Copy that,” Dustin says with a smile, “Good to hear your voice, Bald Eagle. What’s your 20?”

“We reached the vent,” you hear through the static, “I’ll contact you when I need you. Until then, silence.”

“Roger that, Bald Eagle,” Dustin tells him, “This is Scoops Troop, going radio silent. 10-10, over.”

Steve pats Dustin on the shoulder in support, “Okay, now what?” Steve asks.

“We wait, dummy,” Robin tells him.

You turn to look out at Hawkins, everything is so far away. Walking closer to the other side of the hill. As you get closer you recognize more of the buildings. Miles away you can see the mall, cars drive by having no idea what is inside. 

It’s strange to think that your parents are just enjoying their nights while you and Tee are fighting to stop the end of the world. Strange is maybe a bit of an understatement, impossible to believe if you weren't living through it.

“You okay?” you hear from behind you, knowing it’s Robin you don’t turn around.

“Yeah,” you tell her and she joins you looking out, “This is just a lot.”

“Trust me I know how you are feeling,” she tells you then pauses.

“Are we okay?” she asks after a minute.

You take your eyes off of the city and turn to her, Robin is looking out near where her house would be if you could see it.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” you ask her confused.

She looks down at her feet, “We just-,” Robin pauses and looks at you trying to find the right words, “We haven’t talked in a while.”

You look back at the group, all of them focused on the radio, then turn your attention back on her, “I promise we will talk after all of this is over, okay?”

Robin breaks your eye contact and looks down again, “Do you,” Robin stops, lets out a breath then continues, “Do you regret it?”

Immediately you answer, “No, do you?”

“What?!” Robin asks, “No, I just-,”

You give her a moment, “Just what?”

“I was worried you did,” she tells you.

“Well, I don’t,” you say with absolute certainty and turn back to face the city.

Not a moment later you feel a hand grasp yours and you smile together, albeit secretly.

But behind you two eyes do see you both, standing together in the light of the moon and Steve can’t help but mutter under his breath, “Told you so.”

“What was that, Steve?” Dustin asks him.

“Oh, nothing,” Steve tells him hurriedly, “So how far away is he now?”

“He’s about-” Dustin starts but is cut off by another radio transmission.

The two of you are still just looking out across the city, when you see it, the lights flickering at the mall, “Do you see that?”

“Oh, no,” Robin says, letting go of your hand.

“Guys, we have a situation over here!” you yell for the rest of the group.

The others run over to the two of you, “What?” Dustin asks.

“Look,” you tell him simply, pointing towards the mall.

“Oh, shit,” Dustin says and runs back to the radio followed closely by the rest of you, “Griswold Family, this is Scoops Troop! Do you copy? Over!”

Dustin takes a breath, “Griswold Family, I repeat, this is Scoops Troop. Do you copy?”

You all hear the button suddenly pressed down and a terrifying screech, “Griswold Family? Do you copy?”

Then you hear a roar and Dustin yells, “Griswold Family! Please confirm your safety!”

No one responds.

“They aren’t still there, right?” you ask them.

“Mike wouldn’t have left his radio,” Dustin tells you.

“Okay,” you say, “Steve, give me the keys.”

“What?” he asks you.

“Give me the keys,” you repeat, holding out your hand.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Dustin tells you, “We need to stay together.”

“Dustin, I can’t just wait around and hope,” you tell him and point towards the flickering lights, “My sister is down there!”

“No,” Steve tells you, “You are just gonna get yourself killed.”

“I need to go and help them!” you yell, tears building in your eyes, “I need to make sure she is okay!”

Even after everything you have been through, this feeling of terror has never felt this out of control. In fact you have never felt this out of control ever.

“No,” Steve repeats, “Not without me.”

You and Steve start running to the car, “Where are you going?!” Erica yells.

“To get them the hell outta there!” Steve yells back, “Stay here, contact the others!”

By the time the two of you make it to the car you see Robin running as well, “Wait, wait!” she yells, “I have a radio!”

As soon as Robin is inside the car Steve puts the TODFTHER in reverse and all three of you speed off the hill back towards the mall.

As you all drive back you hear lots of chatter over the radio, unfortunately nothing about Tee. When you make the final turn to get onto the mall road you see the neon reflection of the brightly read Starcourt Mall sign plastered on the building. As you approach the mall you see a car revving its engines directed towards another in the parking lot.

“This can’t be good,” you say to them.

“Guys,” Steve has seriousness in his voice, “Hold on.”

Immediately you grab onto whatever you can, “Steve, what are you doing?”

Robin who has lodged herself in between you and the door looks just as worried. The car that was revving its engines suddenly starts accelerating and Steve floors it.

“Oh, shiiiiitttt,” you yell out as Steve smashes into the side of the car you now recognize as a camaro.

As soon as the cars hit one another the force pushes all of you to the side, the car skids to the side until you stop. All of you are silent, just grateful you didn’t get flung from the car.

“You guys okay?” Steve says after a moment.

“Ask me tomorrow?” Robin tells him, obviously terrified.

“I don’t know,” you tell him and your eye catches something moving atop the mall, “That was intense but not as intense as that.”

The two of them look up, “I think they lied about how big it was.”

“Oh, shit,” Robin exclaims, the three of you paralyzed in terror.

Next to you, you hear a car horn, “Get in!” Nancy yells at the three of you.

All three of you get in the trunk as fast as possible, “Go, go, go, go!” Lucas yells at you.

As soon as you are in, Steve yells, “Go!”

The car drives off before you can even shut the door, just in time as the monster places one of several feet where the TODFTHER is sitting. You swear you see a single tear come out of Steve's eye.

Taking in all of the people sitting in the car you see a familiar head of hair, much like your own, “Tee,” you say and she turns, her face covered in dirt, “I’m so happy you are okay.”

“Do you think mom and dad are gonna be pissed?” she asks.

“About what?” you ask confused.

“Missing Fourth of July?” she says, “You know how dads cousin was gonna come over…”

“Oh, shit,” you exclaim, “To be honest I completely forgot.”

Tee lets out a laugh and it makes you start to giggle. Soon enough both of you are hysterically laughing, not because it was particularly funny, but because you both can’t believe what you have lived through.

“Who was that anyway?” you ask.

Steve cringes, “That was Billy, Max’s brother.”

“What was with the face?” you ask him.

He doesn’t answer so Lucas does for him, “He beat the shit out of him last year.”

“Damn, really?” you ask Steve and you get a simple nod, “Well shit, you just hit him with a car, so I think you got payback.”

Steve cracks a smile and then says, “Yeah, I guess that's true and I beat up that Russian earlier. Man, Steve is really coming out on top.”

“Steve, what did I say about referring to yourself in third person?” Robin asks.

“Not to do it anymore,” he says under his breath.

Suddenly you hear an unfamiliar voice come through the radio, “Dusty-bun, you copy?”

“I copy, Suzie-poo,” you hear Dustin say through the radio, “It sounds much better now, thanks.”

“Awe, it's his girlfriend,” you say.

“Suzie,” Robin and Steve say at the same time.

“Do you know Plank’s constant?” Dustin asks.

“Do you know the Earth orbits the sun?” she responds.

Dustin comes through again, “Okay, so I know it starts with two sixes, and then a-,” Dustin stops, “W-what is it?”

“Okay, let me just be clear on this,” Suzie says, “I haven't heard from you in a week, and now you want a mathematical equation that you should know so you can… save the world?”

Through the static comes, “Suzie-poo, I promise, I will make it up to you as soon as possible.”

“You can make it up to me now,” she responds.

“Not right now,” Dustin tells her voice coming over the radio.

“Yes, now, Dusty-bun,” she insists.

“What is going on right now?” you ask Steve.

“Yeah, I have no idea,” he tells you.

Everyone in the car has the same confused expressions on their faces, “Suzie-poo, this is urgent.”

A click and then, “Yes, yes, you're saving the world, I heard you the first time,” Suzie tells him, “but Ged is also saving Earthsea and he’s about to confront the shadow, so this is Suzie, signing off.”

“Oh he whiffed it,” you cringe, some of the others nod their heads in agreement.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Dustin shouts, “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

Nothing else comes through for a moment, “I’m like, really confused right now,” you tell Robin, whose focus is only on the giant monster chasing the car.

“Uh huh,” Robin responds without taking eyes off of the monster, who is knocking over trees as it stomps angrily down the back road.

What happens next you can only describe as, well, a fever dream, “turn around,” someone sings and it takes you a moment but it’s definitely Dustin, “look at what you seeeeeee, in her face. The mirror of your dreeeams.”

Everyone in the backseat turns to listen to the radio, expressions laced with amusement and some bafflement. You, Steve, and Robin all look at each other and then back at the radio.

“make believe I’m everywhere,” Suzie joins in with Dustin as they both sing, “given in the light, written of the pages is the answer to a never-ending story, ahahahaha!”

“I truly didn’t expect the day to end like this,” you tell them.

“You know,” Steve says flatly, “Neither did I.”

“reach the stars,” they continue, “fly a fantasyyyyyy, dream a dream, and what you see will beeeeeee. rhymes that keep their secrets will unfold behind the clouds and there upon a rainbow is the answer to a never-ending storyyy, ahahahaha. storyyy, ahahahaha.”

The singing stops for a moment, “Planck’s constant is 6.62607004,” you hear Suzie over the radio.

“You just saved the world,” Dustin tells her and although you can’t see him you know he has the biggest smile on his face.

“Gosh, I miss you, Dusty-bun,” she says.

“And I miss you more, Suzie-poo,” you hear Dustin say.

“I miss you more, multiplied by all the stars in our galaxy,” Suzie says back.

“No, I miss you-” Dustin is suddenly cut off.

No one says anything so you do, “That was weird, right?”

Still no answer is given when Steve says, “It’s turning around.”

“What?” Nancy asks and turns around in the passenger seat.

“It’s turning around!” Steve yells.

“Maybe we wore it out,” Lucas suggests.

“I don’t think so,” Jonathan says, “Hold on!”

He suddenly turns the wheels making a u-turn and going back towards the mall and for the third time today, you go back to the mall.

All eight of you are not far behind the monster who stomps back down the road it went down previously. It knocks down more trees as it moves.

“So what exactly is our plan here?” you ask, “Because I’m down to fight a giant monster, but with what?”

 Lucas looks back at you, “Look in the boxes.”

You open one of the cardboard boxes that were pushed to the side, “Jesus, where did you get all this?”

“Oh, you know, the grocery store,” Will tells you.

“What?!” you ask concerned, “They just have these out?”

“Well, if they didn’t we would be screwed,” Steve tells you.

“Yeah, I guess,” you tell him, completely unsure.

On the car ride your heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of your chest, watching the creature move closer and closer to the mall. As you pull into the parking lot you watch as it scales up the mall to the roof. Jonathan drives the car as close as he can get and all of you move to get out of the car.

You grab the boxes and move them to the front of the trunk where everyone can reach. Everyone grabs a box as well as a kitchen lighter and rush into the building. You grab your box, running into the building you see everyone running up the escalators as quietly as possible.

Everyone splits off into groups, you and Tee, Steve and Robin, Will and Lucas, and finally Nancy and Jonathan. All of you position yourselves as evenly as possible around the second story walkway and start to take in what is going on. On ground level you see the giant monster (not that it would be hard to miss), Billy (who looks entirely fucked up), and El (lying on the ground at Billy’s feet).

The monster leans down closer to El who looks absolutely terrified. As it gets closer it opens its mouth and lets out a horrible noise before extending something out of its throat, almost like a xenomorph.

Lucas lands his shot before it is able to reach El, “Flay this, you ugly piece of shit!”

He then throws another in its mouth, “Tee, light one up,” you tell your sister, placing down the box of fireworks at your feet.

She hands you a lit firework and you waste no time throwing it at the monster, it spins through the air landing at the same time as Lucas’ next throw. Both fireworks land on either side of the monster, yours hitting it in one of its legs and Lucas nails it in the back.

After that everyone is throwing fireworks back to back, nearly all of them landing on the target. All of you continue your attack for a while until you hear Tee say, “We’re all out!”

“Okay,” you tell her, “I uh, shit, I have no idea what to do.”

While there is still fireworks going, you see that Steve and Robin have also run out, “Come on,” you tell Tee and grab her hand running down the mezzanine.

“Where are we going?” she yells, trying to keep up with you.

“Oh, we ain’t getting separated from them,” you tell her as you continue to run, “Haven’t you seen any horror movies?”

“This is real life,” she pants out.

When you get to Robin and Steve both of them watch as you approach, “You guys run out too?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Tee tells him in between deep breaths.

“How is everyone else doing?” you ask.

“Probably running low too,” Robin says and not a moment later the last firework fizzles out. You wait a moment but another explosion doesn’t follow instead a roar. The monster still isn’t even hurt.

“Oh god,” you say and run over to the barrier, “What are we gonna do?”

You watch as the monster, who doesn’t even look damaged, gets closer to El yet again, who is still on the floor. Billy faces the monster and you all watch as the monster sticks out its tentacle thing again from its mouth. It rears back and shoots at El, Billy throws up both of his arms holding it back.

“No!” you hear him yell as he tries to stand his ground, pushing back against its force. He slides back as it tries to get to El, while he is able to keep the main tentacle away, more grow out of its sides. You watch as they stab into Billy, staining his white tank a dark red.

Billy screams out in pain as they breach his skin but he still stands, until they all descend on him. His screams echo through the mall as more pierce into him. Around the monster flames billow higher catching more on fire and producing more and more smoke.

“Close it now!” you hear Dustin scream from the radio Steve is holding, “Close it now!”

The monster takes its main tongue and stabs Billy in the center of his chest. All of the tentacles retract leaving Billy without support. As his body is dropped Max yells out for her brother, “Billy!”

Not a moment later the monster lets out a horrible screech as if it was in anguish and it stumbles away from El and Billys body. It smashes into the sides of the mezzanine coming right at the four of you making you all throw yourselves back from the impact.

You land on your ass of course and Tee lands into you, knocking all of the wind out of your lungs. All of you stumble back over to the railing to see the monster laying on the tiled floor, dead.

You wait for a moment to be sure.

“Did they do it?” you ask.

“I think so,” Steve tells you.

“We need to get out of here,” Robin says looking at the growing flames starting to overtake the monster's body.

As the four of you make your way to the mall entrance people bust through the doors all of them armed with guns. Quite obviously the military or government all of them run past you, much to your relief, and you continue outside where ambulances, fire trucks, and helicopters are all parked/landed. As soon as you all exit the building a paramedic runs over to the four of you.

“Are any of you hurt or injured?” she asks, holding up a flashlight examining each of you visually.

“His face is hurt real bad,” Robin tells her, pointing at Steve.

“What happened?” she asks, stepping towards Steve.

“I uh, tripped,” Steve offers, not very convincingly.

“Yeah, okay,” she tells him, “All of you follow me.”

The four of you follow her to an ambulance as firefighters run by carrying hoses into the building. She makes Steve sit down inside her ambulance while she examines him and Tee sits on the step into the ambulance. You and Robin stand, waiting for Steve. Everyone slowly filters out of the mall joining you in getting examined by paramedics, except the adults.

“Okay, it mostly looks superficial,” she tells him, “Put some ice on it for bruising and you should be all good.”

“Thanks,” he tells her and she climbs out the side of the ambulance.

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” you say watching your place of employment burn up in front of you.

“Yeah,” Tee agrees.

All of you stand and watch as the once brightly colored mall is now burned, not just by the fire but with the memories of what took place deep underneath it.

Soon enough you see more soldiers march out Joyce and Murray, with a noticeable lack of Hopper. Will sees his mom and immediately runs to her, clutching on to each other in a tight grip. El stands up trying to find her father in the sea of people, but you can see when it hits her, the absence. That he is gone.

Epilogue

[ltbarnes]

Resurrection Chapter 5

Summary: Bucky Barnes was only nineteen when the lives of his parents and little sister were taken right in front of him by the ruthless members of the Odinson mob. His father’s mistakes have turned Bucky into a vengeful and cold shell of the charming boy he once was, now deeply rooted in the criminal lifestyle of the Stark mafia. Sudden attacks ignite the conflict between the two forces of the city, refueling the rivalry that has been rather tame for years. Nine years since Bucky’s life fell apart, he finds it shattering once more when what was supposed to be long dead returns to the living.

Pairing: brother!mafia!Bucky Barnes x adopted!sister!reader, mafia!Thor Odinson x reader, mafia!Loki Odinson x reader, eventual Steve Rogers x reader

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: irritated men in traffic, Bucky is absolutely devastated, guns, people being shot, violence

A/N: it’s been a while since I updated this lol

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

"Fuck!"

Sam slams his hand against the horn for the third time since they left the old factory. He knows it's not helping anything, because this traffic jam is not dissolving anytime soon. It's just frustration being let out in a way that doesn't involve hurting people.

Forty minutes—that's how long they've been crawling forward in the midst of hundreds of cars driving. Both his and T'Challa's phones are dead and they are four hours away from where they want to be.

"The clouds are dark. It will be storming soon," T'Challa speaks up, elbow leaning against the window and his chin leaning against his palm.

"No shit, Sherlock. They've been warning about this fucking storm for a week."

"No need for that kind of language, Wilson. We are both frustrated, I am aware," he answers. "I also know that we have to let the others know about what we heard."

"Bucky and Stark are probably on their way to murder all of 'em already. But I can't say I blame them."

"It would be a waste of life. The Odinsons weren't the one to sabotage for us. And if I might say—Thor and Loki are both respectful towards the young girl. Treat her like a sister."

"Yeah, and we didn't blow up a goddamn garage either. Someone is setting both of us up."

Large raindrops begin to splatter down onto the windshield, slowly, until they fall so rapidly nothing can be seen through it. Sam sighs in defeat, slumping in his seat. They're not getting anywhere soon, and bad things are going to happen because of it.

It's crucial that they know about the Odinsons and their innocence, at least in this case. No one is denying that they are morally disturbed people and that they have sabotaged millions of dollars worth of property for the Starks, but this warehouse wasn't blown up by them. And the Starks had nothing to do with their destroyed garage.

Someone is trying to cause conflict between the two clans, start the war that has been brewing for a long time. But quite frankly, Stark has made it perfectly clear that he has no interest in a thing like that. But ultimately, soon it might get to a point where it's inevitable. This information could prevent a hell of a lot of people dying in unnecessary battle.

"Do you think it's those guys—what was their name again? The ones who had Bucky?" Sam asks, resting his hand on the wheel while pressing the back of his head against the seat.

"Hydra? Well, yes, I believe so. It would be the most plausible option," T'Challa answers, eyes set on the never ending queue in front of them.

Unfortunately, they are completely jammed in. Cars surround them from all sides. Sam has a thought or two of ripping someone's car door open and stealing their phone so he can call someone back home. T'Challa would have him face down on the wet asphalt before he could do anything like it, though.

He thinks about Bucky. That goddamn misery on his face, the excruciating realization that someone he thought was dead for a decade has suddenly turned up as if she was never gone. Even through all of the shit they give each other, Bucky is his friend. Shit like this—it's a pain he could never even imagine. If Sam's big sister was shot right in front of him and held captive for this many years, he would burn down the entire world to get her back. He understand that more than anyone.

And god, he barely wants to think about what you could have been put through during all of these years. These big men getting their hands on a little girl associated with the enemy. It's nauseating. But you looked comfortable—joked with these men as if they were your siblings.

Deep down, Sam has a feeling that they actually took care of you, kept you away from harm and shown you the kindness that a young girl deserves. You looked safe from harm and healthy, comfortable enough to talk about personal issues with three grown men. But despite if this is the true version, it could never justify shooting and kidnapping a goddamn child. Their bullets tore through your mother, their hands put your father's body in the river. Their men made you almost bleed out right in front of your brother. That kind of shit isn't just forgiven, even in the world Sam lives in. Especially not in the world Sam lives in.

Yeah, Sam is fucking pissed off on that entire system of assholes both for his own and Bucky's sake. But they sure didn't blow up that Stark warehouse. If he's right, both the Odinsons and the Starks have a much larger enemy to defeat than each other. Hydra is back, and they might be more dangerous than they previously thought.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

It's chaos at the compound.

Bucky and Natasha arrived to the news of Rhodes being shot while out taking a fucking walk. They came with the gift of his little sister being alive and captured by the Odinsons. Daring to say that the two of them didn't really hear anything because Bucky had a panic attack before they found anything out is not in his blood. Instead, the excuse of these news being urgent is explanation enough for Stark. Besides, Sam and T'Challa will be here soon.

These feelings are dangerous, he knows. The ones where he can barely see anything through the blind rage. His limbs are restless, longing for a windpipe to crush underneath the strength of his hand. He always does something reckless to jeapordize the mission whenever he feels like this.

He's still standing in the lobby, watching all the people run back and forth, up and down the stairs. Shoulders bump into his side, sending him stumbling while blinking furiously. What was he supposed to do now again?

The rage quickly manifests into tears. Slipping down slowly on his cheeks, falling to the shiny floor with a quiet drop. Bucky is overwhelmed by it all and doesn't know what to do except stand there surrounded by the people who can take action in a time of distress.

"Hey, come with me," a soft voice whispers with a hand to his shoulder. He doesn't even flinch, bring out the aversion to touch his body so naturally has developed through the years.

Thinking too much about wether or not to follow the orders is beyond him, and he follows along with the gentle guidance of Natasha until the large lobby becomes a smaller kitchen. Away from the bustling and running, the people.

A chair is pulled out, placed underneath Bucky with her hand pushing him down to a seat. It's ridiculously rare that Natasha shows this level of care and attention with him. They have a relationship of pushing each other into walls while walking and shutting the fuck up unless they have something important to say. Part of why he likes her—she doesn't expect anything from him.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, you know? You are allowed to cry. You're allowed to be angry and want to cut them up to fucking pieces for what they have done to you," she says, standing in front of him with a hand on his shoulder, looking up through her lashes. "We will get revenge. But you have to get yourself together first. We'll go tonight so you'll have a few hours to sort through things."

"Y/n is..." Bucky's gaze is unfocused, blue eyes clouded by confusion and unshed tears. "My sister—"

"Y/n is fine right now. We will get her back. I swear to you on Yelena's fucking vest that I will do everything in my power to get that girl back to you safe."

Bucky blinks away the haze until his lips manage to quirk up just slightly. He knows how serious it is when Yelena's vest comes into question. Nat's sister would throw herself into fire if it meant getting her vest back unscathed.

"I just—I think I need to be alone," he whispers, swallowing the onslaught of tears wanting to claw their way out of him.

"Yeah, okay. Of course. I'll talk to the guys and fill them in, get a few of them ready to come with us. Need to track the bastards down too."

Bucky nods, wiping underneath his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. He hasn't even thought of the fact that they don't know where you and the Odinsons are.

Natasha leaves the room after a single pat to his shoulder. One that's rid of sentimentality but shows she cares nonetheless. Bucky is glad that he at least have someone to be rational for him in these moments, because he's entirely and completely lost.

He doesn't really know how to feel. About four hours have passed since he saw your face again. It's a constant battle of anger and resentment against elation, interrupted by these horrible waves of simple sadness. He's just sad.

Bucky missed so many years of your life because of those people. He could have taken care of you—bought the two of you a small house somewhere outside of the city and maybe get a dog for you to play with. Take you to dance recitals and help you with math tests and yell at you for sneaking out to be with your friends. Things a big brother to someone with no parents left should do for his little sister. Instead he has wasted five years being reckless in the military and one year in captivity, just to spend another three years being reckless in a fucking mob. Countless people have died under his hand, triple the amount tortured and threatened. You would be so disappointed to know what he has been up to—your Jamie (he always acted like he hated that nickname) that you looked up to so much has gone ahead and ruined his own fucking life.

And his mom—he prays that there isn't a heaven where she's looking down at him if only it could save her from knowing what he's done. Her little baby girl shot, kidnapped and held captive for almost half of her life. Her only son throwing away all that potential in the aftermaths of his grief. When it comes to what his father thinks of him, he's never cared particularly much. Bucky knew George was a scumbag since he was a little boy and were much happier whenever his dad wasn't around. He made it his mission to protect you and his ma from the unsteady temper of Mr. Barnes already as a twelve-year old.

But would he care? George was never happy about his wife's wish for another child, prolonged for so many years that she grew too old for another one biologically. After a year of persuasion he caved in and let his wife take in a parent-less baby that desperately needed someone to take care of her. It wasn't enough that George didn't want another kid to begin with—he loathed the idea of a daughter.

His aversion towards you was clear from the beginning, but Bucky still wonders if he would have cared that you've been kidnapped for so long by the enemy if he was still alive. Maybe to keep up appearances, he would grieve publicly. But any effort to retrieve you behind the scenes would be half-assed at most. He was a coward, and daring to cross the Odinsons would be too much for him. Bucky doesn't know all this for sure, but it makes him hate his dead father even more. He hopes you didn't feel the absence of his father's love, that the affection he and your mother showed was enough to make up for it.

The kitchen chair he sits on is uncomfortable. Expensive designer furniture or not, Tony has a horrible knack for choosing style over comfort. It makes Bucky mad. And then it reminds him that some people like the uncomfortable. Steve, for example. That punk has been throwing himself at fists and boots to the stomach ever since he was a kid. But Steve is his best friend and god, he should really call him. Steve should know about you. He has been Bucky's rock through all of it—he was there when it happened, for god's sake.

Yes, Steve has a right to know about your being alive and all that. But that does not make Bucky pick up the phone and call the guy. Speaking it out loud like this, to someone on the outside of it all, feels too real. It solidifies the fact that he has failed you spectacularly for nearly a decade and Steve is going to know that. He might not ever say it, but he is going to be disappointed and angry with Bucky for never trying harder to find your body.

So no, today might not be the right time. He is going to get you back tonight, settle himself down into the reality of your return and then he will tell Steve. No excuses.

Almost an hour passes by before someone else enters the kitchen to the sight of him having his head leaning against the palms of his hands, elbows planted on the marble kitchen island, staring into the intricate pattern of the stone counter. The clock strikes 16:55 as Bucky raises his gaze for just a second to check whoever's bothering his peace.

"Hi, uh, hello—Bucky. Mr. Barnes," Peter stutters as he moves slowly towards the refrigerator.

Parker is a relatively new recruit. Mostly assists Stark with a bunch of bullshit tasks, but that's how you prove yourself loyal. And despite the impossibility of it, the boss seems to have a soft spot for this kid. He's what? 20, 21? It's the youngest they have in the immediate circle.

"I heard about your sister. I'm sorry about that. Hope—I really hope you get her back. Safe," he continues, eyes everywhere but on the stone-faced Bucky. "Actually, Mr. Stark said I might get to drive everyone to the restaurant. Be the getaway driver, you know?"

"Restaurant?"

Bucky perks up from his slumped figure, now entirely focused on the flushed kid with his hand around the fridge handle. Might rip it off soon if he doesn't relax—he's much too nervous around everyone to appear tough.

"Uh, yeah—apparently they're going to be at some restaurant at like, seven. Snowflake, or Frosty or something like that. Never heard of it."

The chair scrapes against the floor as Bucky pushes away from the counter. Not a glance, a goodbye, or a thank you even, comes from his mouth before he barges out of the kitchen.

He bumps into Pietro on his way up the stairs, a mumbled 'sorry' from his lips as the silver-haired man follows his hasty figure with a curious stare. The news have spread around the house by now, but Natasha threatened everyone with a good beating if they bothered Bucky. Those instructions did not reach Peter.

The Bifrost. Surely that must've been the restaurant the kid was talking about. A popular one, but if people in this city knew who it actually belonged to their costumers would scatter. Now that he knows where you're going to be he has a hard time restraining himself from jumping into the car and driving away with only a handgun and two knives to accompany him. But he knows Natasha was right.

Voices and laughter sound from the medical room down the hall. Rhodey seems to have drawn half of the people in this house to him, seeing as some even stand in the hallway due to lack of space. Surely he can't already be awake.

It grows quiet as Bucky pushes himself forward, earning an offended scoff from Yelena as she trips over her own feet. Bucky steadies her with his arm without even sparing her a glance.

To his surprise, Rhodes lies awake, though groggy, hooked up to a heart monitor and IV. He looks fucking exhausted, but there's still a smile to his face.

"You doing alright?" Bucky mumbles, casting a stoic glance around the people surrounding him. It's clear he's the elephant in the room, despite the half-dead man at the center of it.

"Never better," Rhodey answers with a thumb's up. Looped up, that's for sure.

Bucky gives a single nod in answer, crossing his arms over his chest. He may act all unbothered, stoic even, but he's glad Rhodes is okay. He's been a good man to him so far, smart, rational. They need him on this team, mostly to keep Tony grounded.

"Good. Good," he whispers before gulping, glancing down to the floor.

He can almost feel the sympathetic looks everyone gives him. Bucky hates it, but somewhere he knows it's because they care.

"Right. We should get back to business," Nat says, nodding towards the door. "Need to know which ones are coming with tonight. Thinking we'll go through it now."

Several people shuffle out of the sterile room into the dark hallway, leaving Tony, Pepper and Happy left with Rhodes. The latter probably won't notice the sudden clearing of space with how much morphine he's on.

Red hair leads the way towards a meeting room on the other side of the upper level. An oversized table stretches out from wall to wall lined with bookshelves of unread books, surrounded by thirty ridiculously expensive oak chairs. Tony made it a point to explain how much he sacrifices for everyone's best, when everyone knows he just likes to splurge.

Bucky nearly, almost, feels emotional when he sees how many sit themselves down to help him rescue his sister. A person they don't even know, simply because of how much you mean to him.

Yelena, Nat, Pietro, Wanda, Coulson, Shuri, Vision, Marc, Maria, Brock. All these people care enough about Bucky to care about you. He knows Sam and T'Challa would be here too if they weren't so goddamn slow. Bird-brain probably stopped for some fucking iced coffee and got stuck in a Target. Apparently haven't answered any of Nat's texts or calls either. Better be goddamn alive.

Okoye and Carol are out trying to figure out who the hell shot one of their own. Bucky feels bad that he's taking away manpower from that, even though he simultaneously wants to gather every damn person in the world willing to fight for his sister. This is the most important thing for Bucky, ever.

"So, Bifrost, huh? Gonna be easy to get in. Never have much security," Shuri says as soon as everyone's seated.

"We don't know that. My source tells me the whole inner circle's going tonight," Nat answers. "We have to gear up either way. Be prepared."

Bucky soon zones out, only listening when any mention of an actual plan comes up. The image of your arms wrapped around yourself, tears wetting your cheeks, displays at the forefront of his mind in a constant loop. That you might've had that expression every day destroys him. This life that he leads—if he knew you were alive he would have kept you as far away from it as possible. It's not something you should grow up with. He and his ma shielded you from a lot when you were a child, to the point where you didn't even have a clue about what your father did.

All of that effort seems pretty pointless now, when you've grown up in an environment even worse. Hell, Bucky can't offer you much better. But at least you will be loved. Protected. God, Bucky would spend the rest of his life by your side if you needed him to. Maybe he could convince Tony to get you into some prestigeful university so you could get a good education and make something of yourself. Take you and Steve to Coney Island on the weekends.

"Yes, yes. Natasha, you have gone over this three times. We understand," Shuri says, interrupting his deep train of thought with her irritated exclamation. She hasn't really inherited the near royal politeness her brother possesses. "Now, where the hell is my brother? Four hours late."

"That голубь probably crashed the car, I swear," Yelena says, an amused grin playing on her lips.

"It's a rainstorm outside and 5 pm traffic. They're probably just stuck. Phone battery dead," Nat says. "They'll be back soon."

"I suppose we are to get ready soon if we are leaving in twenty minutes." Vision leans forward in his seat, searching for Nat's eye contact. She answers with a nod, pushing her chair out from the table.

"Coulson and Hill, you go fetch the kid and make him warm up the cars. Visit the arsenal while you're at it, too."

"Yes, ma'am," Coulson says with that familiar content smile on his lips.

People start to trickle out, cleaning their knives and stretching their limbs in preparation. Things could be easier than expected or end up in straight war, but they throw themselves at the opportunity anyway. This is family, by now.

"I'll go with Hill and Coulson," Brock speaks up for the first time during the meeting with a few fingers raised nonchalantly, as if he's asking a question in the classroom.

Bucky has to resist from rolling his eyes. He's never really gone along well with Rumlow. Sure, everyone in this damn mansion has a predisposition for violence but that man just thrives in it. Always smiles a little too much while plunging a knife into someone's neck. Narcissistic bastard, as well. Of course he wants to handle the weapons. Probably just coming along for the opportunity to shoot an Odinson in the head.

"Why are you telling me?" Nat answers with a glare. "Just go."

When it's just him and her left in the room, a quietness falls over the space that is suffocating him. He's anxious beyond compare. What if they don't succeed? If you're left there while your only potential rescuers get shot to death or captured themselves? Things can't go wrong tonight.

"You gonna be okay?" Nat asks from where she's sitting on the other side of the table. "If you think it's too much, we can do it without y—"

"No. Not a chance in hell," he seethes. "I'm going to get my sister back."

"Well, okay then. Let's go."

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

It's 7:30 PM when three sleek, black cars pull up outside of the coveted, Odinson-owned restaurant. The windscreens are dark enough for the security guards standing in the entrance to not see through. When they do see, it's too late to send warnings inside to their bosses.

Bloody knuckles and knocked out men instead lie just outside of the lavish doors, courtesy of one Brock Rumlow with the assistance of Marc Spector. Yelena whines about them not leaving anyone left for her. Natasha scolds her for the lack of patience. Bucky just stares through the darkened glass doors while bringing out his gun.

These are the last moments of his life where he can still wonder about what having you in his life again will be. In an hour he will either be dead or you will sit next to him in a car. You might not recognize him, might be scared, might hate him for leaving you here all these years. But goddamn it, if he isn't going to give it his all to get the both of you out of this restaurant alive.

A firm hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing in silent affirmation. Bucky's act of indifference is fooling no one. Not even the kid who drove the car all the way here.

"It'll be alright," Vision says.

And Bucky nods, because even if his fear tells him otherwise he knows you will no longer be stuck. In his very bones.

Maria pushes forward after Pietro gives her the okay—he's surveyed the perimeters. Everyone is gathered inside. She turns her head over her shoulder, hands grasped around her gun. The sound of weapons being loaded reminds Bucky of a falling domino.

"Alright, guys. Enter in three, two, one..."

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER 6

[azriona]

Hello hello -- fascinated by your saying you read Hawkeye Pierce as more asexual when u watched MASH. I do the same, but haven't seen that one much in the wild (so far). Was wondering if you'd be interested in saying more words about where that read comes from for you personally? - variousqueerthings (sent this on anon, because I use my sideblog more)

Hello hello! I love wild asks, thank you. This and getting to go to the farmer's market are my favorite parts of today so far. I'd link back to the original but I'm not sure I can find it!

Okay, so something to keep in mind is that when I said I read him as more asexual, I meant more along the lines of when I was watching him as a kid and then a teenager growing up. I haven’t seen MASH in the wild in years, so no idea if I’d read him differently now. (Probably worth mentioning, I’m a straight CIS female who was a kid in the 1980s, and I only ever saw MASH in reruns.)

I definitely didn’t know the term asexual then, but if I had, I would have guessed that Hawkeye Pierce was ace. I don’t remember him having any kind of outright romantic relationship with anyone in the 4077 or anywhere else. It was like he was… beyond all that? An objective observer of everyone else’s romantic entanglements? He absolutely cared about people, that was evident in nearly everything he did – he and Houlihan became good friends/allies after Frank Burns’ departure, if I remember correctly, and I always enjoyed their interactions – but it was never sexualized.

Pierce made jokes about romance and pregnancy and all that, sure – but I read them as him playing the comedian, getting everyone to smile or laugh in the face of the absolute horror of war. He wasn’t serious about getting pregnant himself or wanting a relationship with Trapper or BJ. He loved both of them, sure – but as best friends forged in war. No more.

I couldn't see him ever getting married and having kids after the war. It just didn't jive with the guy I saw on the screen. He'd be the guy who kept the 4077 together after they all went home; he'd be the one to show up to every party and graduation wedding and bris and baptism. He'd be the one giving the eulogy at their funerals. But his own wife and kids? Nope. Couldn't see that then, can't see that now. (And as I write this, I wonder if this isn't maybe more aromantic than asexual, which is more about me getting my terms right than him, and if so, I apologize, I'll work on that.)

(And if you plan to argue, “BUT IN THIS EPISODE…” Yeah, sure, I’m not claiming to remember every episode, just that largely, I saw him as ace in the episodes I saw. I’m undoubtedly forgetting a few; my kids routinely make fun of my terrible memory.)

Maybe I’d read that differently now, in 2024 with an extra thirty/forty years under my belt. Heck, I’m not all that sure I was even aware back then that two guys could be romantic with each other. (1980s Arizona, right on the Mexican border? Puh-leeze. I have no doubt they were so far in the closet they were in Narnia. I hope it’s better now.)

Naïve reading, from a naïve kid? Probably. Do I care if anyone reads him differently? Hells to the no, I think all those let’s-knock-up-Hawkeye posts are hysterical and I love and appreciate them. (Death of the Author for the win, always.)

The only interpretation of Hawkeye Pierce I’m gonna argue against is that he’s a macho war-mongering all-American manly man who exudes American masculinity and runs around waving the red white and blue in people’s faces. Total gross misinterpretation of everything MASH has always been about.

[hollyannewrites]

Ditches

This is the beginning of a series I want to work on. Two guys, Benny and Liam, are figuring out friendship, relationships, and how to have a half-decent life. I'm going to do polls at the end of each chapter, so please vote and let me know where you think it should go next!

Benny’s phone rang once, twice, three times before he heard, and one more time before he dug it out of his pocket and answered. At this point in the night, there was not a single person in his life who should be awake, never mind calling him on the phone. The number that came up wasn’t in his phone.

“Hey Benny, it’s Liam,” came a hesitant voice, with a soft pattering sound like rain just behind it.

“Liam, hey. Did you need something?” Benny hadn’t actually spoken to Liam in a few weeks, mostly because he’d been pretty, and only a little because the last time they hung out had ended very awkwardly.

“Um…” his friend trailed off for a few seconds. “I could really use your help?” Liam spoke each word slowly and quietly.

Benny frowned. It was nearly 2 in the morning, and he was planning on going to bed in just a few minutes.

“Can it wait till morning?” He didn’t think he’d snapped, but the handful of silent seconds on the line were tense.

“I mean, not really? But it’s fine, it’s whatever, I can ask someone else,” Liam blurted.

“No, no, don’t call anyone else at this hour, Liam. What do you want?” he sighed.

“Would it be possible for you to—fuck hold on, gotta add a quarter.” There was a jingling and clinking sound, then he continued. “Would you be willing to pick me up from somewhere? I’m a little stuck out here.”

“Out where?”

“Uh, near a place called Paul’s Gasoline?”

“Where’s that?”

“Wish I knew, honestly.”

“Where’s your car?” Benny frowned into the phone.

“Wherever Kaya drove it, I guess,” Liam’s tone was acrid.

“And why can’t Kaya pick you up?”

“Well seeing as how she’s the one who left me here, I don’t think she’d be super willing to turn around and come back.”

“Wait, Kaya left you at a gas station in the middle of the night?”

“Nope.” He exhaled roughly. “She forced me out of the car on the side of the road like half a mile away and I walked to the gas station, which was the only thing out here that’s open. Well, was open. He just closed up.”

“Why would she—”

“Listen, Benny, I’m happy to explain, but I also only have one more quarter for this stupid pay phone, so can you help me out or not? I need to know if I should call someone else.”

Benny sighed, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, I’ll come and get you. I have to look the place up, is there anything else around to map to?”

“There’s a Kroger down the road a bit?”

“Great. Paul’s Gasoline near a Kroger. Sure. See you soon, I guess.” Benny ended the call before Liam could say anything else.

He quickly stepped into his boots, shrugged on a rain jacket, and pocketed his keys. His car was parked a little ways down the block, and his hair was dripping onto his forehead by the time he slid into the driver’s seat.

Google Maps told him that while there were four different gas stations called Paul’s Gasoline, only one was anywhere near a Kroger, and that one was nearly forty minutes away. He swore, then turned the keys. Only Liam would get stuck forty minutes outside of town in the middle of the night and then call him for help.

Part of him felt bad for Liam—it sounded, from his brief description of events, like he was having a rough night. The rest of him, though, was still not quite over what Liam had said to him last time they talked and didn’t really want to see him at the moment.

The drive was mostly dark, country roads, and he didn’t enjoy the stillness of it all, so he connected his aux cord and started playing some Fall Out Boy at top volume. The thrumming bass of the music drowned out any chance at having thoughts, so the long trip didn’t feel all that lengthy.

Pulling up to Paul’s Gasoline, he turned the keys in the ignition. He hopped out of the car into the torrential downpour.

“Liam? You getting in the car?”

From across the street, he caught a flash of movement, and turning to look, saw his friend shuffling over towards him. As he got close enough to be seen in the gleam of the headlights, Benny furrowed his brows.

Liam looked like shit. He was soaked through, dark curls plastered to his forehead, and his shirt and shorts clung to his skin as if he’d just gone swimming fully clothed. Skids of mud streaked his legs and arms, and a twig with leaves was nestled in his hair. Also, importantly, his eyes were rimmed with red—he’d been crying. Heavily.

“You look great,” Benny joked.

Liam just shrugged and shivered against the frigid rain.

“Why are you covered in mud?” he gestured at the mess.

“Walked around a little to warm up and fell into a ditch,” Liam mumbled, rubbing his arm awkwardly. “Do you want me to try to wipe it off before I get in?”

He considered the offer—after all, he didn’t want to have to get his car cleaned—but ultimately, he just wanted to go home as fast as possible.

“Just get in.”

Liam stumbled over to the passenger side and slid in, while Benny got the car started up. There was silence for a minute while he typed Liam’s address into Maps, and when he looked over, his friend was staring out the window, hugging his elbows and trembling.

He reached down and cranked the heat all the way up. They both needed it, he figured. Wet clothes and all.

“So Kaya made you get out of your own car?” Benny questioned as he pulled out of the gas station parking lot.

“Yeah.” The answer was short and clipped.

“How’d she pull that off?”

“She said to pull over and get out or she’d wrench the wheel and drive us into a tree,” Liam answered flatly.

Benny waited for him to laugh, to say he was joking, but he said nothing further.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah.” Again, short and stiff.

“Why the hell would she do that?” Benny couldn’t imagine the energetic girl acting like that, not with her perky ponytail and the rhinestones on her fingernails. Kaya was emotional, sure, but not angry or vicious.

“I broke up with her.”

Benny jerked the wheel at that, before quickly correcting. He snuck a peak at Liam, who had both hands clenched around the seatbelt, knuckles white. His eyes were closed tightly.

“You ended things with her? I thought you two were talking about marriage?” The pair had been dating for a few years, and both had separately mentioned engagement at least a couple of times in the past months. They made a nice sight together, too. She was short, olive-toned, with pin-straight black hair and bright hazel eyes. He towered over her, all curls and dimples and soft body ideal for hugging.

A sardonic laugh from Liam. “We did talk about it. And then we didn’t.” When Benny didn’t jump in to fill the silence, he continued. “She was sleeping with Craig from down the hall. For almost a year now. He left his tie clip in our bathroom, a specially engraved one. I confronted her about it in the car and she said it was just for fun. It didn’t mean anything. Didn’t really change my feelings about it, so I told her I wanted to end things. And you can see exactly where that got me,” he sighed.

“Sorry to hear that,” he replied. And he was sorry, genuinely. Liam and Kaya had seemed happy to him. It wasn’t pleasant to think that a lot of that was a lie.

“It’s fine.” Liam shrugged. He was still staring out the window as the dark trees rolled past.

After a few minutes, Liam seemed to recognize the road they were on. “Are we headed back into town?”

“Yeah, I was taking you home. That’s where I mapped to.”

He winced. “Would it be possible to go to my parents’ instead?”

“It’s your apartment, Liam. She already forced you out of your own car, don’t make the same mistake with home.”

“I’m not. My keys are in the car, so I can’t actually get into my place.”

“You left your keys with her?”

“I left everything in the car. She was busy yelling, so I didn’t think to grab my stuff. Keys, phone, wallet—literally everything.”

“How’d you use a payphone without your wallet?”

“Begged the gas station attendant for money while he was closing. He gave me a handful of sticky quarters out of his pocket and told me to ‘git’.” He made air quotes with his fingers around the last word, tacking on a thick, rural accent to the word. “I appreciated it because it was either beg for quarters in the hopes someone would help me out or start walking and hope I hit the next town before sunrise.” Liam’s tone was light, trying to elicit a laugh, even, but the sour taste was just beneath the surface.

“Well, aren’t you lucky I picked up then?” Benny tried to joke along.

“Third time’s the charm, I guess.”

“Who else did you try to call?”

“Tried my mom and Curtis.”

“You tried to call Curtis before me?” Benny glanced at his friend, incredulous.

“Yeah. Thought he wouldn’t be super pissed about driving out here at night. He was drunk when he picked up though, so that didn’t go as planned.”

“Name a night of the week Curtis isn’t out having a few beers. He’s never a good choice to call for a pick-me-up.” Benny quipped.

“Yeah, realize that now. And Mom, for the record, was probably asleep, since she didn’t answer.”

“Well, I picked up, and I’m stupid enough to go out for a drive in this weather, so I guess it all worked out.” The car made a left onto a narrow, hilly road. “Also, if your mother’s not awake enough to answer the phone, she’s not going to hear the doorbell. You can crash at mine until the morning.”

He hadn’t meant to offer that, but the words left his mouth before he could stop himself.

[astarab1aze]

🩵 lounie tunesssss

muse relationship headcanon game

who curses more?

well, as far as i know, they both cuss a lot, but loux's gotta take the cake on this one. sometimes, every other word out of his mouth, literally, is fuck or some variation of, and he says shit like it's going out of style. like that one song by blink-182? that's ya boi, poppin' off at the mouth.

who is more patient?

i feel like.......loux....loux is more patient than loni. no no, i think about it, and how this man is willing to wait FORTY YEARS to be with her. forty years, turbo. forty. he waits. that is the longest any of my muses have ever waited for anyone or really even anything (hydre doesn't count >:/). he is a man determination, commitment, and sheer fuckin' will--

who does the driving?

loni 100%. loux can't drive and she shouldn't let him....ever.

who is louder? who is quieter?

i think they're about matched. they both can be quiet, both can be loud, and it seems to pan out at about a 50/50 imo. they just shake hands and dance to dirty r&b songs on this point, and i love that for them.

who is more physically affectionate?

this seems to be another both of them thing, but i'd still venture to say loux far surpasses her in this respect. he's always got his hands on her in some way, always kissing on her, holding her, just - touching her constantly, maybe even to the point of it being annoying. that's his wife, she can live with being wanted and desired 24/7 🙄

who is more likely to tease the other?

i think they're equally likely to tease each other, one more...flagrantly sexually than the other, but-- boffum, m8. you know as well as i do how bad they can get too uwu

who is better with time management?

both of them are good about it, empirically. loux has the benefit of fancy magical tools that can sort of bend time and space for him to get anywhere at a moment's notice, so he's maybe just faster, but i'd think it's pretty fair to say they manage their time well. i don't see either one of them being late on anything, literally ever. and in the offchance they are late to something, it's because loux got a little too handsy lbr

who wins the arm wrestling matches?

loni, hands down. not because loux lets her win, not because he's weak, because never. mans is too competitive to just let anyone do anything skjdfhs but genuinely i do think loni beats him out here, cos he's not as muscular as she is and he's a good sportsman. without all his magic, using only his physical strength - loses to his wife, who is stronger than him.

who controls the music in the car ride?

loux and loni share music, so it doesn't matter. i fully headcanon this.

who covers dinner when they order in?

loni would insist, i'm sure of it, and loux would fight her on it. he will absolutely not let her pay for dinner. he is so determined to be a provider and a protector in his own way, he just - will not. he already paid, in fact, with cash because they used his phone to order. i am telling you, turbo. they're just gonna have to fight over this until they're old godly bitties in the sky. not sorry uwu

who is more outgoing? who is more shy?

loux is the most outgoing. he's an idiot, but he's truly a social butterfly, life of the party, fratboy ringleader, class clown type of guy. loni's the shier one, of the two, for sure. i think? that sounds right to me. loux's here to do backflips and steal the show (which includes taking all the heat, too)

who has the more outlandish fashion sense?

loux. i have an entire pinterest board to prove it...! you cannot tell me loni has anything in her closet that could top loux's >:U

who starts the tickle fights? who ends them?

HMMMM loux, then loni. but then also loni, then loux.

who has the darker/more "edgy" sense of humor?

loux, hands down. i don't think i need to elaborate here ksjdfhsd but i do think he'd make a few jokes that'd piss loni off or disgust her.

who is more competitive when it comes to games?

i think it's a toss-up here, although i don't really imagine them playing video games together. maybe some ddr at the local arcade on a date or two? otherwise the 'games' they're playing are probably in the bedroom--

who has the bigger appetite? the bigger sweet tooth?

i'm...admittedly not sure. loux eats and could put away a mountain of food, but i don't think his appetite is really all there. he loves to cook though, so he ends up eating somewhat regularly anyway, but he has a generally low appetite, i think. oh but he loves sweets. loves sweets. and is more than happy to share with loni.

who is more likely to get in a confrontation in public?

i'm calling it 50/50 here because loux'll throw down with anybody over nothing and loni is a tough cookie who don' take no shit. 1+1=2 for me, mhmm.

who hosts the parties/hangouts? who organizes them?

loux doesn't party as much as anyone thinks. he just shows up, sells the goods, does a little, and nopes out. hangouts are different - he is literally up her ass right now begging for a date tomorrow lbr. loux. but also loni does too... loux is just insane about her so naturally--

who is better at cooking? do they ever cook for each other?

loni is not allowed in his kitchen except to sit there and look pretty and taste what he makes. she will find a way to burn water and mans can't have his etoufee fucked up. he loves her, of course, but girl do not even think about filling a pot with water. loux's a perfectionist, unfortunately, when it comes to food and he can be such a brat about it too.

who is more likely to engage in dangerous and/or illegal behavior?

they both are, but loux moreso, i think. i mean, he's got a rap sheet a mile long. :I from public indecency to capital murder and just about everything in between. he loves breaking the law, and killing people, and hustling, and committing fraud, tax evasion, theft, torture, more murder, arson... okay, i shouldn't say he loves it because he doesn't actually, but it is all very fun for him.

who is more likely to notice when something is wrong with the other?

thaaaat really depends. they're both very sensitive to each other in their own ways, be it emotionally or sensorily. like loux would notice right away if something physical was wrong with loni, and he's usually pretty good about the emotional stuff even if he is a little unconventional or A Lot about it. i think loni would be able to tell right away if something was wrong with loux physically, but maybe not emotionally since he locks his shit all the way down and it's usually hard to tell how he's actually feeling without him physically expressing it. um, something like that?

who does the talking in public settings (i.e. to the waiter at a restaurant)?

i feel like they'd take turns. loux getting to be a gentleman sometimes, loni getting to be the proverbial 'daddy' other times. they defend each other, they speech together, they sing together, they yell at people together, literally prove me wrONG TURBO

who is more likely to extend a helping hand & provide emotional support?

uh, emotional support? maybe loni. loux will probably default to physical stuff and small conversation before he approaches the meat. it's just how he is. this could change over time to be more even between the two, though.

who is the bigger prankster? do they get the last laugh or do they suffer for it?

loux, and he gets the last laugh. he also suffers dearly for it. marriage :sparkles: uwu

[tvchi]

“Not again,” I thought. It’s been the fourth time in five months that I have been dragged here. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that I keep getting taken or the fact that I haven't made any strides to stop this from happening. The hard, steel chair that I’ve gotten to know these past couple of months comforts me a bit. It’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed. Every time, there's a different warehouse or dungeon or storage site or whatever this is. The lights are always dimmed but they change hue. The smells are different. Sometimes it reeks of mildew and sweat. Other times, there’s a smell of must and concrete. The cadence of his strides… they haunt my dreams.

Always four evenly paced steps before a halt. It’s almost as if he’s taking me in. The way I scream, the way I sweat, the way I squirm in my chair desperately trying to break free. He studies me. Maybe that’s how he is able to take me time and time again. He knows how I squirm, how I walk, how I do my hair, when the next time I’ll need tampons. At least that’s what happened this time. I went to Kroger to get tampons, while walking back to my car everything went dark. I ended up here. When you’re scared something changes about your flow. Normally, me going this long without changing my tampon would look like a bloody massacre. Right now, I’m as dry as a bone. It’s almost like your body shocks every other part of you and reserves the most power for your brain. In theory, it should allow you to think of all the ways you can escape and to set a plan in motion.

The problem is there is not a way out. Not any way that I’ve found all the other times. I’ve only been freed because he had let me go. Once they found me in an old sewage system. Another time, I was in a forest preserve forty two miles from home. Yet another time, I was found by a janitor in the basement of a city mall that was getting renovated. This last time, I woke up chained to a different chair in the middle of the expressway facing oncoming traffic. No one knew how I got there. No one saw anything. The cameras were as useless as the people interviewed. Each time he frees me it gets more elaborate. This time, I don’t struggle or exhaust myself trying to think of an escape. No. This time, I’m starting to look for patterns and motive.

He never hurts me or yells at me, in fact, he barely even touches me. Maintaining minimal contact is a good way to avoid a scuffle and his skin getting under my nails. It’s also a good way to avoid me noticing a scent or any identifiable body markings. He scrambles his voice somehow, sounding like an eerie computer program. The heavy thud of his footsteps suggests that he wears construction or heavy hiking boots of some kind. He can’t cook worth a damn. I never look forward to his sardine surprises every day. Sometimes he mixes it with canned beans or cream corn. Needless to say, he stayed away from the beans after having to empty two buckets worth of shit that time. I didn’t feel bad or embarrassed either. Fuck ‘em. That's what you get for kidnapping a girl with a sensitive stomach. I’m not getting anywhere with this pattern thing. I also don’t personally know any creeps who would keep doing this to me. I stopped dating entirely after the first time this happened. After the second time, I was scared to leave my house, so I had a therapist and a psychoanalyst come to my house three times a week to walk me through what happened and get me acclimated to going outside again. They claimed I wasn’t a true agoraphobe, I just had severe PTSD. The third time it happened, a bunch of shitty kids heard about my story and decided to go on social media and talk about how I was probably staging my own kidnappings. The videos went viral. The police started coming by less and less and brushing off my case. I was no longer a priority but a possible psych case and they had actual bad guys to chase. I thought I was going crazy and maybe I was staging these, blacking out, and forgetting my elaborate plans for attention. Every time I would wake up to this familiar cold chair, I rubbed the spot where I scratched lines into the legs with my nail, I knew I haven't been making this up.

He walks back towards me. This time another sound accompanies him, a light yet sharp resonance. It was chow time. He set the food down somewhere in front of me and then goes to remove the blind fold. It’s dark with just a stream of light peeking through to illuminate the cold plate in front of me. The stream of light reminded me of one of those pinhole cameras we used to make in art class. As I glanced over my plate, his gaze brooding over me, I wondered how he could even see in the dark. How he could go one living in the shadows, feasting on girls shopping at Kroger, dragging his spoils back to his layer.

“Why me? Why are you always doing this to me? Have I done something to you,” I said. I tried my best to keep my voice even. This was a conversation after all, not a cry for mercy or an admonishment. He said nothing, just kept staring at me pushing my plate around.

“I just want to know why you keep taking me then letting me go. Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill me?” I ask, measuring my breaths in between words. Calm. Even. He remained silent. That was irritating to me. The least he could do was reveal a sinister plot or threaten to kill me. He never says much and he certainly never tells me whether this time would be the last time. He has all the power. All the control. I can’t even plan my prayers or meals or thoughts. I never know when I’ll go; whether this time will truly be the last time. I manage a bit of the cornbeef and swish it around in my mouth.

“You should know that I’m on my period and I need to change my feminine products. Folks dont think about that when they are kidnapping women. At least I don’t think they do. You never really see it in the movies. No action movie that I ever seen had a girl kidnapped in the thick of her menstrual cycle. You should call Paramount about that and show ‘em how it’s done. Representation and all that. Justice for the vaginas. Hashtag: me too, my period is not taboo” I rambled. I do that when I’m nervous. I do that when there’s nothing else to do. Maybe it’s because I fear silence. I wonder if the last thing I’ll hear is nothing at all. I take another teaspoon of spam and throw it into my mouth attempting to swallow it instead of chewing. I feel around for the glass of water he always puts beside the beef, being careful not to knock it over. Once I find it, I chug it down. The last bit of water I’ll have until it’s time to eat again. He takes the tray with the water and the plate of barely eaten Spam and walks out into another area of the room. I try to look around as much as I can before he places the blindfold back over my eyes. I feel around for any loose object on the ground with my feet, hoping to find something that I could use to get me out of these zipties. In a last ditch effort, I try to wiggle my way out of the ties. I gave it the good old college try for tradition sake and then gave up as his footsteps returned. I wonder if he just saw all of that. I wonder if he was looking right at me.

He stands right in front of me and stares for a moment almost as if he was deciding on something. A moment later, he lifts me up out of the chair. We are closer now. He smells of sweat, and this time, sandalwood. This was different. He usually never has any specific scent that wasn’t that of sweaty skin. Sandalwood. I can hold onto that. We walked about 20 paces and then turned a corner. Within five more paces we came to a door. He opened it and sat me on the toilet. The lights were dimmed and there were feminine products lined up in the back. In fact, I think those were the same ones I bought when I was taken. I looked back at him and he took two steps back. He left the door slightly ajar so that I would see that he was directly behind the door. He was probably watching, who knows, but I pee’d and changed. I felt clean and dry for the first time since I woke up to this darkness. I was grateful. I also thought about what I could use to get out of those zipties that he’d place me back in once he noticed I was finished. For now, I’ll just shove two tampons in my boots. I’ll figure out what to do with these later. I knocked on the door to signal that I was done. He opened the door and carried me back to the chair. He placed my hands behind my back and ziptied them behind me. He placed what appeared to be extra water by my side before walking out of the vicinity.

“Being extra nice to me, Sandalwood,” I thought. “Must be the period thing.”

You are kidnapped by the villain regularly, but you’re starting to look forward to it. You know they won’t hurt you, and are simply being dramatic. It also doesn’t help that you are the only person they ever kidnap. This time, the hero doesn’t bother trying to save you.

[rhetoricandlogic]

Set in Stone

Set in Stone

Set in Stone

Set in Stone By K.J. Parker

A sculptor struggles when he is commanded to perpetuate the lies of a deceitful and cruel king…

Illustrated by John Anthony Di Giovanni Edited by Jonathan Strahan

Published on September 4, 2024

Beauty is truth, truth beauty; that is all / Ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know. —Alyattes, Fifth Hymn to Bel-Ashur, ch4,v66

I’m good at most things, but my speciality is the death of lions. I’ve never actually seen a lion, but I can do you a perfect alpha male in full spring riddled with arrows, or rearing up on its hind legs and being stabbed, or writhing in its death throes, or flat on its back stone-dead, and you’d swear blind it was real—and that’s before the paint job. Someone else does the paint, it goes without saying. This is a highly specialised trade.

Luckily for me, there’s always a call for lions. Of course, every time there’s lions there has to be a Great King to kill them. My Great Kings are pretty good. I do outstanding forearms, and I really go to town on the detail of the embroidered robe and the curls of the hair and beard and the fingernails—I do the best fingernails anywhere. But I won’t pretend I’m happy with the faces. I’ve never actually seen the King, but in my mind I know exactly what he looks like, and I can never quite get that in stone. Other people can, but not me. But they can’t do lions.

After lions, my best thing is definitely nomads. Dead nomads, it goes without saying, or dying, or cowering in terror as the King grabs them by the hair with his left hand while wielding his sword in his right. I have no idea if people wield in real life. When I was a kid, my dad used to give me a brush hook and tell me to cut back the flags and nettles in the headlands, which is the closest I’ve ever got to wielding; and of course I’ve never seen an actual battle, something for which I’m truly thankful. But I regularly get compliments from the supervisors on my wielding. You’ve got the rippling of the muscles in the King’s arm as he strikes just right, they tell me, and I suppose they know what they’re talking about.

“You’re the lion guy, right?” he said to me. I looked at my feet. “Yes, Lord,” I said.

He was shorter than me, about forty, forty-five, grey hair, beard to his waist, fantastic gown. I wanted to grin. The pattern woven into the weave of his gown was one I’d invented, about seven years ago. I carved it into the King’s gown in the King-killing-lions scene for the portico of the new temple in Foregate; and I guess it must’ve caught on, and people started asking their tailors for it, because these days I see it everywhere. “Got a job for you,” he said.

Not what I wanted to hear. “Thank you,” I said. “What can I—?”

Really bad, because he was clearly direct from the King, so anything he wanted done would need to have been done yesterday; and he could see quite plainly that I was halfway through a King-killing-lions for the peristyle of Lord Pharnaspes’ new town house, because there I was in my apron, with my hammer in one hand and my chisel in the other, standing directly in front of a half-carved lion. Irrelevant, from his perspective. A pain in the arse from mine.

Actually, I was probably being naïve. Now I think about it, I almost certainly got that job, not because I’m the best at lions, although I am, but because His Majesty’s chamberlain saw that Lord Pharnaspes’ new town house was a miracle of ostentatiously extravagant beauty, suggesting that Pharnaspes might be getting a bit above himself; easiest way to bring the project to a shuddering halt would be to pressgang the lion guy. That way, Pharnaspes wouldn’t be entitled to take offence, and a subtle message would be communicated, Pharnaspes would have to make do with distinctly second-rate lions by somebody else and everyone would know where they stand. But for me, of course, it meant Lord Pharnaspes’ lasting displeasure, for undertaking a commission and failing to carry it through.

This explanation, which is undoubtedly the right one, didn’t occur to me until the man with the elegant gown told me about the new job. There would be, he told me, no lions.

“Understood, my lord,” I said. “What—?”

“A battle scene,” he said. “You do excellent battle scenes.”

“Thank you.”

“His Majesty,” he went on, “wants the Battle of Dylaxa for the side porch of the extension to the Spring Palace.”

Oh, I thought. “Yes, my lord,” I said. “When do I start?”

And there’s the thing.

Everybody knows about the Battle of Dylaxa. We won, it goes without saying. His Majesty drew up his army to face the nomad hordes, and immediately attacked. On the right wing, where His Majesty led the charge in person, we scattered the savages and slaughtered them by the thousand. On the left wing and in the centre, however, cowardly traitors in the pay of the enemy staged a pre-planned withdrawal, masquerading as a rout and headlong flight. Fortunately, His Majesty and the all-conquering Royal lancers got back from annihilating the enemy in time to save the day. A skilfully judged pincer movement enabled His Majesty to take the savages in flank and rear, after which he slaughtered them like sheep, and only a handful of survivors made their way back to the nomad encampment to spread the news of their total and utter defeat. The last scene (I always tend to think of stories in terms of scenes, fifteen feet by six feet of limestone depicting a single well-defined event) was the summary execution of the traitors, including two heads of noble families who really should have known better.

Everybody knows that’s what happened. Except that my nephew was there. He’s a junior officer in the lancers, and the way he tells it, the savages wiped the floor with us, and the only reason the King’s still alive is that he ran for it ten minutes into the battle.

That, I pointed out to him, simply wasn’t true. For one thing, if it happened like he said, the savages would’ve swept down on the City and burnt it to ashes. Not really, he told me. The savages didn’t want a war, but the King insisted on attacking them. Basically, they’re a peaceful people who just want to be left alone to look after their sheep; they don’t give a shit about gold or silk or pearls, or even slaves, so we haven’t got anything they want, and they don’t see the point of killing people for the sake of it. They had no intention of attacking the City. They were just glad to get us off their backs for a bit.

You don’t need me to tell you that my nephew got it all wrong. Evidently, what he saw from his very limited perspective was unrepresentative and misleading. What he mistook for the King running away was a perfectly timed tactical withdrawal, leading the enemy into a trap; the fact that he thought it was headlong flight shows what a good trap it was, since clearly it fooled the savages too. I don’t doubt for a moment that from where he was standing, it looked for all the world like we weren’t doing so well. But evidently he wasn’t in a position to see the bigger picture. And that’s how false versions of events and untrue stories get about; not necessarily deliberate lies, a simple misunderstanding can be all it takes. We won the battle, I have absolutely no doubts on that score.

Even so.

 The next day I got sketches.

You need to have been in the trade for at least ten years to be able to make any sense of Palace sketches. They’re slabs of clay about the size of a small roof-tile, into which some scribe in one of the front offices has scratched some rather perfunctory lines. You couldn’t make head or tail of them, but as soon as I saw them, I could visualise the finished stelae in my mind, clear and sharp as if I was standing looking at them. The tallest scratched line is always the King, who is naturally always the centre of composition of every scene he’s in. The other squiggles are nomads. The upright ones are nomads being shot, carved or stabbed by our brave lads—the sketches don’t bother to show our side; I do all that—and the horizontal ones are dead nomads or severed parts thereof. I can read a Palace sketch the way a scribe can read a tablet of writing. I know what the symbols mean. It’s not something you can figure out for yourself; you have to learn it, and then you understand.

These sketches didn’t call for much thought. Basically, someone had copied them from the Battle of Sammalon on the facade of the New Year Temple down on Castle Bar. That makes sense. Everybody knows the Battle of Sammalon. If you live in the City, you’re bound to go past it at least twice a week. It’s a true masterpiece, and it’s always been there, we all grew up with it, like a respected uncle. And the one thing that everybody knows about Sammalon is that we won. It was a great and glorious victory that ensured the security of the nation for generations to come. You know that; you know what the carvings mean. And it helps no end that they’re quite unbearably beautiful, the most sublime expression of strength, honour, courage and Good prevailing over Evil ever put into stone. On a fundamental level, that’s how we all know they’re true. They couldn’t be so beautiful, so deeply imbued with majesty, serenity and grace, if they were a lie.

Good business sense, therefore, to make the composition of our new battle a conscious echo of Sammalon. I approved, even though it set me the enormous challenge of coming up with figures that could stand comparison with the finest achievement of stone-carving in human history. I thought about that and decided: the hell with it, why not? I’d fail, naturally, but that’s only to be expected. The important thing would be how nobly I failed. People, and in particular supervisors and Clerks of the Works, would judge me on that and—I hoped—be suitably impressed.

I live well, thanks to the lions. I have three rooms in the casemate of the West wall, about a hundred yards down from the Golden Gate. I have a window on the inside, looking out over the flower market. I own a carved bedstead, a table, a chair and two stools, a bronze tripod for cooking, three ten-gallon storage jars, nine pots, three plates, two cups, nine blankets, a cloak, six tunics, two gowns, three pairs of sandals, a boxwood comb (with incised decoration), a clay figurine of Mother Tiamat, two knives, an iron spit, a straw hat, a housemaid, eighteen shekels of chop silver and my tools. When you think that I came to the City with nothing but my big brother’s hand-me-down shirt, that’s not bad going.

One of the storage jars, the straw hat and the housemaid were gifts from Hydaspes the oil merchant. I say gifts; I did him a frieze of acanthus flowers and a very small lion for the back wall of his office in Mill Street. Since he’s only a merchant he’s not allowed to hire a Guild artist, we only work for the Palace and the nobility, but there’s nothing in the rules about doing a friend a favour, or the friend expressing his delight in the form of an unsolicited gift.

“You’re making a rod for your own back, is what you’re doing,” she said. “What were you thinking of? You must’ve gone soft in the head.”

She put the bowl of porridge down in front of me. “It’s not like I had a choice,” I said.

“Bullshit,” she pointed out. “You could’ve done your I’m-not-worthy spiel. He’d have bought it. You could’ve said to him, I’m only any good at lions. Which is true.”

“I can do nomads.”

“Yes, but Tiridates does them much better. You should’ve said, you don’t want me, you want Tiridates. He’s the best, and only the best is good enough for the Palace. He couldn’t have argued with that.”

Yes, I thought, I could’ve done that, but I didn’t. “It’s good money,” I said. “Palace rates.”

“Yes, and they’ll keep you hanging about for months before you get it, and maybe you won’t get it at all. I keep telling you, Palace work is nothing but trouble. But do you listen?”

I love her dearly, even when she’s right. “You don’t say no to the Palace,” I said. “Oh come on. It’s six months assured work, and who knows what it’ll lead to? They do say there’s plans to redo the whole of the west frontage of the Prefecture. This time next year, we could be living in Haymarket.”

She has this knack of not having the last word sometimes, which leaves my last remark hanging in the air, so we can both see clearly how fatuous it is. I hate it when she does that.

I got to the Palace early, just before dawn. It meant walking through the streets in the dark, which I don’t like doing, but I’ve learned the hard way that you need to be on site before the stone arrives; otherwise the carters dump it down wherever they can find a clear space, and one of the salient features of stone is that it’s a real nuisance to move about. I’m getting too old to spend a whole working day crouched down on my knees because some ignorant clown couldn’t be bothered to unload the material onto a trestle.

You get a lot of solo thinking time in my line of work. You can’t really talk to anyone, because you can’t make yourself heard over the noise, so you find yourself thinking long thoughts. Such as: am I an artist or just an unusually well-paid stonemason? Don’t know, is the answer. The latter, probably, because I don’t get to decide what I put into the stone, the sketches do that. So, the man who does the sketches is the artist, and I’m only there to do the chisel-work. But I’ve met the men who do the sketches, and if they’re artists, the word doesn’t mean what you and I think it does. For the most part they’re junior clerks in the Ceremonies department, and they get the job because the senior clerk who’s supposed to do it can’t be bothered. So they keep their eyes open on the way to work in the morning, and memorise the composition of the famous masterpieces of yesteryear they pass in the street, and that’s what they scratch in the clay for me to copy. I think the word I’m groping for is tradition; certain groupings and shapes are handed down from one generation to the next (like catching a cold, I guess) and we chisel-monkeys do as we’re told, or else. And gradually, those groupings and shapes come to mean something. They can’t help it, when so many thousands of people look at them every day of their lives. The composition—the way the King stands, the way the dead nomads are heaped up round him, the way he grips the rearing lion’s paw with his left hand while stabbing it with his right—acquires a symbolism, as a hundred generations take it in and their minds gradually gnaw on it, leading to an interpretation, what it all means, what it all stands for. Then it’s down to me and others like me to do the actual cutting; and we want to be known, to get ahead in the trade, so we hunt around for ways of making a slight difference. It can be inventing a new weave for the gown, or a new refinement for doing the curls of the King’s beard, or some original insight into the way muscles and sinews stiffen when drawing a bowstring, or relax in death. Whatever; the point is, we’re constantly probing and fiddling about, but within the rigid limits of the sketches, which are set (no pun intended) in stone. Which is how you get someone like me, who can give you something that’s both entirely traditional and completely new, or at least that’s what I tell you when you’re thinking of hiring me. Actually, when I’m on my own working and nobody’s peering over my shoulder breathing down my neck, I fall into a sort of trance, precisely halfway between divine inspiration and being bored out of my skull, and I only really see what I’ve done when I step back at the end of the day and look at it. I guess the lions and the nomads just happen. They seem to grow of their own accord out of the stone, which is very obliging of them.

So I spent the next four months trapped like a fly in amber in the three or so hours it took to fight the Battle of Dylaxa; and when it was all finished and I stepped back, I told myself, not so bad, after all. For once, I’d managed a pretty decent Great King. His face was completely calm as his massively powerful arms drew the bow or wielded the sword, and all around him the dead and dying nomads sprawled and writhed and lay crumped and twisted. I put in nine horses, one more than the sketches called for, but nothing says movement like a horse, so I felt the indulgence was justified. I realised I’d put across the message that the world is in flux, constantly moving, changing, rearing up in your face and plunging down in death throes, but the King is always there, right in the middle of things, defining the centre; calm, strong, in control, victorious. I’m not saying I couldn’t have said it rather better with lions, but the customer is always right.

The supervisor came along about an hour after I’d sent to let him know it was finished. He stood back and looked at it for about five heartbeats. “That’s fine,” he said. “Make sure it’s all dusted off ready for the painters.”

And that’s the really stupid thing about what I do. People like my work because it’s so lifelike. My arms and legs and horses and lions are so real, or so they say. But there’s absolutely nothing special about a real arm or a real horse or a real dead body. You can see a hundred of them between Temple Bar and Foregate any day of the week. My job is to absorb all this dull, boring real stuff and take your breath away by reproducing it in stone—so it’s just a conjuring trick, a novelty, a gimmick. But I take all this dull, boring real stuff and with it I say something that’s so important, the King pays a vast sum of money to have it said. And maybe what the King wants and needs to have said isn’t—how shall I put this?—necessarily the absolute unvarnished truth; not in the imperfect sense that you and I understand the term. Only, by the time I’ve finished saying it, it is. Which is why I earn such good money, and why you need people like me; because there are some things that need to be made true, if we’re all to go on living without scaring ourselves to death.

I guess the King must have liked it, because a short while later, while I was working on a King-killing-lions on the front entrance to the Scriveners’ Guild, my pal the clerk came up to me and said, “This is your lucky day.”

There are, of course, two kinds of luck. “Thank you, Lord,” I said, studying my toes as usual.

“I am commanded by His Majesty,” he went on, “to grant you a wish.”

I liked the sound of that. “Thank you,” I said.

He laughed. “Actually,” he said, “strictly speaking, the wish only extends to the painters, because His Majesty is under the impression that they do the carving as well. But I figured, what matters is the royal intention, not the actual royal words. Obviously, His Majesty knows what he means, and presumably I was too stupid to grasp the full inferences. Anyhow, one wish. Within reason, naturally.”

“Within reason.”

“Defined as fifteen shekels or less.”

I thought about it for three heartbeats. Fifteen shekels is a lot of money. On the other hand, I could think of something I wanted rather more, and which wouldn’t cost His Majesty’s Exchequer anything. “I would like,” I said, “for my nephew to be assigned to the Palace guard.”

He looked at me. “Would you, now.”

“Yes, Lord. At the moment he’s a decurion in the lancers, out East. Seven years’ exemplary service, worked his way up through the ranks. He’s all the family I’ve got, and it’d be nice to do something for him.”

He frowned. Fifteen shekels saved is no small matter; on the other hand, was I up to something? “I’ll look into it,” he said. “Carry on.”

I carried on, and eight weeks later, as I was finishing off the ear of the last-but-one of the Scriveners’ lions, who should yell out my name but my nephew?

He wasn’t looking too good. He was thin, and he had a scar on his face—it started just under his left eye and ran slantwise across his top lip down to the right corner of his mouth; a fat pink ribbon of shiny skin. He was also missing the little finger of his left hand, and his army cloak was mostly shreds.

“You saved my life,” he told me, as we sat in my rooms that evening, sharing a jar of wine I’d put by for a special occasion. “Literally. I’ve been on the northeastern front. Things aren’t going so well up there.”

I wasn’t aware there was a northeastern front. “How do you mean?”

“The Eftal,” he said. Then he looked at me. “You don’t know about the Eftal.”

No, I didn’t. They’re nomads, goes without saying; they live on the far side of the Mataxes river, and from time to time they come across and kill and burn and steal women—mostly, he told me, when the King provokes them with a punitive expedition, paying them back for the last time they raided us. “If only he’d let them well alone they’d be fine,” he told me. “Left to themselves they’re a peaceful bunch, and their lifestyle’s completely different to ours, so there’s nothing we’ve got that they actually want. But every eighteen months or so the orders come down: launch a raid, do as much damage as possible. So we do that, and then they feel obliged to return the favour, and the fact is, they’re rather better at it than we are. That’s how I got this,” he said, lifting a finger towards his face. “And they’re shepherds, so when we come calling they drive their flocks up into the hill where we can’t find them. But when they come, they burn the corn just before it ripens. So they’ve always got plenty to eat, and we’re starving.”

None of which did I believe. At least, I believed every word he told me, because my sister’s boy isn’t a liar. But clearly he’d got the wrong end of the stick. He could only see a tiny glimpse of the big picture, and so he’d got it all wrong. The truth, I knew, was that the northeastern frontier was at peace, because the King before the King before last had been over there with a vast army and had slaughtered the savages in those parts until they ceased to exist as a nation. So what my nephew was talking about could only be a few scattered bandits; a nuisance if you happen to live next door to them, but in the great scheme of things, too trivial to mention. Even so; “Don’t mention it,” I said. “I had this favour coming to me, because of some work I did, and there was nothing I wanted for myself. As you can see, I’m pretty well fixed.”

He nodded. “Looks like it,” he said. “Rooms in Old Town and a pretty girl waiting on you hand and foot. Maybe it’s not too late for me to learn stone-carving. Only kidding,” he added, before I could say anything. “I like soldiering, most of the time. It’s good money, and you’re only scared shitless about five percent of the time. The rest of it’s just doing chores and sitting around. Better than working for a living. Especially,” he added with a grin, “in the Palace guard. Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “We’re family.”

He nodded. Last time I saw him he was fifteen, just off to enlist. It was that or forced labour building cisterns. We need cisterns where I come from, because it only rains once a year, and it’s a wonderful thing that the King provides them for us, so we really shouldn’t grumble when the soldiers come by rounding up men to do the work. Also, it was while I was cistern-building that I learned stonemasonry, which led to stone-carving, which led to three rooms in Old Town and eighteen shekels in a clay jar put aside for my old age; none of which I’d have had if I’d stayed on the farm, that’s for sure. And now, here was my nephew, a subaltern in the Palace guard, practically gentry. All of which, ultimately, we owed to the King, and his devotion to his people, which prompts him to build cisterns in the desert.

What I like about doing favours for people is the returns on your investment of kindness. Wangling a Guards commission for my nephew meant that I got to see him, usually once or twice a month, instead of once every seven years. Either he’d come to me and we’d splash out on a chicken and a jar of date wine, or he’d invite me to dine in the officers’ mess, where once a month they have date wine and chicken. Naturally she moaned at me when it was my turn to entertain; all that extra work for her, she said, as if she hadn’t got enough to do. She didn’t mean a word of it. My nephew’s a good-looking boy, even with that ghastly stripe across his face, and he tells a good story, and she’s as fond of chicken and date wine as anybody. It felt like having a family again, something I never thought I’d have; not after the war, when the nomads burned our village and killed my parents and all their relatives, apart from my sister and me, because we were away from home at the time, building cisterns for the King. Of course the King dealt with the savages, and those particular nomads no longer exist. You can see them getting slaughtered any day of the week, if you go up Cartgate and pause to look at the monumental arch.

 I was finishing up a lion in Conduit Street when I saw my pal the clerk looming over me. “Job for you,” he said.

It’s nice to be in demand. Also, the Palace had paid my bill (eventually) for the Battle of Dylaxa, plus I’d got my nephew his cushy posting. “Thank you, Lord,” I said. “How can I serve?”

“Walk with me.”

I slung my tools into my satchel, because you don’t want to leave anything you value lying around in Conduit Street, and followed him, the regulation pace behind and to his left. Of course there’s no crime in the City, but a bit of occasional pilfering is inevitable.

“His Majesty,” he said, “wants a battle.”

“Lord?”

“For the entrance hall to the new extension to the Palace foregate. Like what you did for us the other day.”

I had no idea why, but I knew I didn’t want to do it. “A battle scene.”

“Yes.”

I remembered what she’d said. “With the greatest respect, Lord, might I suggest, you don’t want me, you want Tiridates. He does the best battle scenes. And for the Palace, only the best is—”

“He wants you.”

Oh, I thought; and it was like having my head squeezed in a vice. The King—think about it, the King—had noticed me. He was aware of my existence. How many people live in the Empire? Two million? Three? But the King had allowed his attention to light on me. Possibly, he’d even heard my name. Remembered it. “Yes, Lord.”

“Splendid. Make yourself available, and I’ll see you get the sketches.”

“Thank you, Lord.” He started to turn away. “Lord.”

“What?”

“Which battle?”

He stopped. He was frowning. “The thing is,” he said, “not any particular battle. Just a battle.”

“Lord?”

“Against the nomads, naturally. And we get to kick their arses.”

Which made no sense.

“You must’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “You can’t have been listening properly.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “But ’ve been over and over what he said and what I said, and those were his exact words. Just a battle. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Easy,” my nephew said. “He wants you to make one up.”

I don’t usually lose my temper; specially with the people I love. “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “That’s impossible. Can’t be done.”

“You do it every day,” he replied. I stared at him. She made a sort of squeaking noise. “Well, you do. You make up lion hunts.”

“I do not,” I told him. “Everybody knows, once a month the King goes out to hunt lions. He protects his people from monsters, it’s part of what he does for us.”

“You make it up,” he said, cool as a cucumber. “Well, you do. You’ve never been on a Royal hunt. You’ve never seen a lion. All right, tell me the place and the date of the hunt you’ve just finished carving. You can’t, can you?”

“The King hunts lions. It’s a known fact.”

He shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “And he fights battles. Only, this is going to be a battle he hasn’t actually fought. There’s a word for that.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “That would be a lie.”

“Eat your chicken before it gets cold.”

I couldn’t sleep that night, or the next, or the night after that. Here was this major commission, from the Palace, and I had no idea how to go about it.

Take the nomads, for example. There are six different sorts of nomads: the Sakai, the Cimru, the Mazaged, the Farz, the Flat-Caps and the Pointy-Caps. How was I supposed to know which sort? And if this battle never actually happened, how could I possibly tell its story? The sketches, I decided; the sketches will show me everything I need to know.

The sketches arrived. They were just like any other set of sketches, but I couldn’t make any sense of them. I looked at them and they were just lines.

“Oh for crying out loud,” she said. “Give it here.”

So I handed her the tablet and she stared at it. “Well,” she said, “I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“You’ve got it upside down.”

She handed them to my nephew, who peered at them. “Looks quite straightforward to me,” he said. “This long line here’s presumably the King, and here’s a bunch of dead savages, and I imagine these are dead horses, so I’m guessing the enemy launched a cavalry charge, which His Majesty beat off with crippling losses before counterattacking and surrounding the enemy centre in a nicely judged pincer movement. Don’t look at me like that,” he added. “I know about this stuff, I’m a soldier.”

“You can see all that? In those squiggles?”

“Yes,” he said. “Also, it’s more or less exactly what’s on the triumphal arch at Nabastun. Thirty feet tall, cut into the side of a mountain. I’m guessing whoever did these sketches must’ve seen it, same as I did. It’s the Battle of Korasm.”

Which was two hundred years ago; the King defeated the Mazaged and made them cease to exist as a nation. “Then why the hell didn’t that clerk say so?”

“Because they’re not calling it that,” my nephew said. “Oh for pity’s sake, can’t you see what’s going on? We’re in deep shit, on the northern frontier, out east, in the southwest. Everywhere you look, we’re getting creamed by the nomads, and people are starting to talk. So, what we need is a victory, to make people feel better. Only we keep losing all the battles, so it’s necessary to make one up.”

I stared at him.

The world, as we all know, is an unending battle between the Truth and the Lie. The King is the champion of the Truth, and we are his people, the sheep of his pasture. Everything else, all the savages beyond the frontiers, all the monsters and predators, lions, wolves, storms, diseases, famines, droughts, earthquakes, floods, are the Lie, constantly battering against us like waves lashing the seashore, until the King drives them back. So to say that the King was telling a lie— It wasn’t bad, it was meaningless, like dry water or a dark Sun. “I think you ought to go now,” I said. “Obviously you’ve had too much to drink.”

He stood up. She was telling me not to be such an arse.

“Think about it,” he said. “I’m a lieutenant in the Guards. If there was a battle, I’d be in it. But here I am, not out on the frontier somewhere. Therefore, there is no battle. Therefore—”

“Shut up,” I said. “And get out.”

By the time the stone arrived, I’d had a chance to think about it, long and hard.

Obviously, my nephew was right. The King had ordered me to tell a lie. And equally obviously, the King had a very good reason for doing something so appalling. Since the whole purpose of the King’s existence is to nourish and protect his people, this particular lie was necessary—essential, even. The King wouldn’t do a bad thing unless he absolutely had to. Therefore—

I have no imagination, but I do have skill. Give me a flat, smooth slab of stone and I can do pretty much anything you want with it. I decided the nomads would be Flat-Caps, because I already knew how to do the way the earflaps of the caps come down the sides of the faces—it doesn’t sound much, but you try doing it and see how far you get. And the hems of the caps are tasselled, and the tassels give me a splendid opportunity for fine, detailed work; you barely notice it, looking at the finished piece, but your eye takes it in without you knowing, and that level of fine detail makes the whole thing so much more believable, so you can almost feel the soft touch of the tassels against your cheek. So I chose the Flat-Caps—dear God, the presumption of it all, the downright arrogance. I chose to make war on the Flat-Caps. Not the King, not Father Ea or Mother Tiamat; me.

I was on a schedule, but I’m used to that. I put in a requisition for two hundred oil lamps, and there they were the next day, no quibbles, no questions asked. I worked at night by lamplight, and by day by sunlight. I wrapped strips of rag round the blisters on my hands and pretended—lied to myself—that they weren’t there; and guess what, I barely noticed them. Above all, I concentrated. I made a picture in my mind, and I copied it exactly. I felt—God forgive me for saying this—like Father Ea creating Heaven and Earth; because in the beginning there was nothing at all, and Father Ea imagined it all, and suddenly it was there, just like in His mind. Now you tell me, was that all a lie (because He made it all up) or was it true, because a moment later everything He imagined was real, capable of being seen and smelt and touched and picked up, the quintessence of Truth?

“Not bad,” my pal the clerk said. “That edge there wants smoothing off a bit. Someone might brush against it and cut themselves. And is that someone’s ear or a pomegranate?”

“Abstract decoration, Lord.”

“Really? Get rid of it. Other than that, not bad at all.”

Not bad at all, though I do say so myself. By the time I finished it, I was shattered. Drained, I think is the word. I hadn’t slept properly for weeks, my hands were a mess, my back was killing me and my forearms ached from gripping the hammer and the chisel. Not that any of that mattered a damn. What mattered was that the King was seven feet tall, calm, straight and outstandingly strong, and all around him the nomads were crouched, slumped, twisted, broken, small and powerless, scattered like fallen leaves, crushed, slashed, split, cut into, utterly and abjectly beaten—as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. But the weave of the King’s robe, the tight curls of his hair and beard, the muscles of his arms and legs, the serene line of his mouth and eyes, the sinuous arc of his drawn bow (forever at full draw, though the fact is that if you hold a bow at full draw for more than a few seconds, you ruin it and it’ll probably break) were perfect. Tiridates, who does the best battle scenes, couldn’t have produced something like it in a thousand years of trying. And it was all a lie.

“You need to go round there,” she told me. “You need to go and stand outside that clerk’s office and tell them, you’re not leaving till you get paid.”

My nephew had gone away, out East, with his regiment. The Flat-Caps had burst through the frontier defences and burnt the city of Eridu, and the King was off to teach them a lesson they’d never forget.

“It doesn’t work like that,” I told her. “You send in a bill, they pay it. Eventually. These things take time. It’s got to go through channels.”

“Bullshit. You let them walk all over you, because you’re too chickenshit to stand up for yourself. How would it be if I went over there and—?”

“No,” I said. “Don’t do that. Please.”

“Fine. You do it, then.”

So I put on my cloak and went out and spent a couple of hours walking round town looking at the statues. I even went to the new extension to the Palace foregate, where there was a crowd of people gawping up at the battle scene, and there was some smartarse (there always is) pretending to read out the inscription, though clearly he couldn’t read, because he traced the lines with his finger from left to right, instead of right to left. The King, he told the crowd, encountered the nomads near the oasis of Oanaxar and immediately attacked; taken by surprise, the enemy were driven back, only to be surrounded by His Majesty’s Guards, who caught them in a perfectly executed pincer movement, and by the time it was all over there wasn’t a single nomad left alive. He was making it all up, of course, but he wasn’t using his imagination. That’s what the inscriptions say on the stelae of the Battle of Gaugar, down by the Great Cistern, which has been there for three hundred years. But the crowd was loving it, hanging on his every word, oohing and aahing in all the right places. Fair enough. Just because something was true once doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t be true again, and if it’s carved in stone, who’s going to have the insane temerity to call the King a liar?

“Well?” she said, when I got back.

“I went to the clerk’s office.”

“And?”

“He wasn’t there, so I waited. Then I waited some more. Then I came home.”

A lie? Maybe. Or maybe not. If I had gone to the clerk’s office, he wouldn’t have been there, or he’d have said he wasn’t there; and I’d have waited, then waited some more, and then I’d have come home. I could have made my lie true by actually doing it, only I preferred to spend my time looking at statues; and it made absolutely no difference to the outcome, and there were no witnesses, so I guess what I told her was the truth, at that.

A man came to see me. He was a soldier, in an army cloak. It had been bright red once, but the sun had faded it. Bright red means an officer. I’m sorry, he said. I have bad news.

I told her to open the last bottle of the date wine, and he sat down. I was a friend of your nephew’s, he told me. I shouldn’t really be here, but I felt you ought to know. He died well.

Oh, I thought.

The King, he told me, advanced to the oasis of Oanaxar, where he’d had reports the nomads were camped. We managed to sneak up on them before they knew we were coming, so we attacked straight away. The savages didn’t know what hit them. The King went in with the lancers and the auxiliary cavalry, and our lot, the Guards, were positioned behind the camp, ready and waiting for when they broke and ran. They came straight at us, and we slaughtered them. We got the lot—men, women, even the kids, they won’t be bothering us again, not ever. We even killed the dogs, and the chickens. But your nephew—well, there was a moment when the sheer weight of numbers was too much for us, and they were on the point of breaking through and escaping. But he rallied the men and led a counterattack, and that’s what saved the day, though sadly he didn’t make it. But if it hadn’t been for him, a lot of the savages would’ve escaped, and then the whole exercise would’ve been pointless, and those bastards would’ve slipped away and rebuilt their numbers and come back, and a lot of innocent people in the eastern provinces would’ve died, sooner or later. If it hadn’t been for your nephew—

Thank you, I told him. Thank you for letting me know.

If there was any confusion in the public mind about the fact that the carvings celebrating the Battle of Oanaxar were unveiled a month before the battle actually took place, it didn’t last very long or cause many problems. Most people decided that the news of the victory didn’t reach the public ear for a long time after the battle was actually fought, presumably for sound reasons of Royal policy; or else the King had had a vision predicting the battle, so he knew exactly what was going to happen before it actually did, which made it a miracle as well as a famous victory. Whatever. We won, that was the main thing, and if you wanted to feel good about yourself and the world in general, all you had to do was go along and look at the beautiful sculptures, and everything was fine.

Like it matters. My nephew would have died sooner or later, and he died a hero. That’s what he’d have wanted. I can’t possibly begrudge him that, just because his death hurt me so very badly. That would be sheer selfishness on my part. No; the only one his death affected was me, and I’m of no consequence whatsoever. Meanwhile, nobody on the eastern frontier will ever have to worry about the savages again, thanks to the King’s courage and skill, and my boy. Even so; I can’t help torturing myself. If only I’d made them Sakai or Mazaged instead of Flat-Caps, would it have made any difference? Almost certainly not. The Guards would still have been sent to fight them, because where the King goes, they go; and it was me who wangled his promotion to the Guards and put him directly in harm’s way. But if I hadn’t done that, he’d still have been in the lancers out East, so he’d have been at Oanaxar. One way or another it would’ve happened. You can’t fight the truth, after all.

Nine months or so after the last time I saw him, when I told him to shut up and get out of my house, she gave birth to a baby boy. She swears blind he’s mine, but I don’t think so. I think he’s my nephew’s; because he and she clearly liked each other, and there were a lot of times when I was out of the house working, and she and I don’t—well, you know; not very often. Also, the boy is beautiful and strong, like my nephew was and I’ve never been, and like the poet says, beauty is truth, truth beauty.

I really, truly want the boy to be his son. I want him to live on. And since it makes absolutely no difference to the outcome, and there are now no reliable witnesses, I guess it’s the truth, at that.

“Set in Stone” copyright © 2024 by K.J. Parker Art copyright © 2024 by John Anthony Di Giovanni

Buy the Book

Set in Stone

About the Author

K.J. Parker

Author

Having worked in journalism, numismatics, and the law, K.J. Parker now writes for a precarious living. He is the author of Devices and Desires, Evil for Evil, The Devil You Know, and other novels. K. J. Parker also writes under the name Tom Holt, and has won the World Fantasy Award twice.

[cynicalone94]

Chapter 10. Outside Income

When Intelligence gets pulled in to solve a case that another unit can't seem to close, evidence quickly begins to suggest that the gang they're investigating has man on the inside. But what shouldn't be a big deal, Intelligence is known for rooting out corruption, quickly becomes a very big deal when something goes very, very wrong.

Read on AO3 here.

Back at 21, Voight drags Marston down to the roll-up and Antonio hovers behind him as he throws the man in the cage, standing menacingly in front of it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” the man stammers, glancing over to Antonio, “Why’s he looking at me like that? You got Halstead back, right? He’s okay?”

“Halstead.” Voight intones, “is in the ICU on a ventilator right now. Your buddies left him inhaling chlorine gas for a couple of hours.”

“Look, hey, that’s got nothing to do with me. They promised me he wouldn’t get hurt.”

“I don’t care what they promised you.” Voight growls, “He was there because of you. And now he’s got a machine breathing for him while the docs try their damnedest to reverse the damage. And even if he lives, his career might be over. So you’re going to tell me everything you know about the forty-eighters and their operation or I’m going to turn you inside out.”

“I..I can’t do that. They’ll kill me.”

“I think you should be more concerned about what I’ll do to you.”

He turns to Antonio.

“You’re not going to let him do this are you? I helped you guys find Halstead.”

“After you set him up to be kidnapped.” Antonio scoffs.

“I never meant for him to get hurt.”

“Look Marston. Even if I wanted to help you, which honestly I don’t, there’s nothing I can do. There is one person left on this planet who can calm him down when he gets like this, and you put him in a coma. So I would tell him what he wants to know.”

Marston glances anxiously between the two of them.

“Now tell me about the Riders.” Voight snarls, unlocking the cage. “Or I’m gonna tell you about what I do to people who hurt my team.”

Hailey looks up as the door swings open.

Voight is standing there, watching Jay with distant eyes.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Team is chasing down leads on the Riders.” he tells her. “Marston gave everything up. Guess he’s more afraid of me than he is of them.”

Hailey allows a smirk.

“How’s he doing?” Voight asks, nodding at Jay.

“He’s hanging in there.” she says, rubbing her thumb distractedly over the back of her partner’s hand. “Ethan says the swelling in his throat is going down. The skin irritation is getting worse, especially where they branded him, but he doesn’t think it’s going to be an issue. Just painful for him when he finally wakes up.”

“Do they have an idea when that might be?”

“They’ve taken him off the sedation.” she says. “Now that the swelling is better. Ethan says they could probably remove the breathing tube any time but he’s like to see him awake first. And when that happens is up to him now.”

“What about his lungs?”

“Fluid levels are better.” Hailey tells him. “They’re keeping the fluid drained with the chest tube and its accumulating slower.”

“You’re doing good, kid.” Voight says, resting a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “You just keep getting better and I’ll make sure the assholes that did this to you live to pay for it.”

Jay doesn’t react but Voight just nods.

“You’re safe now, Jay. You can wake up whenever you’re ready.” he tells him, bending down to kiss the top of Jay’s head.

“You staying with him?” he asks without looking at her.

“I’m not going anywhere.” she promises.

“Good.” he answers, squeezing Jay’s shoulder one more time before stepping toward the door. “Then I’m gonna go knock some heads.”

“Break some bones for me too.” she says, squeezing her partner’s hand. “For both of us.”

“I will.” he promises.

Hailey sits up, rubbing her eyes and wondering both when she’d fallen asleep and what had woken her.

Then Jay’s hand twitches in hers and she leans forward, squeezing tightly.

“Jay?” she asks.

His eyes are twitching, mouth moving around the tube.

“Jay, can you open your eyes?”

His head rolls slightly toward her but otherwise he doesn’t respond to her. He’s clearly distressed, trapped somewhere close to the surface but not quite there yet.

“It’s okay, Jay.” she soothes. “It’s okay, you’re safe. You take as long as you need, I will be right here waiting for you.”

His hand squeezes hers and she lifts their hands to kiss the back of it.

“I’m right here, partner. And I’m not going anywhere.” she promises.

His eyes press tightly closed and then he’s choking.

“Jay!” she exclaims, hitting the call button. “It’s okay. You can breathe, the tube is helping you breathe but you need to stop fighting it.”

He just keeps choking and gagging, hands coming up to grab at the tube. Hailey tightens her grip on the hand she’s holding, pulling his hand back down and reaches over to grab his other hand.

“It’s okay, Jay.” she promises, looking up at the nurses as they come in before turning her attention back to her partner. “Can you open your eyes, please?”

His eyes slowly blink open, tracking over to meet hers, filled with fear and panic.

“I know.” she says, gently squeezing his hand. “Just try to relax.”

He blinks back at her, mouth moving around the tube but he’s calming, breathing easier and she rubs her thumb across the back of his hand.

“That’s it.” she praises. “I know it’s uncomfortable but we’ll get it out as soon as we can.”

“How about right now?” Ethan asks from the doorway.

Jay’s gaze jumps over and Hailey offers him a smile.

“See?”

“Swelling is all but gone and your lungs are doing well with the chest tube.” Ethan says. “I think you’re ready to breathe on your own. What do you think?”

Jay nods, a tiny, jerking movement limited by the tube.