#its been really long since i made one of these web weaves

[aishespoeticmuse]

the love i had for you was achingly raw. you couldn't have chewed on it with your deciduous teeth.

[nanaarchy]

Hey chat !!!! I'm going insane.

Ever since my first listen to TMA, I've had a huge question that NEVER got answered.

Never. Not in the whole series, not Q&As or the wiki or anything. I thought I would never find answers. I thought it would be forgotten. I thought it was a small insignificant detail and I'd have to live with never knowing the truth about it.

Now with TMAGP 19, I might finally know the answer.

Maybe. Maybe maybe. But It Could Be. And now I'm losing my mind at the implications.

((For the record, I know that the stories and worldbuilding are inherently separate - hell, there are even timeline differences in the cases I'm using as evidence. But the overlap might be important, especially when it comes to the Web.))

Spoilers for both shows below!

Its branches were exquisite, and delicate, swaying slightly from small eddies in the liquid, and they shone with every spectra. I must confess that to look upon it, one was – (sigh) filled with profound wonder at its exquisite elegance. [...] Even I, steeped in worldly matters as I am, recognized The Lord’s words to Adam, and was much dismayed at the implication. Isaac then plucked the delicate fruit with ungloved hands and held it before me. [...] The creature was taking root. Strands of its mottled brown hair were extruding downwards between the floor, seeking the dark earth below. Then, too, its back began to sprout, radiant branches unfurling and thickening before me, reaching upwards towards the sunlight with a seemingly insatiable desire. [...] I tell you here, Robert, it saw me, and it knew me. (TMAGP 19 - HARD RESET)

It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole. Graham noticed me staring, and told me that interesting antique furniture was one of his few true passions. Apparently he’d found the table in a second-hand shop during his student days and fallen in love with it. It had been in pretty bad shape but he’d spent a long time and a lot of money restoring it, though he’d never been able to figure out what was supposed to go in the centre. He assumed it was a separate piece and couldn’t track it down. (MAG 3 - ACROSS THE STREET)

Re: Magnus Institute Ruins. By RedCanary on Saturday April 23 2022 12:17pm. The photos from the spelunk seem properly gone, but I did find an old wooden thing with a bunch of similar symbols on. Some kinda empty box, not really sure what for, though. Gonna see if I can get the light right for a decent pic. Edit: No dice, I’m afraid. Must be something up with my phone camera. Really not helping the whole paranoia thing either. Anyone know anything about photographic distortion? Gonna see if I can borrow my dad’s SLR tomorrow. (TMAGP 1 - FIRST SHIFT)

Adelard Dekker stood in the corner. He was straight and motionless, his lips moving rapidly, though no sound came out of them. In the centre of the room, stood a table carved from dark wood and wrapped all over with a sprawling, intricate pattern. And in front of that table was the thing that had said it was my cousin. It was long and thin, the tops of it bent against the ceiling and its stick-like limbs flailed from too many joints and elbows. Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light. The face at the top of that gangly frame was like nothing on earth. (MAG 78 - DISTANT COUSIN)

Now... Now I get it. I get it. I finally gave an answer. Or, at least, I think we'll get a concrete answer soon. But I think I get it.

I think I get where the web table comes from. I think I know what it's made of. why it glows. why it had a hole in the middle. I think I might know how the web gained control and sentience so much faster than the other fears. and, if it still manifests in the same way in the Protocol universe, how it also quickly became "the manager" of other fears, as theories suggest.

More importantly, I think I know what was up with the mysterious tree from so, so long ago.

Now I have an answer.

Why was there an apple buried in Hill Top Road?

I opened the box and sitting inside was a single green apple. It looked fresh, shiny, with a coat of condensation like it had just been picked on a cool spring morning. I picked it up. I wasn’t going to eat it, I’m not that stupid, but more than bleeding trees or phantom burning, this confused me. As I took it out of the box, though, it began to turn. The skin turned brown and bruised and started to shrivel in my hand. Then it split. And out came spiders. Dozens, hundreds of spiders erupting from this apple that was rotting right before my eyes. I shrieked and dropped it before any of them could touch my arm. The apple fell to the ground and burst in a cloud of dust. I backed away and waited until I was sure all the spiders had left before retrieving the box. I smashed it with a crowbar, and threw the remains into a skip. (MAG 8 - BURNED OUT)

And now I have an answer. Maybe.

[drefear]

do you even know, how you make me weak

Inspired by @ofherdesire series of toxic Miguel, the characters are all theirs (aside from Miguel lol)

TW: toxic Miguel, bits of sex, violence, bullying if you squint, injury.

Lips left imprints on your skin as Pedro held your body like an antique vase, priceless and delicate. Every touch was such a change from Miguel’s rough hands always moving fast unless he knew he’d hurt you.

Pedro moved in a gentle manner unless you asked for more, and he kept you breathless as he watched your every reaction. It was always about you, about your pleasure, your climax.

“When you pull me close,

Feelings I’ve never known.”

The soft groans he let out as he whispered into your skin made you wonder how you ever lived without such touches and feelings.

This was almost a daily action, like you both needed it to live. He made a schedule to be able to see you once a day, even if it meant only a few minutes and a peck on the lips. He never failed to remind you of his everlasting love for you, his dedication to show you how appreciated you were. Pedro was such a beautiful and welcome change of pace.

Yet, you still longed for the hulking presence you caught brief sightings of, but this was always followed by a blinding ray of blonde pep, like a police flashlight in your face at midnight when you’d done nothing wrong. The sly girl kept him close any time you were around, including during missions.

Miguel couldn’t be around you for more than two seconds without blue eyes popping out from behind him, something that had begun to cause problems within him. She didn’t trust him, and he couldn’t blame her, when he was constantly drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

“Miguel, you ok?” Peter’s voice broke the larger of the two from a trance as he watched you jump from a ledge as you four fought an anomaly, your webs trapping the enemy in your clutches as Miguel stood like a statue, eyes watching you in awe. It was like watching an actual spider weave its web; agile and careful, yet still powerful and strong.

“Miguel!” Peter shouted, finally snapping Miguel out of his thoughts and dodging a falling piece of debris. He rolled onto the ground and grabbed a survivor, handing them off to-

“Miggy!” His girl. He looked at her, why wasn't he always looking at her? She caught the bystander and he turned his attention back to you, who was facing off the anomaly alone now as Peter worked with his girlfriend to find anyone else who might be trapped. He sprung into action once he saw the position you were in and jumped to your side.

“Take the other side, I can handle this one.”

“You’ll get hurt, deja de ser terca!”

“I’ll be fine, now go!” You yelled and yanked your strings tighter in your fists, and he obeyed.

As he worked on the side you directed him towards, you threw the trapbox and red lasers enclosed around the anomaly, making you and Miguel both relax for a brief second. Sighing in exhaustion, you gave a small smile to Peter and Miguel, until suddenly a shout was heard and your body was jerked forward.

As you blinked, you felt the warmth of Miguel’s chest in your face, Peter moving closer to check on you and in the far distance, the sharp angry eyes of his girl.

His red luminescent webs wrapped around your torso and you held your head a bit, the sudden motion making you a little nauseous.

“Are you alright?” Peter’s voice was almost distant as you tried to step away from MIguel, but his hand tightened around your waist and you pushed harder, disliking the lack of distance between you two.

“I’m fine, really. Just a little dizzy.”

“I told you not to be so stubborn.” Miguel’s voice was cold, visceral, and you frowned up at him. It’d been almost a year since you two had an actual conversation, since you last kissed his lips and heard him say how you weren’t enough for him and she was. The sour memory bit into you like an animal and the poison made your vision turn a bit red on the edges, but you wouldn’t let the pain overtake your senses or act out.

Instead of giving him a sassy remark like you wanted to do, you just tapped your watch and opened a portal back to HQ, “I’m getting my head checked, I’ll see you all at debriefing.” You mumbled and walked through the portal.

Miguel watched the portal close and closed his eyes, frustration bubbling inside of him like rapture, popping and hissing at the intense heat it was beginning to give off.

The clean up was minimal, Miguel instructed both Peter and his girlfriend to reconstruct the cannon, and he made his way to bring back the anomaly. Once everything was secured, he sat in his sector, platform high above the actual floor as it gave him better concentration away from all of the talking and bustle of HQ.

The soft patter of footsteps made him aware that someone was making their way up to him, the sound of a web slinging a lighter body up to his level.

“You alright, baby?” Her voice was soft, more on the high-pitch side, and clear like a flute. Her manicured hands pressed into Miguel’s tense muscles and he sank into his chair further, letting her go harder.

“M fine.” he grunted and she nodded, not pushing further. She never pushed, never pressed further than what he wanted. She was just so good, easy to be around, and never making him feel too intensely.

He felt nothing around her. It was simple. He thought he liked that, so why did he crave you so much? Why were you all he thought about? You forced him to feel weak and out of control, even before he met her.

“I think you should maybe give her less missions, it’s obvious that she’s getting sorta… distracted?” Her tone was quiet, and he just nodded in agreement, but he knew you weren’t the problem. He was the distracted one, and he knew that she saw this too. So he didn’t argue, just sank deeper into her butter touch and closed his eyes.

“I’m a lightweight, easy to fall, easy to break

With every move, my whole world shakes, keep me from falling apart.”

You laid in the infirmary, eyes closed from the pressure on the back of your neck. Truth be told, your head didn’t hurt, you just needed to get away from them all.

The door opened and you felt Miguel looming by the end of your bed.

“You’re ok.” It wasn’t a question as much as an announcement, like he was speaking to himself.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You answered and avoided his eyes, scared to get caught in the red glare that trapped you in his hold for months on end.

“I think from now on, you should take it easy.” His voice wasn’t one you wanted to argue with, and it meant the possibility of not seeing him as often, so you didn’t mind. The ache in your chest still lingered.

“Okay.” You nodded, and something sparked in Miguel that you hadn’t seen before.

“Okay? That’s fine to you? You don’t care?”

“I mean, isn’t that what you said to me?” You shot back to him and he looked as if you’d actually shot him with a gun, your bullets creating a red ring in his eyes and making them brighter.

“This isn’t about us.”

“There never was an us.” Your words came out without hesitation and he let out a breath like you’d hit him in the gut. “It was just sex, right?”

“Mi bella.”

“Not yours. Never yours.” You looked up to him finally with fat tears in your eyes and his heart finally broke.

A door closing made you both quiet and look behind Miguel, seeing…

“Pedro…” Your voice was barely above a whisper as he stood with flowers, eyebrows furrowed with conflict and confusion.

“Did you two-” He didn’t even finish the sentence, Miguel not moving an inch. You jumped up and brushed past him, rushing to Pedro as you held him.

“Before, it was before you, before us.” You rambled, hoping it would be enough, that he’d understand.

“And now…?”

“Nothing.” Miguel’s voice was harsh, like the words were wrapped with barbed wire and razor blades.

“Exactly.” Your eyes found his and the look was tense, angry, hateful. “It was nothing.”

Miguel’s eyes darkened and he stormed out of the infirmary. Pedro just looked from him to you and sighed.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” The hand that held your favorite flowers dropped and a few petals floated to the ground, similar to how your soul felt right now.

“Can we go home?” You asked meekly, wanting to at least be secluded as he nodded in agreement and opened a portal to take you to your apartment.

Peter worked silently next to Miguel’s girl, the room echoing as he typed up his report for the anomaly capture before finally speaking.

“You knew that debris was falling, why didn’t you catch it?” He asked and the blonde turned to look at Peter B, then back to her own screen.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I saw it, you watched the piece of the building hit her.” He kept his voice low, “is it because of how Miguel looks at them?”

She froze. Of course she noticed, she wouldn't have made a move on Pedro if she wasn’t aware of the threat you posed. Threatened. Her heart pounded as a sneer appeared on her face for a second before smiling with tight lips.

“Miguel is with me, and that’s all that matters.” Her voice, sickeningly sweet to Peter, answered as if just discussing the weather and not how her jealousy could have killed you, someone she was supposed to see as her ally.

“You’re right, Miguel is with you, so don’t let your insecurities make you do something that could make you lose him.” Peter stood with those words of advice and walked away as if he didn’t just give her a thinly veiled warning.

Her blonde ponytail bobbed as she went to find Miguel, here to surprise him on her day off with a lunch she made him. As she approached his office, she heard panting and groans, knowing those sounds well by now. She’d been seeing Miguel for a few months and things had begun getting serious, so she easily recognized the sound of him about to orgasm.

As she peaked in, she saw him watching videos-

Videos of you. His hand fucking his cock fast and hard as he stared at the screens showing your agility as you soared through the sky in your spidersuit. Her blood boiled and her mind zeroed in on her true target; you.

Pedro sat across from you on your couch, tears filling your eyes as you explained what happened between you and MIguel.

“Who else knows?” He asked and you shook your head.

“Just you. Miguel and I never told anyone, he-” Your voice caught in your throat and you gulped it down, “he didn’t want anyone to know he had been with me.”

Pedro’s hand squeezed yours and he closed his eyes, moving to kiss your cheek.

“Is that why you were so upset that she tried to flirt with me?”

“Yes…” You admitted and let your shoulders sink.

“Alright.” Pedro stayed quiet and then pulled you into a hug.

“What are you-” You began to ask, but he cut you off by cupping your face in his warm hands.

“I’m so proud to have everyone know you’re with me, that you’re mine and I’m yours.” He emphasized the word ‘yours’ and your body trembled in shock. You flung your arms over his shoulders and buried your face into his chest, crying tears you didn't know you were holding in. You felt his lips kiss your shoulders and the side of your face as you wept into his shirt, clutching him close as you spilled your upset.

Lately, Miguel had avoided going home, focusing on work more and more. His precious girl was becoming too clingy, too much for him to handle. He wanted his freedom back, wanted to be the lone wolf he felt comfortable being.

“Miguel?” Her voice rang out like a bell and he closed his eyes, frustrated with the whole day. “Will you be coming home tonight?” She asked cautiously and he just shook his head, knowing she could see him from her vocals echoing. “I miss you, Miggy.” She pressed and he huffed.

“I’m too busy.” He replied and she moved to slip her hand into his, but he jerked away. It wasn’t intentional, it was natural and instinctual. She flinched and her face became dark with anger. “Baby, I-”

“That’s fine.” She answered and spun around to walk away.

“Peter spoke to me today.” Miguel’s voice made her body run cold, feeling like a fly caught in a web. “Said that he thinks we missed something, so I looked back at the footage.” He finally turned around and stood tall over her, “You let her get hurt.”

“It wasn’t intentional-”

“Bullshit!” He shouted and she kept herself calm, fists balled by her side.

“Would you be this upset if it was me?” She asked and he rolled his eyes.

“No puedo mas, this again? What is it with the constant questioning?” He yelled and she folded her arms in defense.

“I see how you act around her, how you look at her!”

“I’m with you!” He screamed back and the two fell quiet, breathless. His chest rose and fell with fury.

“Do you love her?” She glared and he tensed, the blistering heat of the question scorching Miguel.

“Mi sol, I love you.” He tried to emphasize the word ‘you’ once again, trying to explain that she was his sunlight, his-

“You didn’t say no.” Her face grew stoic, cold, almost rude as she straightened up. “So you do.”

“But I don’t- it’s not like that. I don’t want a future with her.”

“You don’t want one, or you’re scared of one?” The implication made him shift where he stood and look away from her, trying to even process everything she was assuming about him. “I don’t want you near her anymore.”

“Fine, I’ll prove it to you that you’re the one for me.” He moved to hold her hands, but she tugged them from his reach. “Please.”

“Alright.”

You were put on less missions, denied access to certain sectors of HQ, and worst of all, completely ignored. Little miss perfect was peppy as ever as you walked towards Miguel’s sector, stopping in her tracks to stand in your way.

“Hey! Need something?”

“Yes, actually. I’m not able to get into some areas that I need to for the next mission.” Her face soured and her pink lips turned to a scowl.

“You were assigned that mission?”

“Peter B asked me to take it for him, he’s having trouble finding someone to watch Mayday and MJ is cracking down on the whole ��no more bringing Mayday on missions’ rule.” You continued tapping your watch until you bumped into her body, falling backwards and looking up to see her smiling sweetly, bent down and a little too close to your face.

“I’ll get someone to cover the mission, you can rest up, ok?”

“Um, it’s fine, I can handle a minor anomaly.” You backed up and she sighed, rolling her eyes and glaring down at you now. “Is there a problem?”

“Stay away from Miguel, and there won’t be.” She narrowed her eyes and spun on her toes, getting back to her peppy little skip before you could even process the brief conversation you just had, if you could even call that a conversation.

She saw you as a threat, and this was a revelation.

You took her advice and avoided Miguel completely, giving up any mission and refusing to take on anything that he might be present for.

The only time he was unavoidable was when others were around.

“Welcome in, watch out for some of Mayday’s toys!” Peter chuckled and let you walk in, Pedro behind you holding a bottle of your favorite wine and keeping his hand in yours. You stopped short and stared at the table in front of you. There sat Jess and her husband, Pav, Hobie, Miles, Gwen, and… Miguel. He had an arm over the empty chair to his right, another on his left. You gripped Pedro’s hand tighter and walked towards the empty chair to his left.

His girlfriend came out and sat in the chair you moved to sit in, batting her eyes and smiling up at you.

“Oh, sorry, I was already sitting here, but I think there’s a few spots on the couch!” She pointed over to the living room, everyone else completely engrossed in their conversations. You balled your free hand into a fist and just returned the comment with a nod, pulling Pedro along as he glared at Miguel. The leader of Spider Society watching you walk out, then flashing a glare towards the woman by his side.

“There’s no need to be cruel to her.”

“So would you rather her and Pedro sit here?” She leaned backwards, folding her arms defensively as he huffed. For the two of them, the days filled with either rigorous sex or obnoxious arguments. Behind closed doors, Miguel and his girlfriend were now miserable and always giving one another digs. She always caused fights between them when he was busy or trying to sleep, and most of the time they ended in rough kisses. It was the only way Miguel knew how to get her quiet, and how she knew how to keep him under her control without him thinking of you.

“I just might.” He answered and stood up, walking into the living room. Grabbing his coat, he saw how Pedro held you closer, how he comforted your upset frame, how he was so gentle with your hands in his as your head laid on his shoulder. His eyes met Miguel’s and at that moment, Miguel realized that Pedro knew. “Can I- Can we talk?” He asked the other man, motioning towards the balcony. Pedro kissed your forehead, making an itch form in the palm of MIguel’s hand, and followed the bigger of the two out the sliding glass doors.

“Pedro-” Miguel started, but the other raised a hand and interrupted him, a serious look in his dark eyes.

“She told me what happened.”

“I know. I can tell.” Miguel looked out at the city and kept one hand in his pants pocket. “She’s… She’s the world, the moon, she is-” He stopped himself briefly, “she was my everything, but I didn’t know how to care for her. You do, so please don’t ever stop or make my mistake, entiendes?” Miguel’s eyes, rimmed with red, caught Pedro’s and he saw that there was pity in them.

“I-” Pedro’s words caught in his throat as he looked away, trying to understand what the other was saying, then hanging his head. Miguel was trying to let you go, trying to let you be happy with Pedro, and Pedro saw that as Miguel’s eyes avoided him now. He deserved the truth. “You should know that your girlfriend has been bothering-”

Miguel sneered and gripped the railing with both hands. He saw her for who she was now, a snake in a spider suit.

“I know exactly what she’s doing. It won’t happen again.”

Pedro nodded again and looked towards the sky. “You should try to let her be happy.” His voice cracked and he walked away before Miguel could react, slipping back inside and sitting back on the couch with you. Miguel followed after a beat, now understanding Pedro’s statement and grabbing his coat.

“Honey, where are you going?” Her sickly kind voice made Miguel angry as she placed a hand on his arm, before he yanked it away. “You didn’t tell me we were leaving.” She spoke back, a bite in her words that would go undetectable to the others, but MIguel’s eyes burned red with a fire she’d never seen directed at her before.

“That’s because we aren’t. I am.” He clarified and trudged out of Peter’s door.

That night, Miguel sent Lyla to tell her to get her stuff out of his apartment, and that he would like his things returned to HQ as soon as possible.

You and Pedro laid in bed that night and as you drifted to sleep, you felt his watch get a buzz. He glanced at it and immediately turned it off.

“Was that important?”

“Not as important as you.” He pecked your forehead and pulled you in tighter. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat under your head and woke to an empty bed.

[kaiju-art-for-the-heart]

An Heir to the Throne: Crabby Suspicions

Chapter 7

The swift transition from Autumn to Winter was unmistakable. The cooler air and intense wind chill normally had no affect on the colossal titans, until now. Strip by strip, Mothra's beautiful silk would freeze solid before inevitably breaking beneath them, causing a small bit of panic. 

At this, Mothra could be seen layering silk once more around the cradle. Her claws moved effortlessly to weave the soft material into a tight bond. With a few tufts of her fur slipped inside the webbing, she stood back to assess the final product. The egg cradle was now refurbished to be far more sturdy, while also retaining warmth even when unattended. Content with her work, Mothra stepped around to position herself on top of the clutch. Her thick winter coat provided an excellent layer of heat as she cuddled close to them. 

It had been just over a month since everything had transpired. Godzilla expectedly made a full recovery, now working twice as hard to keep the peace and his queen comfortable. The eggs also hit milestones she didn't expect were possible. It seemed almost weekly they were gaining weight, even with one of the eggs being significantly smaller. Though other parents may have found it normal, Mothra was fascinated. Afterall, she had no idea what was going on behind those little shells. Thinking about it both excited and terrified her, it was either going REALLY good or REALLY bad. 

"My precious babies.." her gentle voice spoke, filling the empty air around them with unwavering love. "I hope you're working hard to look your best. You already have a secret admirer." she chuckled, watching as their persistent house guest paused its 'stealthy' sneaking. Usually Godzilla would be the one keeping it in check by making sure it stayed by the opening of the nest. But since he had been out on patrol the past few days, it had become far more comfortable sneaking around and attempting to get closer to the cradle. 

The small tinks and clanks of its metal legs creeped just a few inches closer, only pausing when Mothra looked to it. After a few seconds she turned away, pretending to seem uninterested. Instantly it began again, its beady black eyes fixated on the eggs below her. With another quick turn of the head, it stops in its tracks on a particularly spiky portion of the rocks. She was absolutely tickled by this, small chirrs of amusement echoing around them and catching the attention of the bot. Though the small interaction doesn't last long before one of its legs slips off and sends it tumbling down the wall and in the direction of the cradle. Reflexively Mothra moves her claw into its path, stopping it in its tracks with a loud CLANK! 

After a few moments of silence, she gently raised her claw to make sure she didn't crush the poor thing. Her eyes landed on the small crab laying on its back, its legs kicking side to side in attempt to flip itself over. She giggles at its awkward display before assisting, watching it regain its balance quickly. Its eyes unnaturally turn upwards to look at her before settling once again on its original task. She stares to note its eerie stillness, her thoughts clouded with just how cute the humans truly were. 

It didn't take long for Godzilla to make it back home for lunch. Though he wouldn't say it out loud, he was incredibly eager to come back to see his family waiting for him. To anyone else, maybe a bit too eager. Emerging from the cool ocean waters he trudges his way onto the beach, shaking out as much moisture as possible. Tracking water into the nest was a surefire way of breaking it apart faster, they had to learn that the hard way. As soon as he felt dry enough to enter, Godzilla screeched the usual warning cry to his queen. 

Mothra had already sensed his arrival, but didn't anticipate him to be so close so fast. Hurriedly her claw pushed the small crab back as far as she could, making sure to be ever so careful to not break it. After making sure it was a decent lengths away, she composed herself, pretending as if she had been napping just a few moments prior. Godzilla entered the nest cautiously, lunch in hand, as he watched Mothra chirr tiredly to him. He greets her with gentle grooming to her antenna before dropping a crudely ripped up tree by her side. Rich bronze tree sap oozed from its drunk and staining the soft wraps below. Though it was messy she didn't mind, it just meant she had a little snack for later.

As Mothra drinks up the meal Godzilla so graciously brought for her,  the small metal crab silently wedges itself in the new hiding spot Mothra pushed it into. The moment its eyes re-focus onto the pair, a large spiky tail whacks it out of its position and sends it tumbling back towards the mouth of the nest. Godzilla growls in annoyance, knowing the humans were already becoming far too bold.  

"Gojira!" Mothra gasps, catching his attention for a mere second before his eyes locked back onto the retreating spy crab. "Please, you're being far too rough." she chitters again, catching a small glimpse of the injured crab skittering away. As it finally fleas the scene, Godzilla turns back to her with a huff. 

"Mosura, just because they are not here physically, does not mean they are to be trusted. They're lucky I'm allowing them this." he retorted, the pink spikes of his tail pulsing vibrantly in his familiar territorial display. She heavily sighs at this, knowing it would take time for him to warm up to the idea. Her claws reach out to him, prompting to settling in beside her. "Lets at least give them a chance. They've proven trustworthy a few times before haven't they?" she questions, looking up to him with pleading eyes. Godzilla stares down at her, slowly lowing himself beside her with a defeated drone. "Fine.." he says simply, knowing he could never say no to that level of trickery. 

"But they only have one chance. If anything happens to any of you, I'm painting this planet red." 

"... That's.." she trailed off, knowing this would quickly turn into a losing battle. "How about we just get rid of the crabs if something did happen? That would be just as affective." she proposed nervously, getting a nod of approval from him. Finally coming to an agreement felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Both titans curl around their nest, ignoring their responsibilities for the rest of the day and instead enjoying each others company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The loud screws and banging echoed endlessly at the Monarch machinery division. Recently they had their hands full recovering damaged spy equipment that Godzilla so graciously 'spared'. Three head mechanics sat chatting amongst themselves, hard at work repairing the notorious spy crab that was dedicated to being closest to the nest. 

"Man.. Godzilla sure is kind to leave 'em just busted up enough to need extensive repairs." one of the men chuckled, slowly descending the ladder that lead from the crabs main frame. The two other mechanics laugh cheekily, each working independently on the crabs broken legs. 

"Listen, if a weird bug kept trying to get close to my kids I'd be pretty annoyed too."  the woman chimes in, closing the maintenance panel on the dented exterior. Both mechanics stand back on their scaffolding, checking off information on their clipboards with satisfied nods. "Alright, I've got my leg done. You boys finished yet? Management will be on our asses if we don't get this thing up and running by 22:00." she questioned, pulling up her sleeve to peer at the thin wrist watch with a nervous sigh. 

"Re-lax Minty, everythin' is fine on the inside. The only thing that may need a replacement, is one of them eye lenses. But that's all. How's it lookin' back there, Trux?" the first mechanic called out, hastily scribbling his last report down before lowering the clipboard. "Its... umm.." Trux called back, his voice quiet but concentrated. This catches the attention of the other two workers as they descend back down to the ground floor. 

Meeting back up in the middle, they creep their way around to find their teammate scanning through multiple different specs on the crab. He seemed so focused that he didn't even notice them appear behind him, looking quite concerned. "Hey kid.. you know you don't actually have to memorize this thing.. I was joking when I said that." Minty chuckled apprehensively, watching as Trux flipped through page after page with heightened confusion. 

"Yeah! Listen to your uncle Tino, ain't no-body rememberin' all that right off the bat. Give yourself some grace." Tino chanted with a hardy pat on the shoulder. Trux finally turned his attention to their troubled glances with a nod. 

"Sorry I just.." he started, looking back to the messy paperwork. "I.. found something that isn't listed.. anywhere. I have no idea what this thing is but.." he trailed off, lifting his gloved hand to gaze nervously at the small item. He turns back to reveal an orange USB plugin, his hands trembling as the previous look of confusion delved into silent terror. "I'm scared I may have ripped something super important out! It was jutting from a spot in the back leg panel but I couldn't find the slot it came out of! D-do you guys know where this goes?!" Trux finally broke down, the two mechanics staring wide eyed at the small chip bouncing around his jittery hand. 

Taking a step forward Minty adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes to assess the item fully. "That's not right.. this unit doesn't have any USB slots. All the information it gathers is fed directly to the Monarch data bank, so there should be no reason for this. Tino?" she questions, turning to look at the large man but stunned to see the color drained completely from his features. 

 "The board.." He whispers under his breath, coaxing them both to question "what?" in unison. Quickly Tino grabs Trux by the wrist and pulls him to his feet before grabbing the hem of Minty's work apron, dragging them along with a sense of urgency. "To the board, NOW."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the sun rose high, the dark clouds that hid its golden rays parted to shine down on the queens resting figure. Her eyes flutter open, instantly panning down to the warm basket of eggs she had been perched on all night long. Mothra stretched out her front legs tiredly, chirring with excitement at whatever new development she could spot out today. Quickly her excitement turned to calm soothing as Godzilla rose from his sleep as well. A loud yawn bellowed from him before turning to greet his queen with a nuzzle. 

"You must be tired, my queen. I'm ready to trade places so you can take some much needed rest." Godzilla purred, rubbing his snout against her soft neck fuzz. Mothra couldn't help but trill at his affection, nuzzling into the crook of his snout. 

"Thank you for offering my love, but I'm truly fine. I'm more than ok with staying here for a while." she assured him, attempting to decline his invitation as passively as possible. Godzilla pauses for a moment to look at her, nudging her gently with another purr.

"Please, I insist. I've already finished my patrols for the week, was there anything you wanted to check on at all? Maybe visit Hallow Earth for a bit?" he questioned sweetly, listening to her hum in thought, but ultimately shaking her head in response. 

"Mmmm nope. I left everything in good shape last I checked. I'm sure everything is fine." she stated simply, making Godzilla narrow his eyes. He silently thought to himself before tilting his head, a look of intrigue and slight vexation riddling his features.

"Well, surely you want some type of break for yourself?" he questions again, the sweetness in his tone dropping to something a bit more impatient. "Of course not, darling. I need no such thing, but I know you love having your alone time. Which is why I'm happy to let you have as much as you need." she said softly, looking up at him with a smile that screamed 'check mate'. 

Godzilla sits up to look at her straight, his eye twitching restlessly with every passing moment. "You're hogging them, its my turn to sit." Godzilla grumbled impatiently, getting Mothra to finally look up at him with the same fierce tone. She retaliates with false sweetness, stating he sat with them for 3 days straight before this and that it was actually HER turn to sit. Both growl under their breath before Godzilla playfully nudges her with his snout, dropping the previous act with a chuckle. "You've been keeping them company since I came back from the dead. Its only fair if I get a couple extra days. Please??" he sighed, capturing her heart with his unusually glossy eyes. 

It took less than a second for her to cave under his pressure, sighing heavily as she stood up to let him take her place. Godzilla wasted no time to settle in comfortably over the eggs, with just the right amount of space between his body and the cradle. The small soft mounds change drastically from blue to pink with their switch, their bioluminescence becoming brighter and brighter with every passing day. 

After taking a long stretch, Mothra searched around the mouth of the nest with confusion, turning to Godzilla with a chitter. "What happened to the little creature? It was here yesterday wasn't it?" she questioned, but only getting a shrug in response. "I watched it leave yesterday but haven't seen it pop up today. Maybe they finally got the memo." he huffed, applauding himself for yesterdays strategic tail swipe. Mothra is a bit disappointed at its disappearance but shakes it off, knowing it made Godzilla happier that it wasn't around. 

Giving each other one last snuggle, Mothra exits their home with renewed energy. Her elegant wings stretched out to take her into the sky, the cool winter winds brushing past her fur with a tingly sensation. Though she was only gone for a few minutes, her mind was already clouded with thoughts of coming back home to her precious family. To her, everything was finally perfect. 

[my-hazbinhotel-blog]

Web Of Temptations

Valentino X Fem! Reader

18+ MINORS DNI

Ch. 2 - Recognized

The streets of Pentagram City were never kind, but now they were suffocating. It had only been a few days since the disastrous stream—since the entire city had seen your face, your real face. And in a place like this, anonymity was more than a luxury. It was survival.

Now, you felt every gaze as you walked through the crowded streets, every whisper slicing through the noise. What was once a comfortable invisibility had turned into a spotlight, the shadows you used to hide in betraying you at every corner.

You kept your hood pulled low over your head, sunglasses obscuring most of your face, but it wasn’t enough.

“Hey! You’re her, right?” A demon with glowing red eyes called out from across the street, his grin wide and hungry. “The cam girl? From that stream with Angel Dust?”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. You quickened your pace, pretending not to hear, but it didn’t stop him.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” His voice grew louder, drawing attention from others. “You’re the one who—”

You darted down an alley, weaving through the tight spaces between crumbling buildings, your pulse hammering in your ears. The city seemed to close in on you, its jagged skyline a constant reminder of the danger that lurked in every shadow. There was nowhere to hide.

This was exactly what you’d feared—being known, being seen. You’d managed to carve out a small, anonymous slice of existence in this chaotic world, and now it was slipping away. You were losing control. And in Pentagram City, when you lost control, someone else took it.

For the past few days, you’d tried to lay low, tried to disappear. But the whispers followed you, the stares, the smirks. It wasn’t long before the rumors reached the wrong ears.

Valentino’s ears.

It started with a message. No subject line, no signature. Just a time, a place, and a single line that made your blood run cold:

“We need to talk.”

You knew who it was from the moment you saw it. Valentino. One of The overlords of pentagram city. The puppet master behind so much of the city’s darker entertainment industry. You had spent your entire career avoiding his notice, staying far enough below the radar that he would never see you as valuable. But now, with your face out in the open? You were prime real estate.

And if Valentino wanted something, he always got it.

You considered ignoring the message, disappearing completely. But where would you go? Pentagram City wasn’t the kind of place you could just vanish from. Not for long. And if you ran, Valentino would come after you. He always did.

So, you went.

The meeting was set in one of the many clubs Valentino happens to fancy—lavish, gaudy, and filled with the kind of clientele you avoided like the plague. You stepped inside, immediately hit by the scent of expensive perfume and the sound of smooth, sultry music playing under the low hum of conversation. The place oozed decadence, all plush velvet and gold accents, and it made your skin crawl.

A few eyes lingered on you as you made your way to the private booth in the back, the one reserved for special meetings. For people who owed Valentino their lives—or worse, their souls.

The booth was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the crimson cushions. And there he was, waiting for you.

Valentino lounged across the seat, his eyes hidden behind his signature heart-shaped sunglasses, but you could feel his gaze. He looked every bit the part of a devilish overlord—sharp, impeccably dressed, and dangerously charismatic. He didn’t even have to say a word to command the room.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice a smooth purr as his lips curled into a smirk. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d actually show, mi amorcito~”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand tall despite the fear gnawing at your insides. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

Valentino chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a chill down your spine. “No, princesa, you really didn’t.”

He gestured for you to sit, and you hesitated only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from him. The table between you felt like a thin line separating your old life from whatever nightmare awaited you on the other side.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately,” Valentino continued, casually inhaling his very long looking cigarette. “Angel Dust seems to think you’ve got… potential. And after that little show you put on, well… I’m inclined to agree.”

You bristled at the mention of the stream, but kept your voice steady. “It was a mistake.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he leaned forward, his grin widening, “there are no mistakes in my world. Only opportunities.”

You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the feeling of being cornered. “What do you want from me?”

“Straight to business, huh? I like that, cariño.” Valentino took a slow and long drag of his cigarette, savoring the moment. “It’s simple, really. I want you to work for me. Exclusively.”

Your heart raced. This was it—the thing you’d been avoiding your entire career. “And if I say no?”

Valentino’s smile didn’t falter, but the air between you grew colder. “Saying no isn’t an option. Not after what’s happened. You’ve become... valuable. And in my line of work, valuable assets don’t get to walk away.”

He reached into his coat, pulling out a sleek, contract and laying it on the table between you. The edges seemed to shimmer, almost alive, as if the paper itself was imbued with dark magic.

“I’m offering you a deal, mi amorcito” Valentino said, his voice soft, but full of dangerous intent. “Sign your soul over to me, and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted. Fame, fortune, power—you name it. And in return, I own you. Simple as that.”

You stared at the contract, the weight of the decision pressing down on you like an iron chain. Signing it would mean giving up everything—your freedom, your soul. But refusing? Refusing meant facing the wrath of Valentino, and that was a fate worse than death in this city.

“What’s the catch?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Valentino leaned back, his smirk never fading. “No catch, cariño. Just the usual terms. A little performance here, a little show there. Nothing you’re not already used to.”

He paused, then added with a gleam in his eye, “Oh, and of course, you’ll have to keep me happy. I’m quite taken with you, princesa~.”

You swallowed hard, the gravity of the situation hitting you like a ton of bricks. You had always known that dealing with Valentino was dangerous, but now that you were here, sitting across from him with your future hanging in the balance, it felt real in a way that made your skin crawl.

Still, what choice did you have?

With trembling hands, you reached for the pen.

“I’ll sign,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “But I want my terms.”

Valentino raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on.”

“I won’t be your puppet. I keep control over my image, my streams. And I work with Angel, but on my terms.”

Valentino smiled, a dark, satisfied grin. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.” He pushed the contract closer. “Deal. Sign it, and you’ll be one of the most powerful faces in Pentagram City. Or... you can walk out of here and be forgotten.”

Your hand hovered over the paper, the pen feeling impossibly heavy in your grip. This was it—the moment that would change everything. The moment you gave up your soul for a shot at something bigger than yourself.

With a deep breath, you signed.

The ink shimmered on the paper, binding you to the deal. Valentino’s smile widened.

“Welcome to the family, mi amorcito~.”

Heyyyy! I hope you guys are enjoying!! This story is heavily inspired by one I had read on AO3, but never got finished. Please let me know if you guys want more- BYEEEEE

[vincess-princess]

trying to write original small-form works ended up in this. not exactly small, but it's finished, and that's something considered i haven't finished a thing since 2020

Genres: sci-fi, dystopia, a dash of cyberpunk Word count: 10 228 words Summary: The research facility personnel doesn't like Dex much. Not a single one of them hadn't suffered from one of his meltdowns, be that a bruise or a broken limb. But they aren't getting rid of him. They can't, really. He is the reason the research facility has been built. The military that sponsored it are very interested in a mysterious virus in his body. And Dex? Dex is interested in putting as many spokes in their wheels as he can. Warnings: not spoiling it to you but on AO3 this would have gotten a "creator chose not to warn" tag.

Dex could feel them burrow through his flesh, weaving complex tunnel systems underneath his skin that looked like intricate red webs from the outside. The tunnels healed fast, and the next day the webs would look completely different, each time unique, like a snowflake. All this healing and tearing produced so much scar tissue his skin was growing bumpy and uneven - but at least dead flesh didn’t ache.  

But so far there was still nearly not enough of it in his body to not ache, so much that constant pain fogged his mind, slowed his thoughts and jumbled his perception of reality. It was not so bad, really; pain could hardly break through the veil of fog, and only an occasional sharp spike of acuteness tore through it – but just for a moment, and then everything went thick and bland again.

The medassistant above his head detected Dex’s heartbeat change and awoke with a buzz. Its flexible tendril with a needle at the end began unwinding, aiming at his left arm where constant blood-taking left ugly bruises on the inner side of his elbow. This tendril was considerably faster than the previous three, but not enough that he couldn’t break it too if he wanted. But he didn’t. Not right now, at least.

The needle dug into Dex’s inner elbow and began filling a little vial with coppery blood. The more of them there were, the stronger was the color. His was the brightest in the lab fridge, more so considering that activity in other samples ceased long ago – they couldn’t live outside the host for more than 24 hours.

The tendril drank its due and withdrew. Next to the bed a drawer moved out of the wall. There were two small white capsules inside. Breakfast.

Dex sighed and pushed himself up on the bed. Lowered his bare feet onto the cold floor. Shivers ran up his calves. Would it really hurt the budget to put a rug in here? Anything, really, just to brighten the austere, sterile containment cell, dilute the grey and white with some color.

But the management didn’t like him enough to fulfil his wishes. They didn’t like him at all, to be frank. It was probably all the equipment they had to replace and the new workers they had to hire after yet another of his meltdowns.

Through great effort Dex rose to his feet and shuffled over to the sink in the other corner of the cell. When he waved his hand before the sensor, water poured into his mug – thankfully, he had no restriction on it, because the infection made him really thirsty.

He washed tasteless pills down with water, then climbed back to bed in hope of catching some more shut-eye. The rough fabric of the bedsheet grinded against his skin, inflaming his sharp senses. His brain, flooded with signals of distress, instantly jumped into overwhelm, forcing a groan out of his throat. This was the worst of his illness: lights too bright, sounds too loud, surfaces too uneven, smells too strong. Doctors tried to reduce the sensory input – with limited success: Dex still had at least one meltdown on a biweekly basis. At least not every other day like in the beginning, though.

Just as he wrapped himself in a thin blanket, he heard the elevator on the other end of the hall open and familiar heavy steps approach. The man was limping slightly – seemed like his leg was still healing. Was the management really so short-staffed as to call Mike from his sick leave early? Modern medicine could heal broken bones very fast, of course, but for fuck’s sake, give the poor guy some rest.

Because Dex surely wasn’t gonna do that. As steps grew closer, he stood up and grabbed his mug from the sink, and when the door opened, flung the mug into the figure looming in the doorframe. A thump, an indignant yell and the clatter of the mug rolling across the floor that followed were music to his ears.

“You motherfucker!” Mike yelled. His stubbly face reddened – he was always quick to anger. “I’m so sick of you, you chinch-infested asshole. Can’t wait for them to eat you alive.”

“I’m happy to see you too, Mike. How’s the leg?”

“One day I will get to kick your corpse with it. And I’ll do it. I’ll be the first in line.” Mike promised, kicking the mug with such ferocity it could as well be the aforementioned corpse.

“I sure hope your leg heals by that time. So you can give it your all.”

“It better does.” Mike walked inside, grabbed him by the arm and tugged at it. “C’mon. You’ve got some tests to do.”

“Can’t wait.”

They walked down the hall. It was squeaky-clean, as always – a government research facility had to meet the standards – but there were still crumbs and dust that stuck to Dex’s sensitive feet. Walking everywhere barefoot didn’t help much when that “everywhere” was the lab, the gym and the shower.

Mike led him to the elevator and towards the lab. Dr. Forester waited for them at the door.

“Good morning, Dex,” he said.

Dex ignored him. Dr. Forester didn’t look too upset about it.

“Come in, come in. Mike, I’ll call you when it’s time to escort Dex to the gym.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Mike said to Dex acidly.

“Thanks, I will.”

The guard left. Dex listened to his steps getting quieter until Dr. Forester closed the door.

“Sit down.” He waived at the chair in the center of the lab. “A chair” was not nearly enough to do it justice, though. It was a throne of woe – for the sickest and the damnedest, with cuffs on the handles and at the footrest, a collar where the neck should go and a crown of a neuroscanner above the head. Too much time had he spent on his throne of woe – more than anyone else, as far as he was aware. The longest any other infected lasted at the facility before Dex was four months and eighteen days.

Dex was here for over a year already. He wasn’t sure how much exactly – as time passed, things began to blur. Now his life before the facility seemed a distant memory, a splash of color among the monotony of black and white.

No. He won’t drag those memories to the surface. Burying them again would be too much work.

“I’d really prefer not having to strip you into this.” Dr. Forester patted the throne handle. “That’d do good both to the research and to your well-being. You agree?”

Dex ignored him again. They’ve been through that countless times, and Dr. Forester was right – it hurt no one else but Dex.

Still, he would do it again, and again, and again, until they had to take his body apart limb by limb, but not today. Today the pain was worse than usual, and he didn’t have it in him today. One day wouldn’t change anything anyway.

“Seems like you are. We’ll see, though.” And Dr. Forester picked up a tonometer.

The usual tests followed. Blood pressure, glucose, urine sample, weight, height (Dex added half an inch over his stay at the facility), blood oxygen, ECG, brain scan and he forgot what else. His blood analysis had been completed by that point, and one of Dr. Forester’s assistants – Turner, if Dex remembered correctly – was putting the data into the database.

“Hm. The ironphage concentration is higher than usual today. Another growth period?” Dr. Forester mused at the chart of Dex’s ironphage concentration in the blood. It spawned the entirety of his imprisonment at the facility and grew in spurts: a period of fast growth, a plateau, growth, plateau. Every time Dex hoped a yet another spurt would be the last one, and every time it wasn’t. And it seemed now that another spurt was coming. Not good news for Dex and doctors both.

“It is within acceptable fluctuation, though…” Dr. Forester kept talking, but the sound of his voice faded into the background as another one pushed its way ahead. It was Turner banging on his keyboard like it was his mortal enemy, and the repetitive, annoying clicking rang in Dex’s ears, overpowering everything else. Though not exactly loud to anyone else, it rumbled through Dex’s body, making his muscles tense up and his head hurt. He barely suppressed an urge to cover his ears and instead clenched the handles of his throne so hard his knuckles went white.

“What is it?” Dr. Forester frowned. Damn, he noticed. “Dex, I sure hope you’re not scheming something up. We both know that tranquilizers aggravate your sensitivity.”

“Make it stop,” Dex exhaled. Words came out through great effort. Please, not another meltdown. Triggered by keyboard clicking would be the new low for him to hit.

“Stop what?”

“The banging. Keyboard.”

“Keyboard? Turner!” Dr. Forester quickly identified the culprit. “Tone down that clicking! Or better put it off until Dex leaves. The data won’t go anywhere.”

“Yes, doctor,” Turner said, shooting Dex an unfriendly gaze. Considering that once Dex threw a tonometer at him, leaving a sizeable bruise, Dex understood why.

“Is that better?”

Dex nodded.

“Good. Now, we’re done here. Off to the gym you go.”

Mike and Turner walked him down the hall to another door. There was a corner right behind it, but Dex didn’t know what was there. He never went farther than the gym.

A massive steel door, like that of a bunker, was controlled by a fingerprint lock, and, as Dr. Forester warned Dex, did not react to fingers that were for some reason separated from the body. Not that Dex ever tried, but the warning did change a couple of his plans. All the weapons in the gym were, of course, just training versions of real ones, and couldn’t kill a man, or so he was told – but they were still weapons.

Inside the gym was brightly lit, as always – they never listened to Dex’s requests to tone down the brightness. The rubber-covered floors were squeaky clean – not a trace of blood left from the last time. He’s gotta ask Mike about Trevor – they should have sewn his arm back on already.

The door behind Dex slammed shut. He looked around. The broadaxe he used the last time was missing, and toned plexiglass separating the gym from the observation room replaced. Pity they took away the broadaxe, even a training version. It was heavy enough to leave a good dent and crush a couple of bones.

A robotic voice began reading instructions from a speaker by the ceiling. They were the same from Dex’s first day in the facility, and he could recite them by memory now. The damn white coats kept putting them on every time he came to the gym.

“Shut up!” he yelled at the ceiling. The voice kept reading monotonously. Dex stopped listening.

He headed to the weapon rack and picked up his favorite rifle. It lay heavily in his arms, warm to the touch, like it had just been shot out of. A precise replica of a real-life SVD-X1 shooting rubber bullets. The bullets were real at first, but after the doctors saw enough of Dex’s temperament they replaced all the weapons with their training versions. Still, even the training version of SVD-X1 was light, portable, quick and precise, and reliable like a Swiss watch.

It's been a while since he held Glasha in his arms, and it felt like being reunited with an old friend. It did exactly what Dex wanted from it, didn’t manhandle him and perform tests and experiments on him – what’s more to ask?

Yeah, a bitter thought flashed through Dex’s mind, the facility had really lowered his standards.

The observer – Turner, most likely – must have seen him cradle the rifle and seized the chance. The robotic voice changed its tune mid-word and launched a “precision check”. On the opposite sides of the gym, a good 300 feet away, three targets were lowered from the ceiling. One was about 20 inches wide, the other – 7, and the smallest one – barely 2.

Oh, so they returned to the basics. Out of caution, probably – they didn’t expect him to show his top results after a week of solitary confinement – but Dex could already feel boredom wash over him. He hit those targets during his first month in the facility, why go back to it?

He took his earmuffs off the weapon rack – the gunshots deafened him for good five minutes otherwise – returned to the position and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He felt Glasha’s buttstock nest comfortably against his shoulder, leveled the scope against his eye. He closed his eyes, inhaled and called to the ironphages. Here’s a job for you.

The red webs on his hands filled up and reddened. Adrenaline rushed through his body, overwhelmed his mind with unexplainable confidence, almost like Dex had already seen everything happen. His fingers grew stronger, his hold – more even, Glasha seemed weightless. He narrowed his eyes.

Bang, bang, bang – the three targets fell back and rose ashamedly to the ceiling.

“Boring!” he yelled to the plexiglass, rubbing his shoulder where the recoil hit. SVD-X1 was nearly not as bad as, say, Barrett M72-V1 (not to say lighter), but it was still a sniper rifle. Precision and strike strength came with a price.

Turner must have been annoyed at his expression of boredom: the targets began moving, then doubled in numbers, then sped up. Dex kept shooting methodically, almost without thinking: ironphages didn’t need him to. They granted his arms balance and strength, kept up with the speed, postponed muscle fatigue. Dex reveled in this thoughtlessness, this utter concentration on one thing only: it gave him relief from his thoughts and even lessened the pain.

When the routine was over, Dex was almost disappointed. But then Turner launched the next program – melee. Dex liked it less than precision shooting, but he took what he could get.

He went to the weapon rack, took off the earmuffs and picked a nylon knife. He weighed it in his hand, reminding the ironphages of the weight, the shape of the handle, the point of balance – and then he heard a voice.

Dex was going to brush it off - Turner was speaking on the intercom, probably, - but then another voice joined in. It was low, booming. Then spoke one more person – a woman, judging by the higher pitch. Dex couldn’t make out the words, but could distinguish the intonation quite well.

And it was very telling: both unfamiliar voices were measured, authoritative, commanding. Soldiers spoke like that.

Oh, come on. Dex told them numerous times he would rather die than work with the military, and they never listened. His fingers clenched the handle of the knife. His answer was gonna be the same, and he would show them that.

The knife collided with the glass and bounced off it so hard it landed far behind Dex. It left a shallow dent – they may have reinforced the glass specifically for this kind of Dex’s tantrums, but his growing strength eventually outgrew it, and they couldn’t afford to replace it every couple weeks.

“I ain’t joining the army!” he yelled. His voice echoed all over the gym, rumbled in his ears. Dex winced, but continued.

“Fuck your army and fuck you!” He picked up a heavier knife and flung it at the glass. This dent was noticeably deeper. The ironphages clearly banded up in there to help him convey his point.

The voices behind the glass went quiet for a moment and then began gabbering with growing intensity. The male voice boomed, the female sizzled. Turner could barely be heard – these two must have completely overpowered him. Dex felt no pity for him.

“Fuck! You! Fuck! You!” Dex chanted as he grabbed Barrett M72-V1 off the weapon rack and fired the whole magazine into the glass.

The recoil was so powerful his shoulder exploded with pain, making him drop the rifle with a groan. But it was worth it – the bullets, though rubber, dove deep into the glass and nestled there snugly, framed by snowflake-like halos of cracks.

The glass didn’t break, but his demonstration of discontent sure had an effect on the observers.

“Stop that right now!” Turner’s trembling voice demanded over the loudspeaker.

“Or what?”

“You don’t wanna know.” Turner tried to be ominous, but sounded desperate instead.

“You for real? I’m supposed to be afraid of something I don’t even know about? You’re a horrible negotiator.” Dex picked up another knife and twirled it between his fingers.

“It’s gonna be worse than anything you’ve had before.”

“Really? Now I’m interested. Roll out your new punishment.” Dex flung the knife at the glass again. Turner’s breath audibly faltered at the collision.

“You don’t wanna go through it. Just stop that and you won’t get it,” Turner tried one last time. But Dex was unimpressed.

“Come on! How many guards is that gonna be this time? Ten? Twenty?”

Turner emitted a short laugh. “None.”

Then a hiss came from somewhere above. Dex’s sensitive nose caught a whiff of something bitter and acrid. Then a yellowish gas began blowing into the room, painting everything in vomit-colored residue.

They were sedating him!

Dex couldn’t not agree that this was something new. He’d rather have ten guards. At least those were breakable. He couldn’t break a gas’s leg, try as he might.

“Cowards!” he yelled to the glass, hoping to provoke Turner, but no more sounds came from the loudspeaker. Dex kicked the weapon rack with frustration, but it hurt his toes, so he left it alone. He sat by the wall, coughing as more gas entered his lungs. His head felt heavy and foggy; ironphages, detecting something fishy in the system, rushed to remove the harmful molecules, but they were soon overpowered. The gas was so dense by that point Dex couldn’t see the opposite wall of the gym. It was the first time Dex wished there were more of the phages.

He succumbed to the sedative a couple minutes later. The blissful darkness came abrupt and quick like a hammer to the head.

***

Dex didn’t know how much time he slept – his cell had no windows – but when he woke up, the lights were out. Must be nighttime then.

A headache so bad the hammer might as well have been real kicked in. Moving also didn’t bring much relief: the ironphages were hard at work cleaning his body of toxins and were more active than usual. Combined the pain was so bad Dex could barely move a hand.

He needed to pee, but not badly enough to attempt getting up, so he turned to the other side, pulled up his blanket and fell asleep again.

The next couple days were the same, except he did force himself to pee at some point: they wouldn’t change his sheets with him still in the cell, and he didn’t want to sleep in a wet bed. Dex was thankful for the residual sleepiness that helped him fall asleep hard and fast every time. He wouldn’t be able to bear all that pain while awake.

Aside from the medassistant taking his blood samples, nobody bothered him, or he slept right through it. He was undoubtedly watched – Dr. Forester would never leave his test subject unobserved while on a new drug, because the ironphages’ reaction was unpredictable. They rejected the mildest painkillers with such ferocity Dex thought his insides were burning and limbs torn off piece by piece. Then they healed his broken arm in a matter of days. If at first Dex confidently labeled them parasites, now he was not so sure.

He did wish he never got them, though. As miserable as his life was before the facility, it was still life. This was just existence.

He finally awoke at night, his throat parched and his eyes dry, but the headache was gone and the phages calmed down a bit. He let medassistant take his blood and, looking at the coppery liquid in the vial, realised how hungry he was.

There were six breakfast capsules in his little drawer. So he missed three mornings.

He didn’t have to wait long for someone to remember about him. Mike thumped loudly down the hall and unlocked the door.

“I did not miss you,” he announced from the doorframe.

“C’mon, you’re glad to see me alive and well.” Dex highlighted the last word, smiling.

“The only time I’d be glad to see you is when I get to see your dead body.”

“You’re so rude. Did your mama not teach you manners?”

“Shut up and walk.”

Mike escorted Dex to the lab and handed him over to Dr. Forester, who seemed unusually invigorated. Got another questionable medicine to test on him?

“Dex! How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Dex grumbled. He didn’t like talking to Dr. Forester, but he had a request to make. “What was that crap you made me breathe? Could at least tell me beforehand.”

“A new sedative the QC came up with. For larger groups of enemies designated for capture. Our intel has got ahold of its composition, so we recreated it to see it in action.”

“Bet you tested it on regular humans already.”

“That’s right.” Dr. Forester seemed neither surprised nor indignant. He talked about the subject with his usual ease, which did not, in turn, instill ease in Dex at all.

“And?”

“Let me say… the QC chemists have got a load more brainstorming to do if they want a healthy labor force.” Dr. Forester smiled. “Just another proof of our superior technology. Now, as you’re the only remaining test subject,” – Dex winced, - “would you mind describing what inhaling the gas felt like?”

“I might,” Dex began carefully, “if you fulfill my request.”

“Taking advantage of me, huh?” Dr. Forester said light-heartedly. “You’ve got your charm, I’ve got to admit. Ask away – within reason.”

“I want new clothes, these have been worn to bits. And a rug in my cell.”

“Your room, you mean?” Dr. Forester politely corrected him. Dex grimaced. God, who all that farce was for? “Well, that can be done. What color?”

“Pink. And fluffy.”

“I’ll put in an order. Say it’s for science purposes.” Dr. Forester winked at Dex, and he felt like a bucket of sewer water had been upended over him. “Now, let us proceed to our usual tests, and you can tell me about your experience with the gas along the way.”

That day was shower day, and after gym (the plexiglass had already been replaced, as if Dex never shot at it) Dex got to wash off all that sticky, smelly residue of the gas off his body and change into new clean clothes – simple white T-shirt and pants again, but at least without holes between the thighs. No shoes, though – the management believed it could somehow stop him should he make up his mind to escape. Dex could tell them that he would walk on white-hot nails barefoot if it would get him out of the facility, but he knew how paranoid the management was by that point. They could easily make him walk around naked for all he cared.

He sat down on his bed, combing through his hair with his fingers. It had already grown to reach his shoulders, and he didn’t care enough to ask to have it cut. Dex hadn’t seen himself in a mirror in a long while, but he was sure he now looked just like Luke in his rockstar phase, only without that stupid heart tattoo. The girl dumped Luke three weeks after he had it done. Oh how Dex laughed at him.

He missed him. He missed him so much it hurt.

***

The next day he woke up from the pain. It hadn’t happened in a while: as the phages began multiplying and pain increased, so did his body’s adaptability. He cried and screamed on day one and slept soundly on day twenty. This seemed to be day one of another growth spurt, as Dr. Forester predicted.

Every time they believed a spurt would be the last one – a human body simply couldn’t host that many phages – and every time they were wrong.

When Mike came, Dex threw his hand over his forehead in a “dying Victorian maiden” style.

“You’re gonna have to carry me. Bridal style, please.”

“No the fuck I ain’t.” Mike bared his teeth in a smile. “Get up, princess.”

He dragged Dex out of the bed by his leg, forcing him to get on his feet. Then they headed to the lab – five minutes late because they had to fix Dex’s bedsheets that he dragged with him to the floor.

“Thanks, buddy,” Dex told him as the door closed. “See, you can be a very nice guy when you want to.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Mike replied almost endearingly.

He had been working here since the beginning, and stayed as some left and others came. He stayed even after Dex broke his leg – on accident, of course. He didn’t want that chair to hit the guard.

“A bad day?” Dr. Forester greeted him sympathetically as Dex climbed onto his throne of woe. “Your blood tests show a spike in ironphage activity. We will, of course, conduct other analyses, but it’s pretty damning evidence that we’re having a growth period upon us.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dex said.

“Your analyses have shown a slight spike in activity even before the gas, but today it’s much steeper than usual. Could it be prompted by the gas?” Dr. Forester mused over the chart. “If it could… we could force ironphages to replicate by making the host breathe the QC gas. Or- no, I don’t think it’s the gas in particular. We could try other intense experiences and see how they react.”

Of course they could. And who was the only available test subject?..

“Don’t look so grim.” Dr. Forester must have noticed Dex’s face change. “There is nothing the ironphages can’t fix. Or rather,” he added reluctantly, “there has been – so far.”

“This is not a consolation.”

“That’s the only one I can offer you,” Dr. Forester shrugged. Oh how Dex wanted to claw his eyes out.

But Dr. Forester was the head of the research department. Whatever he saw fit to do, he did. The high-ranking military assholes that sponsored him gave him a “freedom of research”, since he was the first one to keep an infected person alive for more than a few months. It wasn’t really his achievement, but who cared what Dex had to say about it?

“Relax,” Dr. Forester told him. “It’s just a hypothesis, and the one I do not intend to test any time soon. Today we have something else to try.”

“Oh, come on,” Dex groaned.

“No-no, it’s not as bad as you think.” Dr. Forester took a small pill box from a table and opened it. A lone red capsule lay inside. It didn’t look remarkable in any way, but the doctor and both his assistants looked at it… almost reverently.

“We’ve been working on a new kind of painkiller for you – the one that would not trigger ironphages – and I have a reason to believe we’ve been rather successful this time. At least your blood samples didn’t react as violently as they did during earlier trials. They didn’t react at all, in fact.”

“Wait, so you got a reaction off my blood tests to all the previous pills and you gave them to me anyway?”

“Of course. Blood tests are not a be-all-end-all. The body might react completely differently. This time, however, we harbor hope for a much better result.” And he handed Dex the pill box.

Dex hesitated for a moment, thinking of throwing it in Dr. Forester’s face. What was that, the sixth painkiller they told him would totally help him?

They would force him to take it anyway, though. Strip him down to the chair and shove it down his throat, or sedate him with the gas and inject it, whatever.

The box cracked in half in his hands – Dex clutched it too tight without even noticing. Then he heard buzzing coming from Dr. Forester’s hand. He was branding his favorite shocker that Dex had become too well-acquainted with for his own liking.

“Don’t make me tase you, Dex,” he warned. His pleasant demeanor slipped off like a mask. A mask it was, in fact. “Just be a good boy and take the pill. I promise you, it’s not worth it.”

Dex knew that. He had learned that resistance it pointless long ago. It never stopped him before, but now… he was tired. Tired from the pain, the brain fog, the constant sensory overload. And this – this was a potential relief, feeble as it could be.

“Fine,” Dex said grimly. “But if it’s another blow-“

“It’s not.” Dr. Forester was growing impatient. “Need water?”

Dex threw the pill into his mouth and swallowed it in a big gulp. It slid down his throat effortlessly.

“Very well.” Dr. Forester looked relieved. “It should take effect in about half an hour, and then you’ll do a regular training routine at the gym. We need to ensure that the pill doesn’t affect your performance.”

Dex did not reply. He listened to his body, and even ironphages seemed to slow down in anticipation: what did this idiot take this time? Should we show him it’s bad to take meds from shady scientists?

Dex waited for more pain to come. He waited. He waited. He waited. The scientists around him returned to their business, paying no attention to him at all. Only Dr. Forester cast an occasional look in his direction – to catch the moment when Dex falls to the floor and starts thrashing and screaming, probably. At least that’s how it went the previous five times.

Then the pain began to fade.

No way, Dex thought. No way had they finally made a drug that could help him. It was impossible. Nothing could help him, least of all these white-coated rats. He had already learned to live with it, in a way. And now in half an hour a little red pill crushed the wall of his indifference he spent a year erecting around his pain and misery.

“Dex? What is it?” Dr. Forester, an observant asshole, noticed his face change and approached. “Do you feel something?”

“No. Yes. No. Not sure,” Dex said hoarsely. “Gimme some time.”

“Alright.” Dr. Forester returned to his work, but Dex could see he was mostly watching him instead of his papers.

And Dex waited, and the pain decreased until only a sore aftertaste of it was left in his muscles.

He forgot how it felt. He stretched his legs, tilted his head, waved his arms. Nothing.

“Well?” Dr. Forester practically ran towards him. At any other time Dex would laugh. “Any effects?”

“It’s gone,” Dex said. “The pain. It’s gone.” His voice came out so much clearer he could barely believe it was his. “What the hell is it?”

“We call it “The Soother”,” Dr. Forester said, smiling. “The best minds of the Federation worked on it for months. All so that you could feel better, Dex.”

“The military paid them,” Dex huffed, but he couldn’t remain skeptical when he could think and feel clearly for the first time in more than a year.

“That too,” Dr. Forester agreed lightly. “A little financial incentive never hurts, you know. Now, we’ve got to take some more tests and you’re off to the gym.”

Dex reveled in sharp pain from the needle in his skin – it didn’t just add to his main pain now, no, it highlighted the contrast between then and now. Then he went to the gym. With a decrease in ironphage activity his reflexes and strength were lacking, but his mind was clearer than ever, and that evened out his performance a bit. Overall, he did pretty good, even though the military rats behind the plexiglass were not quite as satisfied.

Of course, he could hear them – they didn’t particularly try to be quiet. In fact, they were discussing something – not hard to guess what exactly – with great fervor.

The pill worked really well. And Dex really didn’t want to be sedated again. But he hated the military more. So he lay down on the floor, crossed his arms on his chest the way dead people about to be cremated had their arms positioned and closed his eyes.

“Dex?” Dr. Forester said into the dynamic. “What are you doing?”

“Resting.”

“Please continue your training routine.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I ain’t a monkey in a circus.”

“Dex.” Dr. Forester heaved a heavy sigh. “They are our sponsors. They have to see the results of our work.”

“You’ve got your tests. Show them those and leave me alone.”

“You know I can’t.” Dr. Forester’s voice hardened. “You like the effect of the pill, right? Must be nice to not be in pain all the time. Well, it takes money to produce. A lot, in fact. And unless our sponsors see the results, we won’t make any more of it.”

Dex sighed and dove deeper into the feeling of his body. Felt every ironphage, traced every little tunnel they burrowed, tasted the metallic copper of the blood the little tunnels filled with. The phages moved like in slow motion, like they were poisoned roaches that were at the brink of death and didn’t react to humans’ presence anymore. The drug lulled them into sleep, instilled the sense of calm in them, weakened the connection to the hivemind. They still moved, driven by the energy from his blood and fat cells, but now just barely.

Yes, no pain felt good, almost too good to be true. But the relief came from the people he hated most, and it was nauseating.

He got up and continued the routine with cold, slimy shame coiled up in his stomach.

***

“It slows the phages down.”

“That’s right.”

“Ain’t that counterproductive? They won’t help in battle.”

“Oh, the drug isn’t supposed to be taken less than two hours before any intense action. But a couple hours of pain in exchange for a painless rest of the day – isn’t it better than nothing?” Dr. Forester scribbled something on his tablet. “Of course we still have to test for side effects. But what we have now is already promising.”

“And of course I’ll be the test subject.”

“Of course. You have something against it?”

“I…” Dex hesitated. Sure, they ain’t doing it out of the kindness of their hearts, but no pain is no pain. And it’s not like they wouldn’t just make him take the pill by force if he refused. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.” Dr. Forester made a surprised face. He didn’t really pull it off. “Except the usual tests and daily accounts of your well-being.”

“And how long is that gonna last?”

“Of course, it would be best to conduct a long-term research of five plus years… but we don’t have that time. So, a month.”

A month. It was nearly not enough, but Dex would have time to think.

“Alright. I agree.”

Dr. Forester smiled triumphantly.

“I knew you’d come to the right decision, Dex.”

***

The next month was simultaneously the best and the worst month of Dex’s life. The pain was now present only a couple hours a day, when he was training. His stats did lower, but were still way above those of an average human’s. But now he didn’t have to endure constant pain to get there.

And the military didn’t even try to hide now. The guy with a booming voice was often studying Dex’s tests in the lab with Dr. Forester, and the woman spoke loudly on the phone behind the plexiglass in the gym, perfectly aware that Dex could hear her.

He didn’t do a thing to them, They were the ones paying for his meds that kept the pain at bay. No compliance – pain. The funding had already shrunk by that point – the military didn’t like that it was taking so long. The drug was a breakthrough, though, and now Dr. Forester sported new eye implants and Turner had his crooked – not without Dex’s fault – nose fixed. The activity in the lab picked up, new guards appeared in the corridors (though Dex still interacted primarily with Mike), and the equipment was massively getting replaced with newer one.

“You’ve been on particularly good behavior,” Dr. Forester told him once. “Do you want something?”

“Beer,” Dex said. “And a smoke.”

Dr. Forester frowned. “We don’t know how the ironphages would react to that, and we can’t have a flare-up right now. Anything else?”

“A burrito. With jalapeno.”

That evening Dex was choking on his burrito, his mouth burning. A once adored taste was now unbearable. Maybe it was the phages reacting… but Dex was on the pill. And now that he could feel his inner processes much more acutely, he couldn’t blame ironphages for everything anymore.

He flushed the burrito down the toilet and ended up flooding his cell. He had to spend the night in a different one, on the other end of the hall, and the pillow still retained the smell of a previous resident. Weird – the last time Dex saw another infected was half a year ago. But maybe that were just his sharpened senses.

The medassistant was now drawing three vials of blood a day, and by the end of the first week Dex was feeling weak and dizzy. The ironphages rushed to replenish the blood loss during training hours, and it worsened the pain so much taking a pill after it was like breaking a cold turkey withdrawal. Dex grew even more dependent on it, and despised himself for it. But he couldn’t go back to a 24/7 pain. He just couldn’t.

Then one night he heard an unfamiliar voice. It was crying. “Please stop it. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Please-“

The voice was cut short, but it imprinted on Dex’s brain and didn’t let him go. He didn’t want to believe it, but he knew Dr. Forester was capable of anything in the name of “science”.

He was infecting others with Dex’s blood. Ironphages could be transmitted only through blood contamination, which is why the disease was rare. But once infected, the body couldn’t adapt to their activity and the infected was dying a slow, excruciating death over the course of months. Infection could only be transmitted through fresh blood. So that’s why they needed so much of it.

In the morning Dex broke the medassistant. Its details were scattered all over the cell when the guards arrived. Dex spent the night in another cell while the medassistant was being replaced. He didn’t get a pill that day. If anyone was somewhere near, he couldn’t hear them over his own screaming and wailing.

The new medassistant was sturdier than the previous one, but Dex didn’t test it anymore. The next day in the lab he told Dr. Forester outright:

“You infect other people with my blood.”

Dr. Forester didn’t seem surprised. “You’ve always been quick on the uptake, Dex.”

“Why?”

The doctor looked at him tiredly. All that money he was now getting obviously couldn’t buy him some rest: he had dark circles under his eyes and always held onto a cup of caffeine stimulant.

“Dex, you’re a smart boy. You can figure it out yourself.”

Dr. Forester was right. Dex knew it for a long time, just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. “You’re trying to find suitable hosts. Hosts like me.”

“See? You got it already.” Dr. Forester took a sip from the cup. “We still haven’t figured out what it is that makes you so unique. There’s nothing abnormal about your body that can explain your resistance to ironphages. So we decided it’s time to move one from studying your body to finding someone with similar characteristics. The more subjects, the easier to figure it out.”

“Found anything?”

Dr. Forester’s frustrated face was a clear enough answer. Dex always wanted to be special – who didn’t? – but fate was cruel to him: he never imagined what would make him unique.

“Where are all those people coming from?”

“Volunteers.” Dr. Forester shrugged.

“Bullshit. Nobody would agree to that.”

“Some people are desperate, Dex. And the money is good.”

“Why’d walking corpses need money?”

“Well,” Dr. Forester smiled his uncanny smile, “they don’t know they’re walking corpses.”

That was pretty in line with the military – promise lots of money, sign an NDA, and then the person disappears, never to be seen again. Everyone knew the biochemical companies they hired did human testing. Yet there were still fools hoping to get rich quick. Or provide for their families, who the money was automatically directed to once the person “disappeared”.

Dr. Forester was not in the mood to answer more questions that day, and the lack of answers kept Dex awake all night. How many have already been infected? Why did he never see a single one of other test subjects? On early stages the infection was almost unnoticeable – until one day you woke up with your entire body hurting like hell. But months had to pass before that. He couldn’t forget the voice he heard one night. How could the symptoms surface so soon?

Then he remembered Dr. Forester’s offhanded remark about the QC gas triggering growth periods. They used the gas to speed up the process. They used everything they could get out of Dex to infect more and more people.

But they helped him. They soothed his pain, banished the brain fog, dampened his too-sharp senses. He could think and feel clearly again. One considers it a given, something not worth to be grateful for. Not Dex – not anymore.

Days passed. The side effects of the pills turned out to be dry mouth and occasional mild diarrhea. Dr. Forester was content. As it turned out, the pill also slowed down growth periods. The always steep lines on the chart went down. The white coats could now both speed up and slow down the progression of the illness. Only a reversal hadn’t been yet developed. Dr. Forester said they were working on it, but he was lying through his teeth. Dex didn’t expose him. Let him think Dex believed him.

“The pills seem to be working well,” Dr. Forester said casually a few days later. “You look fresher already.”

Dex shrugged.

“We are thinking of extending the trial run for you. But the bosses are not so eager to provide funds, and the pill is expensive to produce.”

“Maybe if you didn’t waste so much money infecting people you would have enough funds for it,” Dex said sharply.

Dr. Forester laughed.

“Oh, son. Those projects they are ready to sponsor. The pill is produced exclusively for you, though.”

“I feel so special.”

“You think you’re joking, but you are, Dex. You are. The sponsors care greatly for you.”

“Well, I don’t care for them.”

“And that’s a shame. There will be no training today. Tomorrow is an important day for us and you both. You better rest, clear your head.”

“What? What day?” Dex pricked up, but Dr. Forester said no more, just made an impatient gesture. Mike led Dex back to the cell.

“All these new guys are absolute dickheads,” the guard complained on the way. “They don’t know nothing yet they think they’re hot shit. Who do they think they are? They imagine the military academy made them all high n’ mighty. Well, a bit of work here will take them down a peg or two. You gotta show them, Dex. Treat them like you treated me. Make them go through hell and high water.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dex heard himself saying. “Sorry, dude. For breaking your leg. You didn’t do me no bad thing. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Eh,” Mike waived him off light-heartedly, “the past is in the past. It healed fast anyway. The BIS treats its workers well - I didn’t pay a single byte for it. Got to spend some time with my family for once, too.”

Yet again Dex spent the night wide awake. He knew what was going to happen tomorrow. Another attempt to recruit him, make him join the army. The army that murdered Luke in cold blood.

All the previous times his refusal was firm and confident, decision made without a second thought. But this time was different. Now he had a major weakness. And they would surely exploit it.

In the morning Mike escorted him to the interrogation room – Dr. Forester called it “negotiation room”, but he couldn’t fool anyone with it. It looked exactly like those interrogation room in cop movies, handcuffs included. They were added after Dex tried to hit an officer. This time, though, he wasn’t cuffed.

“Good luck, buddy.” Mike patted him on the shoulder. Dex smiled weakly.

He had to wait quite a bit for the officer to arrive. She was a tall, strict-looking woman with a perfect bun on her head and cold gray eyes. She was escorted by two Special Forces agents with their fingers on the triggers of their assault rifles. One wrong movement – and they’d season Dex with lead.

The woman sat on the other side of the table and looked Dex right in the eyes. Goosebumps ran down his spine. This one will be hard to deal with.

“Hello, Dex. My name is major Wright.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. Cut to the chase." Dex tried to sound firm, but a bit of a tremble did leak into his voice.

“As you wish,” said the major. “You probably know why I’m here. My colleagues have contacted you with our proposition earlier.”

“I do. And they have.” Dex felt that if he looked the woman in the eyes, he would eventually fall for her hypnosis, so he stared at the table.

“Let me repeat it in case you forgot some details. We in Special Forces are always in search of new candidates-“

“Turnover rate too high?”

“It’s actually lower than in other units. That’s because we only work with professionals.”

“I’m no professional.”

“Who are you fooling, Dex? I’ve seen you in action. The best SF snipers could only dream of your skill.”

“That’s not my achievement. Before the infection I couldn’t throw a bottle into the trash can three feet away.”

“What was before the infection doesn’t matter,” major Wright said harshly. “Forget that part of your life. It’s here and now that matters.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For you too. It’s never coming back. You are never coming back.”

Dex knew that already, but at these words something cold turned in his stomach anyway.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“You need to accept this, Dex. The ironphage infection is incurable. You will live with it for the rest of your life.”

“Which, as you might know, may end soon.”

“Maybe – or in a couple decades. Dr. Forester has no prognosis on this. But you’ve survived four times longer than any other infected, and that says something.”

“That just says that I’m lucky. Or unlucky. Depends on the point of view.” Dex clutched his fists under the table. The major poked into his every vulnerable spot.

“Sometimes one lucky soldier draws luck to the entire unit.” The major was disgustingly upbeat. She spoke friendly, but not familiarly. Previous recruiters all pretended to be Dex’s best friend, and it was nauseating. Not this time.

“I’m no soldier. Will never be. I’m just not built this way.”

“No one is born a soldier. But with enough discipline, everyone can become one.”

“You mean – everyone can be brainwashed into killing innocent people for the corpos’ gain?”

The major smiled. “That’s a rather… exaggerated way to put it. Corporations are valuable allies, but they’re not the beneficiaries of this war. The regular people are.”

Dex laughed in her face. It turned out too strained to sound plausible, but did convey his point anyway.

“Regular people are never beneficiaries of the war. They either get recruited, are promised riches and die like cattle on front lines while officers sit in their headquarters strategizing, or they get bombed and killed or displaced. There’s no other option.”

“They can go through the war, come out of it with several medals and not know poverty until the rest of their lives,” the major said. “Get free healthcare, a monthly pension, social benefits, free education for their children. That happens more often than you think.”

“And are all those soldiers in the room with us right now?” Dex said acidly.

“Funny.” The major smiled dryly. “Did you consider that maybe you just mix in with the wrong people?”

“The only wrong people I mix in with are you and the likes of you.”

The major rolled her eyes. “You truly are as stubborn as I heard.”

“My pleasure.”

“Then why do you think so many people enlist? If the army was that bad, people would avoid it like the plague, wouldn’t they?”

“They are idiots,” Dex said sharply.

The major smiled. “So your brother was an idiot, too?”

Dex’s stomach sank. They never mentioned Luke before, though he didn’t doubt a bit knew all about him. Maybe they thought it was too sensitive a subject. Regardless, that changed. And this woman, this soldier, would undoubtedly use him to their advantage.

“Yes. He should have never enlisted.”

“But he dragged you out of poverty. He sent your family quite big sums of money for a while, didn’t he?”

That was true. When Luke enlisted, the family finally had food on the table and paid bills. They even managed to move out of a communal roach-infested room to a small but cozy two-room flat. All while Luke was risking his life on the front lines.

“He should have never enlisted,” Dex repeated.

“It was going well, wasn’t it? His contract was almost over, and he even thought of prolonging it. His squadmates liked him, his commander praised him.”

“That praise was worth nothing.”

“In the ranks it is worth quite a bit. He could have been promoted within a year.”

“He could have been killed a thousand times over that year.”

“But he wasn’t, right? The enemy didn’t kill him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dex hissed, his anger rising in his chest – anger mixed with grief, as he could feel tears well up in his eyes as well, and the last thing he wanted right now was cry in front of the woman tearing his heart to bits. “War would have killed him sooner or later.”

“You’re rather pessimistic. Do you know that only 15% of active duty personnel die within first two years of service?”

“And how many die later?”

The major smiled a tight-lipped smile. “They have more experience, so even less. But that doesn’t matter – your brother didn’t plan to stay for much longer anyway. He could have waited for the end of his contract instead of going AWOL, though.”

“All the senseless violence must have gotten to him.”

“By that time soldiers are already pretty desensitized to it.”

“Not Luke. He was always… compassionate. Too much, even.” Dex remembered Luke’s calls from the army. When parents could see him, he was always smiling, but when he was left alone with Dex, his face always turned grey and tired.

The major smiled. “You’d be surprised at how quickly “compassionate” people forget about it on the battlefield. It’s you or the enemy, and no one chooses the latter… except your brother.”

“You’re talking bullshit. He didn’t defect. I know he just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Whatever the reasons, he was found on an enemy territory alone – so, a defector. And we do not stand them in our ranks. Dex, it takes a lot to sentence the soldier to death. We don’t kill our people left and right with no rhyme or reason. But what Luke did was not a simple misbehavior – it was treason.”

“It’s just a convenient excuse to punish those not in line with your views,” Dex croaked. His throat was dry – from medication, surely.

“It’s the army,” Wright said harshly. “Soldiers who act out of line disrupt the service of whole squads. We cannot let that happen.”

“So Luke was just a scapegoat to scare others into obedience.”

“The “scapegoats”, as you call them, eventually reveal themselves with their own actions. Thinking differently is not a sin. Sawing unrest between others is.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care.” Dex shook his head. “You killed my brother. Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve death.” Dex was growing tired of this senseless talk. Whatever he said, major Wright always found a reasonable counterargument. He knew she was wrong, but he couldn’t prove it to her – and he feared soon he wouldn’t be able to prove it to himself.

“If you fear the same fate, Dex – you needn’t to,” Wright said unexpectedly softly. “He was an average soldier. You – you are special.”

Dex hated how often he heard that. He never chose a body that could resist a mysterious, 100%-lethal infection that also happened to turn people into supersoldiers. He never wanted that.

“So you will just imprison me for the rest of my life instead of killing?”

“What, are you planning something bad already?” The major smiled dryly. “Just hear me out, alright? And then make up your mind. No pressure.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dex murmured skeptically, but the major didn’t hear him – or pretended to.

“Here’s what we can offer you. Free food and lodging at one of the SF outposts – with personal rooms for every agent, each with a bathroom. Medical and life insurance – any injury, we’ll pay for treatment in full. Your family members are included in the insurance. In case you die, they are paid a significant sum of money. You will keep receiving treatment for your infection – a pill three times a day except before ground operations. And, of course, your salary… starting wage is 50 000 bytes a month.”

Dex couldn’t hold back a surprised gasp. This was more than his family earned in a year. This could pay for 50 of their monthly rent.

The major clearly enjoyed his reaction.

“Sounds compelling?” she said.

Dex ignored her, ashamed that he let his astonishment through. Now she knew how much the sum shook him.

“What about the phages?” he asked after a minute of stunned silence.

“We will keep working on a treatment,” said the major. “But we’ve got no guarantees that we’ll find it – if it’s even possible to create.”

Of course. They were interested in keeping the infection going – to get more supersoldiers into the SF. No matter that they would only last a few months – if someone would be as unlucky as Dex, maybe a year, - they would milk them dry and then silence the family with a fat check and a postcard with condolences.

He could feel the cold touch of her gaze on his skin. She was waiting, convinced of her success.

“I need to think about it,” he finally said – almost whispered.

She didn’t betray her satisfaction by a single gesture, but Dex could see more than other people. She won. Or so she thought.

“Of course,” Wright said. “I will come back tomorrow to hear your answer.”

She got up, waved to the guards and headed to the door. “See you tomorrow, Dex.”

Mike soon came to pick him up.

“How’d it go? You don’t seem too excited.”

“As usual.” Dex shrugged.

“You refused again?”

“Said I’ll think about it.”

“Wow, really?” Mike grinned. “That’s progress. What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t say it changed.”

“Alright, alright, you secretive motherfucker. I’ll find out everything eventually. You know, as much as Dr. Forester tries to stop it, everyone here knows everything about you. All the news spread fast.”

“You are all filthy gossips.”

“And you are our favorite subject to discuss. Now live with it.”

Dex rolled his eyes. “I feel like a micro-celebrity already.”

When they neared the cell, Mike’s face grew serious.

“If you didn’t just say that so they’d leave you alone… give it some thought, really. Being in the army is not as bad as it seems. Pays well too.”

“Indeed it does,” Dex murmured as the cell door closed behind him.

He shuffled over to the bed and lay down on his side facing the wall. He already knew what he had to do. He just needed to wait till night.

***

Eventually he fell asleep, but then awoke abruptly, as if someone yelled in his ear. The lights were out, and only faint light from the hall seeped through the small window in the door, a smidge of white on black tile.

Dex opened the pill drawer and took out the Soother. Swallowed the pill and lay back on the bed, waiting for it to take effect.

This time the phages resisted longer than usual, as if their little brains sensed something. They couldn’t read Dex’s thoughts – he checked – but they knew his body’s reactions to them. Didn’t matter, though – the pill overpowered them at any rate. Eventually their rushing slowed down to bare crawling, and the buzz of their nanomotors grew almost silent.

Time to act. This was his last pill on the trial – whether he would get a refill tomorrow depended on his answer.

He grabbed his mug from the sink, poured water in it and drank anxiously. Cold water slid down his throat and into the stomach. Every cell on its way reveled in its blissful coolness and smoothness. The true pleasures of this world were simple, really.

The mug was ceramic – a gross oversight on the management’s part. It survived multiple collisions with Mike and the ground, so they were kinda justified in not taking it into account. Dex kept it for a vague “occasion” on purpose. And the occasion was now.

He flung it into the floor with all his might. The mug cracked audibly. Then Dex jumped on it. Ceramic broke into large, sharp shards under his bare feet. Pain spiked up his calves, but the Soother quickly blended it in with the rest of the pain it was keeping at bay.

Dex picked up one of the pieces and placed it on the sink, then swept the rest under the bed. He raised his gaze and looked over the silent medassistant hanging over his head.

“Time we check your durability, pal.”

The tendril did not give up easily. When Dex finally tore off the needle, his face was sweaty and his arms hurt. The cruelly dismembered medassistant hung over the bed disapprovingly.

The needle was good three inches long. Just enough for Dex’s plan.

When he picked up the shard again, his hands were shaking. But the phages, sleepy as they were, came to his rescue even now, giving his fingers much needed strength. He pressed the sharp end to his inner arm and unflinchingly dragged it down, tearing the skin.

The gash quickly swelled with blood. Dex licked some off, tasting the copper. The infection changed even the taste of his body. It changed everything in him. There was no real Dex left. Just a host carrying around the most precious virus on earth.

And the military wasn’t gonna get it. At least from Dex.

There were other hosts, of course. The white coats would continue their work using their blood. But it would no longer be Dex’s. His phages will die after 24 hours, and their lifeless bodies would not infect anyone else. Nor will the doctors be able to learn what made Dex so different. No learning – no replicating. No replicating – no long-lasting supersoldiers. And with such a high turnover rate, the SF will dump the idea soon enough.

He sighed and dragged the shard across his right inner arm. The blood from the left arm already stained his clothes. Were Luke here, he would have made a stupid menstruation joke.

Luke wasn’t here, though.

Dex bit his lip, watching the blood run down his arms onto the floor. He waited for a small puddle to gather at his feet. The phages tried to make up for it, of course, but they were slow and sleepy like flies in the hot summer sun. They couldn’t do much about it.

Leveling the shard against his neck, Dex inhaled sharply. He was scared, of course. He never died before. (“You only die once, stupid!” said Luke in his head). Well, everything must happen for the first time.

He pressed the shard into the skin until he felt blood trickle down his neck. This was deep enough, then.

With a sharp, precise movement he cut his own throat.

His mouth filled with the taste of copper, blood streamed down his neck. He could no longer speak; he could barely see, his vision darkening.

But he had to make sure the phages wouldn’t bring him back to life.

With one last desperate move he drove the needle of the medassistant through his eye straight into his brain.

[risingshards]

Writing Year in Review 2024 Part 1: Wins and Defeats

Doing this a bit earlier than the 31st but I pretty much have the gist of things. On paper this should be a year I should be celebrating writing-wise. I got my first print book deal (for a nonfiction junior book not like big doorbuster fantasy deal but still!) and my first premium web novel in Reborn in a Fighting Game with My Rival.

I should be doing a victory lap but I just feel like I failed. In my most recent meeting with my writing workshop someone said I must be feeling great with the year I had, but internally I was like, I don't feel like I had a great year. I'm gonna try to weave in some good vibes but this is gonna be yet another mopey post in a year filled with em I have a feeling.

✅ for wins and ❌ for things I feel like I failed on.

✅I was able to keep up with a bunch of projects at once. While writing Reborn, I kept writing Rising Shards, and took on an extra challenge in trying for an action fantasy web novel contest in Lost Hero. A half point off on this because juggling everything put me very far behind and keeping up with writing and work was tough.

❌Readership woes. I don't want to sound ungrateful at ALL for the wonderful amazing and kind readers I have, but on a sheer numbers level this year was rough. Watching Rising Shards lose 50% or more of its readership hurts, and I'm not sure what exactly I did, or if I did anything, but you know I'm gonna overthink it.

I had a month of short interlude chapters to give myself break last January and views fell off, maybe that did it. Maybe the arc I chose to pursue this year wasn't the right one. Maybe RS is just too long now and people fell off and there's no hope of getting them back with the kind of story I want to write. Maybe I'm not getting featured anymore which boosted my views. Maybe I just fucking suck at convincing people to read my work. I would guess it's a mix of everything there but I have this need to keep going with Rising Shards even though it's super duper long now. It's my comfort series and they're my comfort characters, and I'm a firm believer in a primarily slice of life series that goes really long being a potential source of comfort for others. I still have a ways to go on it so I hope I can get my numbers up so I don't get depressed about it every so often.

✅I wrote a nonfiction book that will be in print soon. This project was so tough to work on and I don't know if I'll share it on here since it was through a local publisher, but soon I'll have a book that I wrote in print.

❌The Lost Hero. My action fantasy contest entry didn't get much traction and didn't advance in the contest. It was such a sprint getting it done but sad to have come short, and in hindsight thinking about it, I made so many mistakes writing it that I didn't really deserve to even make it to round two.

❌Projects I wanted to get to but couldn't. While I did get three going at once, there was still a bunch I didn't make as much progress on as I wanted. I've been trying to do a Patreon exclusive series forever but made zero progress on that (and made negative progress on my Patreon sigh), and had some other series I wanted to work on.

✅Reborn in a Fighting Game with My Rival. My big win of the year, a dream come true. I entered this series into Tapas' romance web novel contest last year and it made the top 50 and was picked up. I am 95% done with the series and am writing the ending now (Obligatory note that I want to do a Season 2 or a sequel someday), and it has been such a pleasure to work on even when it got tough. The staff from Tapas has been so cool and supportive and understanding of the writers and I am incredibly grateful for this opportunity. The day it launched will forever be a special day to me.

So more losses than wins. The wins were pretty big, but the losses sting really hard. Overall, I should be proud of how I did last year, juggling three series, having my first premium series, etc. but I feel more disappointed in myself than anything. I hope I can use these feelings to push forward and pull something amazing off, but for now I feel like I tripped and fell into the trenches and have to figure out how to get back on my feet.

Part 2 here

Part 3 here

[vcutparis]

universe, i hope you bring this flicker of light to every human on this earth because i am completely shattered.

this encapsulates the essence of their love. your fic got me so bad in the feels it took me 1 1/2months (read this in august but i was so in feels i forgot how to express so here i am at the start of autumn) hours of scourging through my pinterest boards and web weaving on here to reblog my thoughts

You were all but a small thread in its grand design, and in a way, you’ve grown to find comfort in that knowledge.

The moon, in its phases, has become a symbol of your journey.

this felt so comforting. in the grand scheme of cosmos you really are just a speck of life.

Remember when you used to bug me everyday to make a meteor shower happen after I read a book about it to you?”

the lost child in us, its painful to see when we somehow start performing for others, unlike kids, who think life is self evident.

If you couldn’t bring yourself to experience the wonders of life for your own sake, then you’d do it for your parents. i absolutely adore her parents. heals something in me indirectly.

her yearning for the shackles to illness to break away fading away to think of herself as a burden scratched my heart so deep dude. i had to remind myself to breathe. to not take it so seriously.

And yet, you were the one who had to live it, the one who had to endure it all because it’s the only thing you can do.

You longed desperately for a sign, something to tell you that there was a reason to keep going. You searched the night sky for it, hoping that maybe the stars, your silent companions, would offer you some form of guidance or comfort.

silent guidance the silent embracement of the stars wasnt enough i guess :/ and i love how they unite and guide something she can reach out, someone so similar to the comfort they provided her, someone reachable enough in her finite time.

“You’ve been so strong, so brave. We see how much you’re hurting, and we just want to give you a piece of happiness, something that can shine through the darkness.”

I THINK YOU JUST WROTE THE BEST PARENTS ON ATINYBLR I ABSOLUTELY L O V E THEM <33

It’s a symbol of their unending love, their hope, and their determination to make your life a little brighter, even if only for a short while.

5 minutes into rereading and you already have my lips wobbling and vision blurred.

perhaps the night will end with you finally having a reason to hold on just a little longer. im holding onto the belief that the grand scheme of cosmos, made her manifest san and not like in a magical way but just pouring in a little hope in her head and slowly its filled drop by drop upto a gallon by san.

Or that neutron stars, which are the remnants of supernovae, can spin up to 500 times per second? They're incredibly dense—a single teaspoon of neutron star material would weigh about a billion tons!” okay this is a cute incident, my teacher was talking to us about stars during our lecture and he asked us randomly about facts and spitted this fact with the same wa you have written it above, and i was like FULL AWN NODDING LIKE YES SIR I KNOW then he's like from where and im like I KNOW i know BUT i dont know from where. LIKEGFHFBNF I FORGOT I READ THIS FACT IN A CHOI SAN FANFIC LMAOOOOO

It makes you feel a twinge of envy; you wish you could have such a passion, something that drives you and fills you with purpose. oh boy oh boy its taking effect its in the air, the damn conspiracy of the stars.

“it’s also a way to keep that connection with my grandfather alive. Every time I look through a telescope, it feels like he’s there with me, sharing that moment." hit me harder than i expected it would since im rereading, currently wiping that one lone tear.

. “I believe that even when someone’s fate seems doomed, there can still be moments of beauty, connection, and meaning.

ITS THE JOURNEY THAT MATTERS. CHERISH IT. YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE, YOU MIGHT MEET PEOPLE AND THEY WOULD HELP YOU BUT IN OPPOSITE DIRECTIONS.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice is a lifeline. no im not okay. god, me when. me WHEN.

“the first time I went to a new place by myself, I felt pretty overwhelmed too. It was nowhere near what you’re going through, but I get a bit of what it’s like to be surrounded by so much and feel so alone.” sharing his own weak moments with her to make her realize this wasnt an original experience. oh i love the universe and humans.

It’s grounding. It reminds me that there’s more to life than the stress and the noise. It’s a place where I can just be.” GAWD him being grounded by nature and in turn grounding her im going to ugly sob once again.

BYEOL CAMEOOOOO

Why was he here? Visiting an ill family member? A friend, perhaps? Or... was he the patient himself? when i was reading it for the first time i was PANICKING AT THE LAST QUESTION but i know your plotting style enough to think u wouldnt be that evil.

i know what was coming, the little spark that he ignited being a curse and a blessing at the same time.

the way she looked back at home and THEN ran away. ladies and gentlemen this is my time to ugly sob.

“I feel guilty for wanting to be happy. Every time I see my parents smile, I feel like I’m taking that away from them because of my condition. I feel like I’m stealing their chance at a normal, happy life. I wish I could just disappear and take all their pain with me. I wish I could give them a break from all this suffering" :(

That’s when I turned to the stars. The universe is vast and endless, filled with mysteries and wonders that don’t rely on one sense alone. It gave me hope and a way to cope with my reality.”

GAWD I SEE YOU DOING GREAT THINGS THE WAY SAN WAS LIKE WE WILL FACE IT TOGETHER, LET ME IN LET YOUR PARENTS. AND THAT LINE ABOUT THEY'RE SUFFERING SO THEY CAN LESSEN YOUR PAIN OH BOY DID I CRUMBLE AT THAT????

AS AN ASIAN, THAT LINE TEARED MY GUTS TO SHREDS.

i love love the fact that reader is always so curious about san, and san being san always answers her ith great detail as if numbing her thoughts out and again igniting the innate search for tomorrow, today ever human has.

“Your daughter is a testament to the human spirit’s capacity for endurance. She’s facing something that would break many, yet she’s still standing. And that’s not something to take lightly. It’s something to be incredibly proud of.” boy i would straight up give him the engagement ring for future at this.

. “Are you real…?” you asked, reaching out to touch his face for a brief moment. HELP THIS IS SO REAL

“You look beautiful.”You didn't catch it, but your parents did, exchanging knowing glances. “What?” you asked, and San repeated himself, louder this time but somehow more bashful. “You look really beautiful.” MY CUTIES OH EM GEEE

On the bottom half, there was a cliff with two shadowy figures sitting side by side. “That’s us!” he said, flashing his signature cat-like smile that you’ve grown to admire. CHOI SAN I SWEAR TO GOD AND BYEOL DRAWING I LOVE THEMVTTGBN

A blanket was laid out, surrounded by twinkling fairy lights strung from the trees. An assortment of treats and foods was spread out, and a telescope stood nearby—the same one from the observatory. There were also cozy blankets ready for use. absolute fever dream. this is so so heartwarming

You let go of his hands momentarily, and he looks confused until you start signing the words, ‘you’ll forever be my star.’ His heart shatters even more.

Because even if there are days where you don’t feel like the best version of yourself, in my eyes, you’re still my star. The only star in the empty sky of my life.”

you hold his hand, looking up at him. “In another life?”

“In another life.”

san and reader.

“I’d like to think of them as a meteor shower,” he says, his voice soft. “A passing light meant to remind me of the wonders of life, never meant to stay.”

lying on the floor crying. she never met byeol and wooyoung. she didnt go to the places san mentioned about.

gawd this one just reminded me of this

THE LAST LETTER OF READER JUST REMINDED ME OF THIS LADIES AND GENTLEMEN IM NEVER MOVING AWN FROM THIS FIC.

Droplets of tears soaked the letter, and San silently sobbed. Looking above, he sees a single bright star in the empty night sky, and when he managed to put a smile on his face, the star twinkled back to him in return.

Perhaps in another life, you’d be a permanent star and not just a fleeting meteor.

this felt like such a movie with the playlist you linked. so beautifully tragic.

You know, I really wish I could’ve met Byeol when I was still there with you, but I guess there’s a next time for everything, right? Maybe in a different life, Byeol would be my cat instead. Or, even better, we could team up to co-parent him. Doesn’t that sound like a nice reality to live in?

im broken but so filled with hope. im kind of scared to jump to your city of love masterlist what if i break too loud lmao?

ARGHHHH I HAD TO END THIS WITH THE FAVOURITE SHOT OF MY FAVOURITE MOVIE. I LOVE THIS COUPLE SO SO SO MUCH. INDENTED IN MY HEART FOREVER SINCE THEY HAVE A PINTEREST BOARD OF THEIR OWN.

🪐 — ♡ FROM SATURN TO MARS

៚ wc: 24.2k

៚ angst, fluff but not really, astronomer!san x stargazer!reader, star-crossed lovers, right person, wrong time, san is literally “☝️🤓” personified but it’s alright because he’s a sweetheart

៚ warnings: mentions of suic!de

៚ playlist !

៚ Life has always felt like a constant struggle for you, burdened by the weight of a terminal illness that looms over every moment. The concept of finding peace, of unwinding, seems as foreign as the distant stars. Each attempt to embrace the fleeting joys of life feels like an effort wasted, as the ever-present shadow of your inevitable end dims any flicker of hope. Despite countless reassurances that it’s worth trying to find solace, the reality is that the pain and fear remain ablaze. Living each day with the knowledge of your limited time, you’ve tried to hold onto the present, to ignite a spark of hope in the face of despair. But unlike others who find motivation in the idea of living life to the fullest, the idea only brings you more anguish. Every attempt to seek positivity feels hollow and unreachable when every breath is a reminder of what you're losing. Little did you know how much your world would change when you meet Choi San, an aspiring astronomer who just happens to be a boy full of wonders—ones you’ve always believed have already ceased to exist.

Dreams come in different forms and can mean a lot of things.

Dreams can be a fleeting memory playing throughout your unconsciousness, and it could be a reminder of what once was—a moment from your childhood wherein your feet are dragging you at a fast pace around the playground, crumbs of the sand slowly invading your shoes as you turn your head behind to check if the distance between you and your playmate is closing further, flashing them a teasing look with a huge smile on your face—ending just before the moment you trip on your own feet and wail over a dark bruise on your knee.

It could also convey a wish that you yearn to come true, a thread high up in the air that you desperately want to have a grasp of and pull down on your level. It could be an ambition that you want to achieve, an activity you wish to participate in in the near future, a famous attraction you dream of visiting one day—simply put, saying you have a dream could convey different implications.

But amidst its vast sea of meanings, we all, at some point, have, or have had a dream in common: to live a life different from our own.

Maybe it hits you when you’re standing on the second highest pillar of the podium, holding your silver medal while the one at the very top shamelessly dangles their gold prize with a bouquet in their hands. Maybe it hits you when you pass by a section of a mall featuring expensive artifacts and seeing people your age walk through the aisles so easily as if it’s not a new thing to them. Maybe it hits you when you look in the mirror after scrolling past the page of an influencer considered by the masses as the embodiment of beauty.

Or maybe it hits you every single time you realize you’re alone in the battle against you and the fate of your life.

You were born with a shadow hanging over your life, a rare, incurable illness that marked you from your very first breath. From the moment you entered the world, doctors surrounded you with words like “degenerative,” “terminal,” and “limited time,” their clinical detachment doing little to soften the blow. For your parents, it was a devastating revelation, turning what should have been a joyous occasion into a lifelong struggle against an invisible enemy.

As a child, you didn’t fully understand the weight of your condition. You grew up watching other children run and play, while you sat on the sidelines, your body betraying you in ways their carefree laughter could never comprehend. Frequent hospital visits and endless medical tests became the norm, each one a stark reminder of the battle raging within you. The disease, a silent thief, slowly sapped your strength and vitality, leaving you more fragile with each passing year.

Your family wrapped you in love and support, their concern palpable in every gentle touch and soft-spoken word. Yet, despite their efforts, the isolation was inescapable. Friends drifted away, unable to understand your world of limitations and restrictions. The future that once seemed bright and boundless was now a narrow path, shadowed by the inevitability of your illness.

Growing up, you learned to withdraw yourself from the world, seeking refuge in the confines of your room. The outside world, with its boundless energy and endless possibilities, felt like a mocking contrast to your shrinking existence. Even the well-meaning efforts of your family to uplift your spirits felt like hollow gestures, incapable of penetrating the thick fog of despair that seems to love embracing you. Optimism now seems pathetic for you to have—like a distant memory, a relic of a past life now unreachable.

“Have you heard about the upcoming meteor shower next week?” Your father’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, drawing your attention back to the present. You glance up from the book you’re reading, curiosity piqued.

“Oh...?” You manage to respond, the word hanging in the air like a broken bridge between your world and theirs.

“I saw it on today’s news headline. Thought I’d break the news to you since you love those kinds of things,” he says, passing by the couch where you sat and ruffling your hair lightly.

That’s right.

The night sky, vast and unending, was your sanctuary. In the quiet hours when the world is quiet in a deep slumber, you’d find a profound sense of peace under its sprawling canopy. The stars, scattered like shimmering diamonds across the pitch black sky, spoke to you in a language that exceeds even the deepest of words. You felt a kinship with these distant suns, their light traveling across the eons to reach you, a solitary observer. Their constancy provided a stark contrast to the unpredictable ebb and flow of your life. While your body betrayed you, the stars remained steadfast, their glow unchanging and eternal. It was this constancy that you clung to, a fading glimmer of hope in your darkest hours.

Each night, you would sit by the window, wrapped in a blanket, eyes scanning the heavens for familiar patterns and new discoveries. The cool night air would brush against your skin, a gentle reminder of the world beyond your room, while the silence enveloped you in a cocoon of temporary peace.

During these moments, you’d feel a connection to something greater than yourself. The stars were not just distant balls of burning gas; they were ancient, ethereal, and eternal. They had witnessed the birth and death of galaxies, the rise and fall of civilizations. In their presence, your own life, with all its pain and brevity, seemed part of a larger image you could never be able to picture. You were all but a small thread in its grand design, and in a way, you’ve grown to find comfort in that knowledge.

The moon, in its phases, has become a symbol of your journey. Waxing and waning, it mirrored your own cycles of hope and despair. When it was full, you felt a surge of strength, a fleeting belief that perhaps you could overcome the odds. When it was new, you were reminded of the darkness that loomed, but also of the promise that light would return.

In the solitude of these nights, you allowed yourself to dream. Not of a future filled with pain and uncertainty, but of other worlds and possibilities. You imagined traveling among the stars, free from the confines of your ailing body. You pictured yourself as an explorer, charting the galaxies, uncovering the secrets of the universe. These dreams, though unrealistic, gave you a sense of purpose, a brief escape from the harsh reality you faced.

Your mother joins in on the conversation, momentarily placing the knife down on the cutting board as she peeked in the living room from where she stood in the kitchen. “I know an observatory somewhere in this town. If you want, I could take you there. It would be beautiful—the place would provide you a clear view of the night sky.” She smiles, waiting for your nod of agreement.

And when it didn’t come as she anticipated, she decided to walk around the kitchen corner, making a beeline to where you sat on the couch with a pillow placed on top of your crossed legs. The cushion beside you sinks as she occupies it, reaching for your hand settled down on the pillow to caress the back of it gently with her mildly calloused fingers.

“We don’t know for sure when the next meteor shower will occur, and… there’s not much time left,” your mother whispers hesitantly, and despite being certain that you’ve already gone numb, the look in her eyes initiates a crack in your heart.

“I know you hate the thought of going outside, but I don’t want you to miss out on this opportunity. Remember when you used to bug me everyday to make a meteor shower happen after I read a book about it to you?” she brings up a distant memory, and you find yourself traveling back in time to recall it.

Back then, when you were just a carefree child with no worries, still unaware of the cruelty that resides in the real world, you genuinely believed your mother was powerful enough to be capable of making a meteor shower occur.

Since you’ve always held fondness of the stars and so much so of your mother, you always saw her as some sort of a hero of high authority, sometimes even calling her ‘Deity of the Stars’ and making poorly drawn colored sketches of her in what you liked to call her hero suit. You swore it was realistic and highly possible back then, but now, you could no longer see it as anything more than a ridiculous superficial thought.

“Yeah, I don’t know why I did that…” you trailed off blankly, erupting a soft fit of laughter from your mother.

“Well, you were young. It was bound to happen. But anyway,” she shifted in her seat, holding your hand just a little tighter now. “Stargazing became your favorite thing to do after finding out about meteor showers, so… I think it would be nice to revisit a fragment of your childhood, won’t it?”

You stared into the void of nothingness, momentarily zoning out to consider your mother’s words. She was right, so right you couldn’t even bring yourself to be pessimistic and wish she wasn’t.

“I just… I want you to at least feel happiness again while we still have time left, and watching the meteor shower would be a good kick-start for that,” she said, and you gently tighten your grasp on her hand as well. If only you could yearn for your own happiness as much as she does for you.

Finally, you looked right into her eyes. “Okay,” you nod, the single word carrying the weight of your acceptance.

Your mother’s face lights up with a mixture of relief and sadness. “Great! Great, I… I can’t wait to take you there,” she beams with a shaky voice, and despite the wide smile on her lips, there were still tears falling down her eyes. She looks away as she attempts to wipe them out, and it shatters your heart even more.

Taking the pillow off your lap and placing it on the empty spot on your other side, you lean forward to engulf her in a heartfelt embrace, and she doesn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around you as well. She buries her face in your neck, the fabric of your shirt muffling her sobs of joy. You swore you had already gone numb, but this time, you feel a stray tear slowly fall down the skin of your face.

If you couldn’t bring yourself to experience the wonders of life for your own sake, then you’d do it for your parents.

—

The night before the meteor shower enveloped you in an eerie stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath. You found yourself once again at the window, gazing out at the vast, star-speckled sky. The room was bathed in the faint glow of moonlight, casting a dim, silvery glow over everything. Outside, the symphony of crickets serenaded the night, their rhythmic chirping mingling with the soft hum of your room’s air conditioner. Occasionally, the rustling of your blanket as you shifted ever so slightly, trying to battle the cold evening air, broke the quiet atmosphere.

Whenever you’d find yourself in this scenario, looking up at the stars as their light glimmered and pierced through the inky darkness, a profound sense of calm would usually settle over you. The night sky had always been your refuge, a place where you could escape the harsh reality of your existence.

But tonight… tonight was different.

A heavy gloom began to seep into your thoughts, spreading through you like the thick ink of a quill spreading through a blank white paper. The beauty of the stars, which once brought solace, now seemed to mock your suffering. A wave of despair crashed over you, and your mind wandered to the inevitable end that awaited you.

The thought of your impending death hung over you like a dark cloud, casting a pall over the fleeting moments of joy you managed to grasp. It felt so unfair—so profoundly unjust—that your life had to be this way. You had dreams, aspirations, and desires just like anyone else, but they were perpetually out of reach, caged by the bars of your illness.

Why does it have to be this way? Why was such a cruel fate destined to be bound to you? It’s not like you asked to be born with such a disease—it’s not like you asked to be born. Everything that has ever happened to you your entire life has been against your will. For all the years you’ve spent in this world, you weren’t living—you were surviving.

You sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to echo in the silence of your room. The stars twinkled back at you, distant and untouchable. Your heart ached with the weight of your reality. How could you ever feel genuine happiness knowing that every moment was borrowed, that every smile was tinged with the bitterness of impermanence? The thought of letting go of everything you held dear gnawed at you relentlessly. It was a cruel joke, this life of yours, filled with fleeting moments of beauty overshadowed by an ever-present sense of doom.

Your thoughts then drifted to your parents. The sacrifices they had made, the countless nights they spent worrying about you, and the mountains of medical bills they had to pay—all of it weighed heavily on your conscience. You felt like a burden, an anchor dragging them down into an abyss of despair and financial ruin.

You leaned your forehead against the cool glass of the window, the weight of your guilt pressing down on you like a physical burden. It was a familiar feeling, one that had become an unwelcome companion over the years. The self-blame gnawed at you relentlessly, a persistent whisper in the back of your mind, telling you that you were the cause of all this pain.

This is all your fault.

This is all your fault.

This is all your fault.

Your thoughts eventually spiraled into a darker territory. If only you could just die sooner, you mused bitterly, then your parents wouldn’t have to endure this endless cycle of hope and despair. They could finally be free from the financial strain, the emotional turmoil, the constant fear of losing you. You envisioned them laughing together, their faces free from the lines of worry that had become so deeply etched into their features. They deserved that happiness, and you felt like you were stealing it from them.

It was so, so unfair on their behalf. All they ever wanted was to have a happy family—and then you let out your first breath and ruined everything.

The guilt was suffocating. It wrapped around your heart like a snake to its victim, squeezing tighter with each passing moment. You felt like a burden, a weight that your family had to carry, dragging them down with you into the bottom of the pit. The treatments, the surgeries, the endless doctor visits—they all felt like futile attempts to hold back the inevitable. And with each one, you saw the toll it took on your parents, the way their shoulders sagged a little more, their smiles became a little more forced.

You hated yourself for it. You hated that you were the cause of their suffering. You hated that you couldn’t be the healthy, carefree child they deserved. The resentment you felt towards your own body was a constant undercurrent, a bitter poison that tainted every moment of your life. How could you ever bring yourself to feel happy when your very existence seemed to be the source of so much pain?

The stars outside your window blurred as tears filled your eyes. You blinked them away, but they kept coming, hot and insistent. The enormity of your guilt was overwhelming, an ocean that would haunt you almost every single day. You wished, more than anything, that you could be someone else—someone who could bring joy instead of sorrow, hope instead of despair.

But you weren’t. You were trapped in this failing body, watching as your parents’ lives were consumed by your illness. The knowledge that you were the cause of their suffering was a wound that never healed, a constant ache that you carried with you every day. And it made the prospect of finding happiness feel impossible, a distant dream that you could never reach.

You clenched your fists, the frustration and anger boiling up inside you. Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t you be normal, healthy, free? The unfairness of it all was like a knife twisting in your gut, sharp and fresh as it draws blood from your insides. You didn’t ask for this life, this body, this fate. And yet, you were the one who had to live it, the one who had to endure it all because it’s the only thing you can do.

You longed desperately for a sign, something to tell you that there was a reason to keep going. You searched the night sky for it, hoping that maybe the stars, your silent companions, would offer you some form of guidance or comfort. But they remained silent, providing no answers to the questions that have been disturbing your mind.

Oftentimes, you found yourself wondering why you were still holding on. Why not just let go, end the suffering now? The thought of slipping away, of finding peace in the nothingness, was a tempting escape. What was the point of all this suffering? Why continue to drag yourself through each day when the end was inevitable and so painfully near?

But then, once more, you thought of your parents. The image of their faces, worn with worry and exhaustion, flashed before your eyes. They have sacrificed so much for you—time, money, their own happiness—all in the hope of giving you a chance at life. You couldn’t bear the thought of their sacrifices being in vain. You couldn’t stand the idea of their grief and guilt if you gave up now.

It was this thought, more than anything else, that kept your will to stay in this world going. You didn’t want their efforts to be wasted, didn’t want the countless hours spent in hospitals and the endless piles of medical bills to be for nothing. Their love for you was evident in every exhausted smile, every gentle touch, every whispered word of encouragement. You couldn’t repay them by giving up.

You needed a sign, something to break through the darkness and give you a reason to keep going. You needed to believe that there was more to life than this endless suffering, that there was still something worth fighting for. But each day that passed without such a sign left you feeling more hopeless, more resigned to your fate.

The thought of the upcoming meteor shower lingered in your mind. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would provide the solace you so desperately craved. Maybe standing beneath the falling stars would bring you a sense of peace, a glimpse of the beauty that still existed in the world despite your pain.

Maybe there, you’d find the sign you’ve been helplessly looking for, a reason to hold on for just a little longer.

—

You wake up in the afternoon, the sunlight passing softly through your bedroom curtains, painting gentle shadows on the walls. Stretching, you slowly make your way to the living room, drawn by the sounds of clinking pots and the savory aroma wafting from the kitchen. As you enter, you see your parents in the kitchen, working together as they prepare what seems to be an extravagant feast.

“Mom? Dad?” you call out, your voice slightly raspy from sleep.

They turn their heads toward you, their faces lighting up with warm smiles. But their expressions quickly shift to concern as they notice your puffy eyes, the lingering evidence of last night’s tears.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, trying to mask your emotions.

Your father steps out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He walks over to you, his eyes filled with gentle worry. “Were you crying last night?” he asks softly, his voice a tender blend of concern and love.

You shake your head quickly, turning his words down. “No, no, I’m fine. I just… overslept, that’s probably why my eyes are puffy.” The lie feels heavy on your tongue, but you can’t bear to add to their worries.

Your father doesn’t push further, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe you. Instead, he switches the topic, his tone turning lighter. “We’re cooking up quite a feast today. Your mom got a little carried away, I think,” he says with a chuckle.

You glance over at the kitchen, the counters filled with various ingredients and dishes in different stages of preparation. “What’s all this for?” you ask, puzzled.

Your mother turns from the stove, her face bright with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, something sadder. “Today’s a big day for you, since you’ll be going out tonight,” she says, her eyes shining. “We couldn’t help but get a little excited and maybe go a bit overboard.”

You furrow your brow, confused. “Why? I know there’s a meteor shower, but what’s so special about me watching it?”

Your parents exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them, filled with unspoken words and shared sorrow. Your mother turns off the stove and walks over to you, her expression softening with a bittersweet smile. She reaches out and takes your hands in hers, leading you to the couch where the three of you sit down together.

“Honey,” she begins, her voice gentle but firm, “we know how hard things have been for you. And we know how much you love the stars. This meteor shower… it’s not just any event. It’s something special, something that we hope will bring you a bit of joy, even if just for a moment.”

Your father nods, his eyes glistening with emotions. “We wanted to make today special for you because… because we love you. We want you to have something to hold onto, a memory that’s beautiful and bright, like the stars you love so much.”

Your mother squeezes your hands, her eyes searching yours. “You’ve been so strong, so brave. We see how much you’re hurting, and we just want to give you a piece of happiness, something that can shine through the darkness.”

Tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. “But… why go through all this trouble?” you ask, your voice slightly shaking.

Your mother flashes you a gentle smile. “Because you, my dear, mean the world to us. If doing all this could potentially be a way to help you find the light inside of you, then it’s not something we’ll deem troublesome at all.”

Your father wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. “You’re not alone in this, sweetheart. We’re here with you, every step of the way. And tonight, we want to share the magic of the stars with you, to remind you that there’s still beauty and wonder in the world, no matter how hard things get.”

The weight of their words settles over you, a mixture of overwhelming love and a deep, aching sadness. You feel their sincerity, their desire to give you something beautiful, something that transcends the pain. And in that moment, you realize that this night, this meteor shower, is more than just an event. It’s a symbol of their unending love, their hope, and their determination to make your life a little brighter, even if only for a short while.

When you’re all finally seated at the dining table, the array of dishes laid out before you, there’s a tangible air of celebration mixed with a touch of melancholy. The scents of home-cooked food fill the room, and your parents’ faces are illuminated by the soft, warm glow of the overhead light.

As you begin to eat, the conversation flows naturally at first, revolving around the familiar comfort of family and the minutiae of daily life. But soon, your parents gently steer the discussion toward the evening ahead.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” your father asks, his tone light and casual, though his eyes are watchful.

You look up from your plate, feeling the weight of their expectations. “Just watching the meteor shower, I guess,” you say before turning your attention back on slicing the steak laid out in front of you, your voice steady but devoid of enthusiasm.

Your mother leans forward slightly, a hopeful smile on her face. “Maybe after we watch the meteor shower, we could stop by that new fast-food restaurant that opened last month. I hear their milkshakes are amazing.”

You offer a small, polite smile in return, shaking your head. “I think I’ll stick to just watching the meteor shower tonight.”

There’s a brief silence, the only sounds coming from the clinking of silverware against plates and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Your parents exchange a glance, their faces reflecting a mix of disappointment and understanding.

Your father tries again, his voice gentle. “Or we could swing by the mall for a little while. They’ve decorated for the season, and it might be nice to walk around, maybe do some window shopping.”

You feel the sincerity in his words, the genuine desire to make your evening special. But for now, the thought of venturing beyond the observatory, of facing the bustling energy of the outside world, feels overwhelming.

“Thanks, Dad,” you reply, your tone soft but firm. “But really, just the meteor shower is enough for me.”

Your mother reaches across the table, her hand covering yours. “We understand,” she says, her voice filled with a mixture of love and sorrow. “Baby steps, right?”

You nod, grateful for her understanding. “Yeah… baby steps.”

They continue to eat, the conversation shifting back to more mundane topics, but the undercurrent of their hopes for you lingers in the air. They don’t press further, recognizing that perhaps tonight, simply watching the meteor shower is as much as you can manage. Their sadness is evident, but it’s tempered by their acceptance, their willingness to let you take things at your own pace.

When the night falls, the air is filled with a sense of anticipation as the three of you prepare for the journey to the observatory. You find yourself in your room, standing before the wardrobe that holds the outdoor clothes your parents have bought for you throughout the years. Clothes that, for the most part, have only seen the light of day during hospital visits for your monthly checkups.

You reach for a long, dirty white dress adorned with a delicate pattern of tiny roses. It’s simple, yet beautiful—a piece that speaks to the girl you wish you could be, one full of dreams and wonder. You pair it with a dark red knitted cardigan, the warm hue adding a touch of vibrancy to your outfit. A pair of shoes, carefully chosen to match, complete your ensemble.

Deciding to fix yourself up a little, you apply a light amount of makeup. As you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, you’re struck by a strange mix of emotions. There’s a hint of the person you could have been, the life you might have led.

As if on cue, there’s a soft knock on your door. “Are you finished preparing?” your mother’s voice calls from the hallway.

“You can come in,” you reply, turning to face the door. And when she enters, she’s nearly brought to tears at the sight of you.

“You look so beautiful,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. She crosses the room in a few quick strides, enveloping you in a warm, heartfelt embrace. Though you’re confused by the intensity of her reaction, you hug her back, your arms wrapping around her with equal tenderness.

When she finally pulls away, she cups your face in her hands, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m so, so, so proud of you,” she says, her voice trembling with sincerity.

You offer her a small, genuine smile, your hands reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Thanks, Mom.”

Together, you make your way downstairs. Your father is waiting on the couch, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. “You look amazing,” he says, his voice filled with genuine awe. He stands and wraps you in a hug as well, his embrace warm and reassuring.

They really do love you dearly, and it makes your heart swell with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. It’s moments like these that remind you of the depth of their love, their unwavering support despite the countless hardships they have to face.

Soon, you’re all in your father’s car, the engine purring as you set off towards the observatory. The drive is serene, the world outside bathed in the soft glow of streetlights and the distant shimmer of stars. Your parents, sensing your nervousness, try to distract you with gentle conversation.

“Did you know that the observatory was built over a hundred years ago?” your dad asks, his tone light and engaging. “It’s seen countless meteor showers and celestial events. It’s almost like it has a history of its own.”

“Really?” you reply, your curiosity piqued. “That’s interesting.”

Your mom chimes in, her voice soft and soothing. “I read somewhere that watching a meteor shower is supposed to bring good luck. Maybe tonight will bring something special for all of us.”

You nod, giving her a small smile. Their efforts to lighten your mood are not lost on you, and though the anxiety still lingers, you feel a bit more at ease.

As the car winds its way through the darkened roads, you find yourself staring out the window, the stars above a silent reminder of the night ahead. You cling to the hope that this evening, beneath the vast expanse of the sky, something will shift—perhaps the night will end with you finally having a reason to hold on just a little longer.

When you finally arrive, you see the observatory perched in the middle of a grassy field atop a hill. The area around it is alive with people setting up blankets, reclining lawn chairs, and chatting as they wait for the meteor shower to begin. Some have chosen to stay inside the observatory, where telescopes and guided explanations promise a closer look at the sky.

You and your parents head towards the observatory, but something inside you makes you hesitate. The idea of watching the meteor shower while lying on the grass, feeling the earth beneath you and the sky above, seems more intimate and appealing.

“I think I’d like to watch it from here,” you tell your parents, glancing at the open field.

They exchange a look of concern. “Are you sure?” your father asks, hesitation evident in his voice.

You nod, offering a reassuring smile. “Yeah. You two should go inside. I’ll be fine out here. Baby steps, right?”

Your mother looks at you for a long moment, and a heartwarming smile finds its way to her lips. She was so, so proud of you. “Alright. We’ll be inside if you need us. Just come find us when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you promise, and with that, they head towards the observatory.

You spread out a blanket on the grass and sit down, the night air cool against your skin. Around you, groups of friends, families, and couples chatter excitedly. You can hear the hum of their conversations, the occasional burst of laughter, and the low murmur of anticipation. Despite the crowds, you feel a profound sense of solitude.

The meteor shower begins, and you crane your neck, squinting at the sky, but you can’t see anything. Frustration starts to build, knotting in your chest. Just as you’re about to give up, a voice speaks from behind you.

“You might want to use a telescope for that.”

You turn around, startled. Standing behind you is a fairly attractive young man. He’s wearing a white shirt with a flannel over it and black pants, framed glasses perched on his nose. His presence is unexpected but you don’t speak against it nevertheless, and he gives you a warm, easy smile.

“Here,” he says, sitting down beside you and handing you a small telescope.

You take it hesitantly, your fingers brushing against his for a brief moment. “Uh… thank you,” you mumble awkwardly—understandably so as you don’t exactly know how to talk to anyone who isn’t your family or your doctor, bringing the telescope to your eye. As you adjust the focus, the sky bursts into clarity, and you see a streak of light arc across the darkness—a meteor.

“Wow,” you whisper, unable to tear your gaze away.

The young man chuckles softly beside you. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

For a while, the two of you sit in companionable silence, watching the sky. Each meteor that blazes across the heavens feels like a small miracle, a moment of beauty in a world that often seems so harsh and unkind.

He breaks the silence, his voice gentle and filled with enthusiasm. “You know, this year’s meteor shower is part of the Perseids. They’re actually debris left behind by the comet Swift-Tuttle, which orbits the sun every 133 years. The meteors you’re seeing tonight are fragments of that comet burning up in Earth’s atmosphere.”

You put down the telescope for a moment and look at him, intrigued but unsure how to respond. His knowledge and passion are evident, and you don’t want to interrupt or discourage him. Fortunately, he seems to notice your silence and continues, his excitement growing as he speaks.

“It’s one of the most spectacular meteor showers because the particles hit the atmosphere at over 133,000 miles per hour, creating these bright, fast streaks of light. And on a good night, like tonight, you can see up to a hundred meteors per hour.”

Wanting to add your own contribution to the conversation so you wouldn’t seem like you’re just putting up with him, you say, “You seem to know a lot about astronomy.”

He laughs, his eyes crinkling into crescents. He shyly rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I’m an aspiring astronomer, so…”

“Really?” You react to the unexpected newfound knowledge about this stranger with genuine surprise, your interest being genuinely piqued.

“Yeah,” he says, his smile widening. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been obsessed with the night sky. There’s just something about the vastness of space, the mystery of it all, that makes me feel... connected, I guess. Like, there’s so much more out there, you know?”

“I’ve always loved the stars too,” you admit quietly, almost as if sharing a secret. “They make me feel... less alone.”

His eyes soften and you’re not sure how you were able to see it happening clearly even though your surroundings are dim and the reflection of the distant lights cover the lens of his glasses—not to mention the strands of his hair at the very front framing his face, and he nods. “Exactly. It’s like looking at the stars makes everything else seem smaller, less overwhelming.”

Feeling an unexpected sense of ease, you shift slightly to face him a little more, curiosity bubbling up inside you. “Do you know any interesting facts about astronomy?” you ask, your voice tinged with genuine interest.

It was refreshing hearing him talk so passionately about this year’s meteor shower, telling you about facts you were certain not even a quarter of the people in here—save for the astronomers—know of, and you’re not sure why, but it made you want to hear him share his knowledge with you more.

He looks at you, momentarily puzzled. “Like... anything? Anything at all?”

You nod eagerly. “Yeah. I mean… I love stargazing, but I don’t really know much about astronomy itself. I just think the night sky is comforting and looks pretty.”

A warm smile spreads across his face, and he seems delighted by your interest. “Well, where to start?” He takes a moment to think. “Did you know that the Sun, our own star, produces the energy equivalent of 100 billion nuclear bombs every second through nuclear fusion in its core? Or that neutron stars, which are the remnants of supernovae, can spin up to 500 times per second? They're incredibly dense—a single teaspoon of neutron star material would weigh about a billion tons!”

He was practically beaming while sharing the facts about astronomy he knows of, and it drives your curiosity—despite being unsure if it’s directed to any further knowledge from him or to the young man himself—even further.

“That’s insane," you say in genuine astonishment. “How do neutron stars spin so fast? And… how can something be that dense? I can’t even imagine it.”

His eyes light up, clearly pleased by your genuine interest. “Neutron stars are fascinating, right? Their rapid rotation is due to the conservation of angular momentum. When the core of a massive star collapses in a supernova, it retains its angular momentum but its radius shrinks dramatically, causing it to spin much faster—kind of like how a figure skater spins faster when they pull their arms in.”

“And the density?” you press, leaning in slightly.

“Well,” he continues, “neutron stars are composed almost entirely of neutrons, which are packed so closely together that their density becomes astronomical. It’s mind-blowing to think about, but it’s because all the empty space between atoms gets eliminated, leaving just the neutrons packed together.”

His passion for astronomy is contagious, and as he explains the wonders of neutron stars, you can’t help but be impressed by his vast knowledge. You find yourself wondering just how long and often he studies, as it’s a fascinating sight to see someone so dedicated to their passion. In a way, you envy that trait—it’s something you’ve longed for in your own life.

“Neutron stars are just one example,” he continues speaking, oblivious to your internal musings. “The universe is full of these mind-boggling phenomena that challenge our understanding of physics and reality.”

You watch him, noting the excitement in his voice, the way his eyes sparkle as he speaks. It’s clear that he lives and breathes this subject, and his enthusiasm is infectious. There’s something comforting about his dedication, a reminder that there are people out there who are deeply connected to their passions.

His eyes twinkle with curiosity as he asks, “Do you have any favorite constellations in particular?” You tilt your head, wondering where this is going. “Why do you ask?”

He grins. “I want to see if I have any interesting facts about it. I’ve read a lot about constellations, so I’m curious if I can tell you something new about your favorite.” You think for a moment before replying, “Orion. I’ve always liked Orion.”

His face lights up. “Orion, the Hunter! That's a great choice. Did you know that the stars in Orion's Belt—Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka—are all blue supergiants? They’re incredibly hot and massive, much more so than our Sun.”

He continues, “Betelgeuse, the red supergiant that marks one of Orion’s shoulders, is fascinating too. It’s so large that if it were placed in the center of our solar system, its surface would extend beyond the orbit of Mars. Betelgeuse is also a semiregular variable star, meaning its brightness changes over time. Astronomers think it could go supernova anytime within the next million years, which in cosmic terms is pretty soon.”

He then dived deeper into the lore and facts about Orion, his enthusiasm evident. “Then there’s Rigel, Orion’s other shoulder star. It’s a blue supergiant about 870 light-years away from us. It’s one of the brightest stars in our sky, around 120,000 times more luminous than the Sun. But it’s not just one star—Rigel is actually a star system with at least three components, possibly even more. There’s Rigel A, the supergiant, and a pair of smaller stars that orbit around it.”

You listen intently, drawn in by his enthusiasm. As he continues to talk, you can’t help but be captivated by the depth of his knowledge. He speaks with such passion and ease, and you wonder just how long and often he must study astronomy to know so much. It’s a stark contrast to your own experiences, where your illness has often overshadowed any pursuit of hobbies or interests.

“Another fascinating thing is that Orion’s Belt aligns almost perfectly with the pyramids of Giza in Egypt. This alignment has sparked numerous theories and legends about ancient civilizations and their connection to the stars. Some believe the pyramids were built to mirror the constellation, symbolizing a connection between Earth and the heavens,” he says, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping as if sharing a secret.

You find yourself thinking about how amazing it is to see someone so deeply invested in something. His eyes light up with every new fact he shares, his excitement palpable. It makes you feel a twinge of envy; you wish you could have such a passion, something that drives you and fills you with purpose.

“And there’s more,” he continues, “The Horsehead Nebula, which is part of the Orion Molecular Cloud Complex, is a dark nebula located just south of Alnitak, the leftmost star in Orion’s Belt. It's named for its distinctive shape, which looks like the head of a horse. It’s a fascinating area of space where new stars are being born.”

You listen, mesmerized not just by the information but by the boy himself. There’s something inspiring about his dedication and the way he finds joy in the cosmos. For a moment, your own struggles seem distant, replaced by a curiosity and a desire to know more.

“Wow, I had no idea there was so much to Orion,” you say, genuinely impressed. He smiles, his eyes still twinkling. “There’s always more to learn and discover. That’s what I love about astronomy—it constantly reminds me how vast and mysterious our universe is.”

Just as you practically feel that he’s about to steer the conversation towards you and ask if there’s anything you’re passionate about, you’re quick on your feet to beat him to it, “Why do you want to become an astronomer? Why are you so dedicated to it?”

He pauses, his expression softening as he considers your question. “It’s a long story,” he begins, his eyes flickering to the stars above. “But the short version is, I’ve always been fascinated by the night sky. When I was a kid, my parents got me a telescope for my birthday. I remember the first time I saw the rings of Saturn—I was completely hooked.”

You watch him closely, noticing the way his features light up with each word. There’s a deep-seated passion in his voice, a genuine love for the subject he spoke of.

“My grandfather was a big influence too,” he continues. “He used to take me out to this old observatory near our house. We’d spend hours there, just looking at the stars and talking about the universe. He’d tell me stories about constellations and the myths behind them. Those moments felt magical, and they sparked a curiosity in me that never went away.”

He glances at you, a small, wistful smile appearing on his lips. “As I grew older, I realized that astronomy wasn’t just about looking at pretty stars. It’s about understanding our place in the universe, exploring the unknown, and constantly challenging what we think we know. There’s so much out there that we haven’t discovered yet, and that’s what drives me. The idea that, no matter how much we learn, there’s always more to uncover.”

You nod slowly, captivated by his words. It’s clear that his dedication to astronomy isn’t just about the science; it’s about the wonder and endless possibilities the universe holds.

“And I guess,” he adds, his voice softer, “it’s also a way to keep that connection with my grandfather alive. Every time I look through a telescope, it feels like he’s there with me, sharing that moment."

“That’s incredible,” you say, your voice filled with genuine admiration. “It’s amazing how something like a childhood gift can shape your entire life.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and comforting. “Yeah, it’s funny how life works out sometimes. Well… what about you? Do you have anything you’re passionate about?”

You hesitate, looking down at the grass, the weight of your own struggles pressing on your shoulders. “There’s nothing in particular that I hold any sort of passion for,” you admit hesitantly. “It just feels pointless. There’s not enough time for me to explore anything, and even if I did, it would all go to waste in the end anyway. So, I never really bothered to try.”

The young man listens intently, his expression thoughtful. “I understand,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “It’s easy to get overwhelmed by the idea of how things might end, especially when you feel like you have limited time. But sometimes, it’s not about the end result; it’s about the moments in between. Focusing on what’s happening right now, what’s right in front of you, can make all the difference."

You let out a small sigh, feeling a mix of frustration and sadness. He doesn’t understand at all—but he’s not at fault for that. “That’s easier said than done.”

He nods in agreement. “Well, you’re right. It is easier said than done. But, hey, there’s always a first time for everything, and this could be one of those times. Starting small can make it more manageable.”

“But what’s the point in doing all that, anyway?” you ask, a hint of resignation in your voice.

He leans in slightly, his gaze warm and full of hope—a stark contrast to yours that are devoid of emotion. “The point is to find those little moments of joy and meaning, even if they seem insignificant. Maybe it starts with something as simple as taking a walk in the park, trying out a new flavor of your favorite food, or experimenting with a different style than what you're used to. These small steps can lead to new experiences and, who knows, maybe even a newfound passion.”

He continues speaking, “It’s about creating moments that matter to you, no matter how small they might seem. And maybe, over time, those moments will add up to something bigger, something meaningful.”

You look at him and, without much emotion, remark, “You seem to be a really sentimental and optimistic person.”

He blushes slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I try to see the bright side in everything. It’s not always easy, but I believe there’s always something good, even in the toughest situations.”

Is there?

You hesitate, then ask, “But what if you come across a situation where it’s impossible to see the bright side? What would you do then?”

His smile falters for a moment, and he looks thoughtful. “That’s a tough question,” he admits. “I think, in those moments, it’s about finding any sliver of hope you can, no matter how small. Sometimes, it’s not about seeing the bright side immediately but about holding on until things start to make sense. It might mean leaning on others for support, finding strength in small victories, or just surviving one day at a time.”

You glance down, digesting his words. They resonate with you more deeply than you expected. Though he doesn’t know it, he is describing your life—the struggle, the search for any small piece of hope.

He continues, his voice softer. “There are times when the world seems overwhelmingly dark, and in those times, it’s okay to acknowledge that it’s hard. But I believe there’s always a way forward, even if it’s just a tiny step at a time.”

“But what if you can’t find any sliver of hope because there’s none in the first place?” you ask, your voice tinted with a mix of frustration and resignation.

He pauses, as if he’s beginning to sense the weight of your words. “Are you… speaking from a personal perspective?” he asks gently, afraid to hit any sore spot.

You look down at the grass, avoiding his gaze. The silence stretches, and he takes it as a sign to answer.

“Well, sometimes, it feels like there’s no hope at all,” he begins carefully. “I’ve had moments like that, where everything seems bleak. When that happens, I try to remember that feelings are temporary, even the worst ones. It might not seem like it now, but change is the only constant. If you can’t find hope in your current situation, maybe it can come from something small, something outside of the immediate struggle.”

He shifted slightly closer, playing with the lace of his shoe while he sat cross-legged. “It might be a smile from a stranger, a kind word from a friend, or even a moment like this, where you’re sharing your thoughts with someone. Those tiny moments of connection can sometimes provide the sliver of hope we need to keep going.”

You remain silent, processing his words. He continues, “And if you can’t see any hope right now, that’s okay. Sometimes, we have to lean on others to help us find it. You don’t have to carry the burden alone. There are people who care about you and want to help.”

“Do you think there’s hope left for those with a doomed fate?” you ask, your voice coming out as a whisper, filled with an unspoken plea for reassurance.

He falls silent for a moment, contemplating your question. “Hope is a complicated thing,” he begins slowly. “Even in the darkest of times, hope can be the smallest of lights. It’s not always about finding a way to change your fate, but rather finding a way to live despite it.”

He looks up at the sky, his eyes reflecting the faint glow of the stars. “I believe that even when someone’s fate seems doomed, there can still be moments of beauty, connection, and meaning. Those moments might not change the outcome, but they can change the experience of the journey. It’s about making the most of the time you have, no matter how limited it may be. It can be as simple as watching a meteor shower with someone who cares, or as profound as realizing that your life, however brief, has touched others in ways you might never fully understand.”

You listen, his words weaving through the heavy fog of your thoughts. His sincerity offers a glimmer of comfort, a reminder that even in a seemingly hopeless situation, there can still be a reason to hold on, even if just for a little while longer.

Suddenly, your conversation with him is interrupted by the distant call of your mother. Both of you glance back towards the source of the voice. The realization hits you that it’s time to go home. You turn back to him, a slight reluctance in your eyes.

“It’s getting late. I should probably head home,” you say, standing up and brushing the grass off your dress. The cool night air feels heavier now, carrying with it a sense of the evening coming to an end. “You should too.”

He remains seated, his eyes fixed on you with a warm smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he replies, but makes no immediate move to get up. There’s a quiet understanding in his gaze, an acknowledgment of the fleeting yet meaningful connection you’ve shared.

You both wave goodbye, and you add, “Thanks… for talking to me. It was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too,” he says while smiling, still seated, watching you walk away, his eyes following your every step.

As you approach your parents, their broad smiles greet you, filled with a mix of curiosity and pride. “What’s the matter?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

“Did you make a new friend?” your mother inquires, her eyes sparkling with hope and a touch of relief.

At the mention of the young man, you glance back towards where you left him. He’s now engrossed in his telescope, scanning the night sky with the same passion that drew you to him in the first place. You turn back to your parents with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not really sure.”

Your father places a gentle hand on your shoulder, his grip warm and reassuring. “We’re proud of you for trying to talk to someone new,” he says, his voice filled with encouragement.

Your mother nods in agreement, her smile soft and understanding. “It’s a big step, and we’re just glad you took it.”

On the ride home, the car is filled with a comfortable silence, the kind that allows thoughts to flow freely. You find yourself replaying the stranger’s words over and over in your mind. His perspective on life, his deep passion for astronomy, and his hopeful outlook seem to carve out a small but significant space in your heart. His advice to focus on the present rather than the daunting future lingers, a beacon of light in your often dark and uncertain world.

As the car rolls through the quiet streets, you glance out the window at the night sky. The stars seem a bit brighter now, each one a reminder of the infinite possibilities that exist, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

Suddenly, a realization hits you, pulling you out of your reverie. You didn’t get to ask him what his name was. A pang of regret settles in your chest, mingling with the residual warmth of the evening. You wonder if you’ll ever see him again, or if this brief encounter will remain just a fleeting, albeit impactful, memory.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a tiny flicker of something akin to hope. It’s fragile and tentative, but it’s there, nestled in the corner of your mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to life than the bleakness you’ve grown accustomed to.

For once, the shooting stars have heard your wish to be given a sign to keep going.

—

A few days later, you find yourself under that dark cloud of sadness again. It always strikes at the most unexpected times—like now, while you’re in the shower. The water droplets sprinkling from the showerhead feel more like a deluge, and you can’t shake the sensation of being drowned by your own thoughts. The sadness, always lurking in the background, engulfs you completely. You turn off the shower, the silence of the room only amplifying the roar of your thoughts. Leaning against the tiled walls, you tilt your head back, as if trying to prevent the tears from falling. Just as the dam is about to break, a voice echoes in your mind—his voice, almost as if on cue.

“I believe that even when someone’s fate seems doomed, there can still be moments of beauty, connection, and meaning. Those moments might not change the outcome, but they can change the experience of the journey. It’s about making the most of the time you have, no matter how limited it may be.”

His words cut through the darkness, offering a glimmer of light. Making the most of your time... no matter how limited it may be. You remember him mentioning the small steps you can take: going on a walk, trying out new things. An idea starts to form, slowly but surely.

After finishing your shower, you head to your room. A staring contest with your closet ensues as you ponder what would be appropriate for a day at the park. Once you settle on something comfortable yet presentable and finish fixing yourself up, you walk to the living room, where only your father was found as your mother was away for work. The sight of you fully dressed up surprises him—in a good way.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, trying to mask his astonishment.

Shyly, you respond, “Can you drive me to the park?”

Your father’s eyes widen in surprise, and you can see he’s holding back tears. His voice choked with emotion, happily agreeing. “Of course! I mean, of course, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

His pride and happiness is palpable, and for the first time in a long while, you feel a small sense of accomplishment. It’s a tiny step, but it’s the beginning of something new. As you walk towards the door with your father, the young man’s words continue to echo in your mind.

On the drive to the park, you gaze out the window, watching the world pass by. The trees blur together, and the sky stretches out infinitely, offering a sense of calm. The hum of the car is soothing, and for a moment, you let yourself be enveloped by the tranquility.

Your father, hands steady on the wheel, breaks the silence with a gentle question. “What made you want to go to the park today?”

Turning to him, you muster a small smile, so faint it could barely be seen. “Just... making the most out of the time I have left,” you shrug.

Your father glances at you, his eyes softening with a mix of pride and sadness. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression speaks volumes. He’s grateful to see you taking steps, no matter how small, towards finding some semblance of joy or normalcy.

As the car continues down the road, the significance of this simple outing begins to settle in. It’s not just a trip to the park; it’s a step towards living, towards reclaiming moments that were lost in the shadow of illness and despair.

When you finally arrive at the park, you take a deep breath, ready to embrace whatever this new experience might bring. For now, you’re just a girl, standing in a park, making the most of the time she has, and that’s enough.

Your father gives you a reassuring smile. “Make sure you message me when you’re ready to be picked up, okay?” You nod, trying to mirror his smile. “I will.”

He waves goodbye as you step out of the car, and suddenly, you’re alone. Taking small steps, the outside world feels almost unfamiliar. People are everywhere—couples, friends, families. Pets chase each other around, vendors sell a variety of foods, and the trees provide a gentle, comforting breeze.

You stroll through the park, slowly taking in your surroundings. Every step is cautious because this isn’t exactly familiar territory. But you remind yourself—baby steps. This is a new experience, and you deserve to cut yourself some slack.

Lost in your thoughts, you wander through the park, hardly noticing as the density of people around you gradually increases. The noise rises, a symphony of chatter, laughter, and footsteps, becoming more unbearable with each step you take. It’s as if the sound waves themselves are pressing against your skin, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

Suddenly, the environment feels overwhelmingly loud. Anxiety hits you like a tidal wave, swift and unrelenting as you begin to realize what you wish had just gone over your head: you are alone in a place you’ve never stepped foot on before.

Your heart races, pounding in your chest with such force that you fear it might explode. Every noise seems amplified, and every glance from a passerby feels like a spotlight trained on you. The world around you blurs and narrows into a tunnel vision where only the threat of being watched remains clear.

Your breaths become shallow, rapid, and each inhale feels like it barely reaches your lungs. You place a trembling hand on your chest, trying to ground yourself, but it only seems to make the panic more palpable. Your throat tightens, making it hard to swallow, and a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. Tears well up, stinging your eyes as the sense of doom takes hold.

Your legs feel unsteady, almost as if they might give out beneath you at any moment. The crowd seems to close in, the once little groups of people now a suffocating mass. The world around you distorts, sounds warping into an unintelligible hum. You feel disconnected from your body, as if you’re watching yourself from a distance, helpless to stop the panic that courses through you.

Just as you begin to take a step back, desperate to escape, you collide with something solid. It’s a person’s back, and when you turn, you see the broad figure of a man wearing a black fitted turtleneck. You’re about to flee, but he turns, his expression initially one of surprise.

“Oh, sorry—”

Then recognition dawns on both your faces. It’s the young man from the observatory. He sees the panic in your eyes, the hand clutching at your heart, the tears threatening to spill over. His face softens, concern replacing surprise, and he steps closer, his presence grounding in the midst of your chaos.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice is a lifeline.

You can’t trust yourself to speak, so you just shake your head, eyes wide and pleading. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of the expression you held on your reflection on the lens of his glasses, and it drives you into despair even further.

He cautiously steps even closer, his voice low and soothing. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You're safe. Just breathe with me, alright? In and out.”

He starts to breathe slowly and deeply, demonstrating for you. At first, it’s hard to match his calm rhythm, but focusing on his steady breaths helps. Gradually, your own breathing slows, deepens, the frantic pounding in your chest easing slightly.

He keeps his gaze locked on yours, his voice a constant, comforting murmur. “You’re doing great. Just keep breathing.”

The world begins to settle back into place. The noise recedes, and the faces in the crowd become less threatening. Your breaths come easier, the tightness in your chest loosening its grip. Tears that were on the brink of falling retreat, leaving your eyes wet but no longer overflowing.

His eyes remain warm, filled with genuine concern. “Do you want to sit down for a bit?” he suggests, certain that you needed a little more time to calm down. You hesitate for a moment, then nod in agreement.

He leads you to a nearby bench, his presence bringing a somewhat calming aura as he sits beside you. He tries to engage you in small talk, attempting to distract you from your overwhelming thoughts. “So, what brings you to the park today?” he asks gently.

You fiddle with your fingers on your lap, grateful for the normalcy of the question and the fact that he seems to be trying to distract you from your thoughts.

“I followed your advice from that night at the observatory,” you explain. “You talked about making the most of the time I have left by trying out new things. I remembered that and decided to come here.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “Really? I didn’t expect you to remember that, let alone follow it.”

You offer a small nod. “This morning, I was feeling down, and your words just came to me. That’s when I decided to come here. But I wasn’t expecting it to be so… hard. I’ve barely been here thirty minutes and I already had an anxiety attack.”

His expression softens with understanding. “It’s completely normal to feel that way. Huge crowds can be really overwhelming, especially if you’re not used to them.”

He pauses, sensing there’s more to your anxiety but refrains from pressing further. Instead, he offers a supportive presence, hoping you’ll share only what you’re comfortable with. To his surprise, you continue.

“I’ve never been to the park before,” you admit, your voice a whisper. “I’ve been mostly isolated my entire life.”

His curiosity is piqued, but he respects your boundaries. He nods, his eyes reflecting empathy. “That must be really tough,” he says softly. “I can’t even imagine.”

There’s a moment of silence, comfortable and filled with unspoken understanding. For once, you don’t feel the need to fill the conversation—just his presence was enough.

“You know,” he begins, looking out at the park with a contemplative expression, “the first time I went to a new place by myself, I felt pretty overwhelmed too. It was nowhere near what you’re going through, but I get a bit of what it’s like to be surrounded by so much and feel so alone.”

You appreciate his effort to relate, to connect. It’s a small comfort, but it matters. “Thank you,” you say quietly. “For being here, and… for understanding.”

He smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and warms you from the inside. “Anytime. And remember, everyone starts small. You’re doing great just by being here.”

Silence fills the air for a few seconds, allowing the tranquility of the park to envelop you both. Then, a thought surfaces, nudging you gently. “You know…” you begin, turning slightly towards him, “I still don’t know your name.”

His face lights up with a shy smile. “Oh, right. I guess I forgot to introduce myself properly. My name is San. Choi San.”

“San,” you repeat, letting the name roll off your lips. “Like the mountain.”

He laughs, a soft and endearing sound. “Yeah, exactly like the mountain. You’re not the first to make that connection,” he says with a grin, a hint of a blush creeping up his cheeks.

The wind rustles the leaves in the trees, carrying with it the distant sounds of laughter and conversation. You sit there, feeling a strange mix of relief and curiosity. San’s enthusiasm for life and his kindness provide a stark contrast to the isolation and fear that have been your constant companions.

“San,” you say again, more to yourself than to him, feeling the name claim a place for itself in your mind. There’s something grounding about it, something that makes you feel a little more connected to the world around you.

In an attempt to keep the discussion going and to distract yourself from what happened earlier, you decide to ask him what he asked you earlier.

"So, what brings you to the park today?" you inquire, your curiosity genuine.

San leans back slightly, looking around as if the park itself might answer. “I often come here to clear my head or unwind, especially when I'm going through something. It’s like a little sanctuary for me. Being out here helps me calm down and gather my thoughts.”

You wish you weren’t so afraid of being by yourself in huge crowds. If only you could do the same as San, finding solace in a place like this without feeling overwhelmed.

“What do you like about the park? Why does it bring you comfort?” you ask, and he smiles, a faraway look in his eyes.

“There’s something about the openness of it all. The way the trees rustle, the sound of children laughing, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves. It’s grounding. It reminds me that there’s more to life than the stress and the noise. It’s a place where I can just be.”

“You really seem to have a deep connection with a lot of things. First, astronomy, and now, nature,” you remark, a hint of admiration in your voice.

San nods, his eyes reflecting the sunlight filtering through the trees. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It’s always been a place where I can reset and remind myself of the bigger picture. For me, nature has this way of putting everything into perspective.”

It was a fascinating sight to see, in a way. Spending all your hours within the confines of your home and being imprisoned by your own fate for pretty much all the years you’ve spent in this world has proved to be something that had imprinted a huge impact in the way you live, because even seeing passion being radiated by people is enough to elicit genuine surprise from you.

So this is what being in a world outside of yours is like.

So this is what seeing things in a perspective different from the one you’re holding is like.

So this is what not being you is like.

You look around, trying to see the park through his eyes. “I wish I could feel that way. Most of the time, I just feel... overwhelmed.”

San looks at you with understanding. “It’s okay to feel that way. Everyone has their own journey. What matters is that you’re trying. Coming here today was a big step, and it’s a good start.”

You nod, feeling a bit reassured. “Thank you. I guess I just have to take it one step at a time, huh?”

“Exactly,” San agrees, his voice encouraging. “And remember, it’s okay to take breaks and ask for help when you need it. You’re not alone.”

His words resonate with you, and for the first time in a while, you feel a glimmer of hope. It’s small, but it’s there, nevertheless. “Maybe I’ll try to come here more often, see if it helps.”

San smiles warmly. “I think that’s a great idea. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll find as much peace here as I do.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the park come to life around you. The chaos that felt suffocating earlier now seems a bit more manageable, with San’s presence providing comfort.

As the conversation winds down, you feel a sense of gratitude. “Thank you, San. For everything. I didn’t think talking to a stranger could make such a difference.”

San chuckles softly. “Sometimes, a fresh perspective is all we need. And, well, we’re not really strangers anymore, are we?”

You offer him a small smile, feeling a connection forming. “I guess not.”

As the sun begins to set, casting a warm orange glow over the park, you look at San and say, “I should probably ask my father to come pick me up.”

San nods, stretching a bit after adjusting his glasses. “Yeah, I should head home too. My cat is probably wondering where I am.”

Your curiosity is piqued despite your earlier intention to leave. “Oh, you have a cat?” you ask.

“Yeah,” San replies with a smile. “Her name is Byeol, she’s a Siamese cat.” He pulls out his phone and shows you a picture of her. Byeol is a strikingly beautiful cat with piercing blue eyes and a sleek, cream-colored coat accented with darker points on her ears, face, paws, and tail.

“She’s adorable,” you say, admiring the photo. “She looks like a princess.”

San beams with pride. “Right? She’s a handful sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade her for anything. She’s always there when I need her, even if she’s just curling up next to me while I read.”

Just as you’re both caught up in talking about Byeol, you see your father's car pulling up. The sight of him brings you back to reality, reminding you of the time. You turn to San, feeling a bit rushed. “I should go. It was nice talking to you again, San.”

San waves with a smile, a hint of déjà vu in his eyes as he watches you walk away. “Same here. Take care.”

You walk towards your father’s car, your thoughts swirling with the day’s events. As you settle into the passenger seat, your father starts driving and asks, “So, how was your day at the park?”

You decide not to mention your anxiety attack, not wanting to worry him. “Today gave me a piece of a new perspective in life,” you say instead.

Your father glances at you, curiosity etched on his face. “What do you mean by that?”

You glance out the window, gathering your thoughts. “Do you remember the boy from the observatory?”

He nods. “Yes, is he the boy you were sitting with on the bench?”

“Yeah,” You confirm. “We crossed paths again today by accident.”

“Did you spend time together?” your father asks, his interest clearly piqued.

“Well, kind of,” you reply, thinking back to your conversations with San. “We just sat on a bench and talked about things. Nothing special, really. But it felt different. I felt different.”

Your father seems intrigued. “Is that where you got this ‘new perspective’ from?”

“Maybe,” you admit, a small smile forming on your lips. “He has this way of seeing the world that makes it seem... less daunting. More manageable. He talked about finding beauty and meaning even in difficult circumstances, and it just made sense to me.”

Your father looks at you, pride and relief evident in his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that. Sometimes, all it takes is a different viewpoint to make things seem better. And it sounds like this boy has a good influence on you.”

You nod, looking out the window as the scenery passes by. The streets, houses, and trees blend into a comforting blur. You can’t help but think about how much San’s words and presence have impacted you in such a short time. His optimism and the way he embraced life, even with its uncertainties, had struck a chord within you.

At the same time, your curiosity about him couldn’t help but wander around further.

—

Last night, sleep came with a weighty heart, knowing all too well what awaited today. The bright red marker on the calendar hung by your door, circling the dreaded date, was an ever-present reminder of your reality.

Your monthly checkup.

It was never just a routine visit for you. Each trip to the hospital was a stark reminder of the inevitable. The sterile smell of antiseptic, the chill of the air-conditioned rooms, the cold, clinical atmosphere—everything about the hospital filled you with dread. The monthly checkups were less about monitoring your health and more about confronting the slow, inescapable decline. You loathed the look of concern on your parents’ faces, the hushed conversations with your doctor, the heavy sighs and the sympathetic nods. You knew your health was deteriorating, and each visit confirmed what you already feared. And that was what you hated most.

Now, as you sit in the car with your father driving, your mother’s absence due to work commitments is painfully felt. The air is thick with unspoken fears and desperate hopes for some glimmer of good news, though deep down, you all know it’s a futile wish. The treatments, the surgeries—they were all temporary measures, patches over a wound that couldn’t truly heal.

Today, however, feels different.

For the first time, the thought of bad news brings a strange, new fear. Typically, you had accepted your fate with a resigned indifference. What has changed now? Why do you suddenly care so much about the results?

The answer isn’t clear, but you suspect it has something to do with the recent days at the park, the unexpected encounter with San, and his earnest words about finding beauty and meaning in the limited time one has. His encouragement to live, even if it’s just a little bit, seems to have ignited a spark within you—a spark you can’t ignore.

As you watch the scenery blur past, your mind drifts back to those moments at the park. The seed of hope he planted now feels fragile but growing. The hospital looms ahead, an unwelcoming fortress, and you feel your heart tighten as you pull into the parking lot. Your father’s grip on the steering wheel is firm, his knuckles white. He looks at you, offering a strained smile.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice betraying the calm demeanor he tries to project. You nod, though your stomach churns with anxiety. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Together, you walk into the hospital, the familiar antiseptic smell hitting you immediately. The nurse at the reception desk recognizes you and gives a sympathetic nod before leading you to the examination room. You sit on the crinkling paper of the exam table, your father standing beside you, his hand a steadying presence on your shoulder. The doctor enters, clipboard in hand, and offers a professional but warm smile.

“How are we feeling today?” she asks, her tone gentle. “Alright,” you reply, though it feels like a lie that even you can’t bring yourself to believe.

The checkup begins, each procedure a familiar invasion. Your mind is a whirlwind, each step a reminder of your reality. When it’s over, the doctor looks at you with a mix of pity and professionalism before asking your father to step outside. You know what this means. It’s never a good sign when they need to talk privately.

Left alone, the silence is heavy and suffocating. You glance around the room, trying to focus on anything but the conversation happening outside. The sterile instruments, the educational posters on the walls—they all seem like cruel jokes.

Minutes stretch on like hours until your father finally returns. His face is pale, eyes red-rimmed, but he forces a smile. “Let’s head home,” he said softly.

You nodded, feeling your heart sink. Another bad report, another reminder of the inevitable. As you and your father headed toward the exit, a familiar figure caught your eye by the reception desk. He turned his head slightly, and your suspicions were confirmed.

San.

Why was he here? Visiting an ill family member? A friend, perhaps? Or... was he the patient himself?

Before you could delve deeper into your thoughts, your father’s voice pulled you back to reality. “Let’s head home," he repeated gently, and despite your curiosity, you turned your attention away from San and followed your father outside.

On the ride home, the atmosphere in the car was heavy with unspoken dread. You sat in the passenger seat, your eyes fixed on the passing scenery, but your mind was elsewhere, trapped in a whirlpool of anxiety and fear. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic thud of the tires on the asphalt were the only sounds, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside you.

Your father’s silence was louder than any words. His grip on the steering wheel was tight as if desperately trying to hold himself together, and you could see the pain etched in his features. You mustered the courage to ask, your voice coming off as a whisper, “Dad, what did she say?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, you saw the facade he tried so hard to maintain begin to crumble. His eyes welled up with tears, his breath hitching as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “You… you have a month left to live,” he said slowly, his voice breaking, each word hitting you like a sledgehammer.

Time stopped.

The world held its breath.

And so did you.

The world outside the car ceased to exist, reduced to a blur of colors and shapes. The weight of his words pressed down on you, suffocating and inescapable. A month. Just one month left. Four weeks. Thirty days. The enormity of it was paralyzing.

Your mind went blank, your father’s quiet sobs becoming a distant, muffled sound. You stared at your lap, your hands clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps, as if the very air around you had turned to lead.

No, no, no. This can’t be. This can’t be.

“I’m so, so sorry, darling…” your father whispered, his voice choked with emotion. The raw pain in his words shattered the fragile dam holding back your tears, and you felt your heart splinter into a thousand pieces.

When you pulled into the driveway, the house loomed ahead, a familiar sight now tainted with a sense of finality. Your mother stood by the door, her face a mask of worry and sorrow. She had been crying; her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. It seems as if your father had already informed her about it right after his conversation with your doctor. As you stepped out of the car, the last vestiges of your composure crumbled.

You ran to her, needing the comfort of her embrace. She opened her arms wide, gathering you into a tight hug. You buried your face in her shoulder, the sobs wracking your body as she held you close, her chin resting on your forehead. One hand gently rubbed your back in soothing circles, while the other cradled your head, fingers tangled in your hair.

“It’s going to be alright,” she murmured, her voice trembling. But you both knew it was a lie. There was no alright, no miracle waiting around the corner. Just the cruel march of time, slipping away faster than you could grasp.

Inside the house, the usual warmth felt hollow, a stark reminder of the fleeting moments you had left. The living room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. Your father’s footsteps echoed in the hallway as he followed you in, his presence a silent testament to the shared grief weighing down on your family.

You slumped onto the couch, the weight of the news pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe. Your mother sat beside you, her arm around your shoulders, offering silent support. Your father joined you, sitting on the other side, his hand resting gently on yours.

“We’ll get through this,” he said softly, though his voice betrayed the uncertainty in his heart. You nodded, but the words felt empty, a hollow echo in the face of an unforgiving reality.

The room fell into a heavy silence, each of you lost in your thoughts. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, an unwelcome reminder of the time slipping away. You wished you could stop it, freeze this moment and hold on to the fragile threads of hope that still lingered.

But deep down, you knew the truth. Your time was running out, and there was nothing you could do to change it.

When night falls, you find yourself in a familiar situation, sitting on your bed while gazing at the stars outside. Somehow, they still provide a sense of comfort, even if it’s slowly starting to dim. An hour ago, when you went to your room to “sleep,” you heard the muffled cries of your parents the moment you shut the door behind you. Instead of heading to your bed, you stayed there by the door, ear pressed against it, listening to their helpless sobs.

The sound was unbearable. It wasn’t just the sadness in their voices; it was the raw, visceral pain, the sense of impending loss. It cut through you like a knife. You couldn’t handle hearing them cry. You couldn’t handle making their suffering even worse.

You had to rid yourself of them before it got worse on their behalf.

So here you are now. Minutes ago, you were just stargazing, but now, half your figure is outside your window. Carefully, you sneak out of your room, making sure to avoid any noise as you slip past the gates. You look back at your home once more, and your heart shatters. You hold back your sobs, then you make a run for it, not daring to look back.

Your bare feet pound against the ground, the sharp edges of the tiny stones biting into your skin. Each step hurts, but you keep running. The pain is nothing compared to the torment in your heart. Nothing else is on your mind but to run, run, run.

The night was cold, the chill air stinging your face as you eventually found yourself standing on the edge of the cliff. Tears streamed down your cheeks, mingling with the sweat from your frantic run. The city lights below twinkled like distant stars, mocking the darkness that had enveloped your heart. Each breath was a struggle, each sob a dagger in your chest

You thought of your parents, the look of devastation in their eyes when the doctor had delivered the news. You thought of the pain you had caused them, the weight of their sorrow pressing down on you like a physical force. How could you continue to be the source of their suffering?

Your mind raced with thoughts of escape, of ending the agony for everyone involved. You imagined the relief on their faces when they no longer had to watch you fade away. It seemed like the only way to free them from this nightmare.

As you stood there, teetering on the edge, you closed your eyes, ready to take the final step. But before you could, a strong hand grabbed your wrist, yanking you back from the brink. You gasped, eyes flying open, and found yourself pulled into the firm embrace of a familiar figure.

San’s arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly. His chest heaved with the exertion of his run to catch you, his breath hot against your ear. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice a mix of fear and desperation.

You couldn’t find the words to respond, your body trembling uncontrollably. He didn’t let go, his grip tightening as if afraid you might slip away. The reality of what you had almost done hit you like a tidal wave, and the sobs you had been holding back broke free, wracking your body.

San slowly took steps back, ensuring you were safely away from the edge of the cliff. You clung to him, sobbing into his chest. “There’s no point, San,” you cried, your voice broken. “There’s no point in living. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore—please, I just... I need to end it all...”

San’s heart ached at your words. He tightened his hold on you, trying to infuse his strength into your frail, trembling body. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here,” he whispered, his voice soothing, attempting to anchor you in the present. “Let’s sit down, okay?”

He gently guided you to sit down, and you didn’t protest, your soul and body too numb to resist. He sat beside you, keeping a firm arm around your shoulders, rubbing your back in slow, calming circles. The silence between you was thick with emotion, but he was patient, waiting for you to find your voice.

After a few minutes, you took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, San,” you whisper, and he leans in closer because he can’t hear you. “I don’t think I can still find it in me to believe in the existence of hope anymore.”

He looked at you with concern. “What’s wrong? What do you mean by that?”

You turned to him, your eyes filled with unshed tears. “I have a month left.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “A month left? What do you mean?”

With a deep breath, you revealed the truth. “I’m diagnosed with a terminal disease, San. I’m cursed.”

San’s eyes widened in shock. “What? No, that can’t be...” His voice trailed off, the weight of your words settling in.

“I’ve known for my entire life,” you continued, your voice trembling. “But today, the doctor told my parents that I only have a month left to live. I don’t know how to keep going, knowing that my time is so limited.”

“I’ve always felt different, San. Since birth, I’ve been living with this disease, and it feels like I’m on borrowed time. Every single day, I wake up knowing that my life is on a countdown, and it’s exhausting. I can’t let myself be happy because I’m terrified that if I do, it’ll be snatched away from me. It’s like there’s this invisible barrier between me and the rest of the world. I see people finding joy in the simplest things, and I can’t. I just can’t.”

San’s eyes are filled with empathy and sorrow as he listens, his hand never leaving your shoulder. You take a deep breath and continue, the words coming faster now, as if a dam inside you has finally broken.

“I feel like such a burden to my parents. They don’t say it, but I know. Every hospital visit, every new medication, every surgery—it’s like I’m a constant reminder of the life they could have had without me. I’ve seen the fear and worry in their eyes every time we talk to the doctors. It’s like a knife twisting in my heart every single time. I hate seeing them suffer because of me. I hate that my existence is a source of pain for them.”

Your voice trembles with the weight of your emotions, but you push on, needing to get it all out.

“I can’t do normal things like everyone else. I’ve missed out on so much because of this illness. School, friends, just going out and having fun—none of that has ever been normal for me. I’ve been isolated for most of my life, and it’s so lonely. I watch from the sidelines as life goes on without me, and it hurts… it hurts so much.”

Tears begin to flow freely down your cheeks, and you don’t bother wiping them away. San’s grip on your shoulder tightens, offering silent support.

“I feel guilty for wanting to be happy. Every time I see my parents smile, I feel like I’m taking that away from them because of my condition. I feel like I’m stealing their chance at a normal, happy life. I wish I could just disappear and take all their pain with me. I wish I could give them a break from all this suffering. So, that’s why I…”

You pause to catch your breath, the weight of your words pressing down on you. San remains silent, his eyes never leaving yours, his presence grounding you. The sobs come harder now, your body shaking with the force of your emotions. San pulls you closer, wrapping you in a warm, comforting embrace. His presence feels like a lifeline.

“I’ve tried so hard to be strong, to put on a brave face for them. But it's getting harder and harder. I’m so tired, San. I’m so, so tired. And the worst part is, I feel like I don’t even have the right to be tired. There are so many people who have it worse than me, and I feel guilty for feeling this way. But I can’t help it. I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

Your voice cracks, and you finally let go, crying freely into San’s arms. He holds you tighter, his hand gently rubbing your back in soothing circles.

“I just want to be normal. I want to live a life without fear, without pain. I want to be able to laugh without worrying about what comes next. But I can’t. And it’s killing me inside.”

San holds you as your sobs shake his chest, waiting until your breaths slow and the storm of your emotions begins to calm. He doesn’t rush to speak; he knows there are no quick fixes for what you're going through. When he does finally speak, his voice is soft and raw with emotion.

“I don’t have any magic words to make this better,” he begins. “I can’t pretend to understand the depth of what you’re going through. No one can, except you. What you’re feeling is valid, and it’s okay to be angry, sad, and scared. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle in. “Oftentimes, life is incredibly unfair. It’s okay to acknowledge that. You’ve been dealt a really tough hand, and it’s not right or fair. But... you’re still here, aren’t you? And that means something. I’m proud of you for it.”

San’s grip on you tightens slightly, a gesture of reassurance. “You’ve been carrying this burden for so long, feeling like you have to be strong for everyone else. But you don’t have to do it alone. It’s okay to let people in, to let them help you carry the weight. Your parents, they love you, alright? They don’t see you as a burden. They see you as their precious child, someone they’d do anything for. They’re suffering because they can’t take away your pain, not because you’re causing it.”

You unconsciously nuzzle into his embrace a little more, the low vibrations from his chest as he spoke sending warmth throughout your troubled soul. “I know it’s hard to believe in hope right now. And maybe that’s not what you need at this moment. Maybe what you need is to just let yourself go. To let yourself feel everything you’re feeling without judgment. To let yourself grieve for the life you’ve missed and the dreams you feel slipping away. That’s okay. It’s okay to mourn those losses.”

San’s eyes meet yours, filled with sincerity and care. “You’ve been fighting so hard, and it’s okay to admit that you’re tired. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to be vulnerable. You’re human, and humans aren’t meant to carry these kinds of burdens alone.”

He lets the silence stretch, allowing his words to sink in. “If there’s one thing I want you to remember, it’s that your life has a meaning. Not because of what you can or can’t do, but because of who you are. The way you’ve touched the lives of those around you, the strength you’ve shown just by getting through each day—those things matter. You matter.”

You look at him through tear-blurred eyes, his words striking chords deep within your heart. “But what if I can’t keep going?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

San’s expression softens even further, and in his eyes, you see a reflection of the determination and care you’ve been too exhausted to summon for yourself. “Then we take it one day at a time. One moment at a time. And when it gets too hard, we lean on each other. I’ll be here, as much as you need me to be. We’ll face this together, okay? You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

We.

You pull back slightly, meeting San’s eyes with a questioning look. “Why are you so adamant about giving me these sincere, deep words? Why do you care so much about making me feel validated?”

A hint of sadness flickers in his eyes. “Because I know how it feels to watch something in your life slowly fade away, unable to do anything about it. It’s not the same as what you’re going through, but I get the gist of it.”

You tilt your head, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean by that?”

San lets out a soft sigh, gathering his thoughts. “Have I ever told you what else I was passionate about before I fully shifted my focus to astronomy?” he asks. You shake your head silently, eager to hear more.

“Well, besides my fascination with the stars, I used to love playing the piano. Not a single day went by without me playing it. During the day, I’d spend hours at the piano, and at night, I’d lose myself in the sky. Music was everything to me. I loved the way each note could convey a world of emotions, how a simple melody could touch hearts and tell stories.”

San’s eyes light up with the memory, a small smile forming on his lips. “There was something magical about the way my fingers danced across the keys, creating harmonies that felt like they were coming straight from my soul. The piano was my escape, my sanctuary. When I played, the world around me would fade away, and it was just me and the music. I felt connected to something greater, something pure and beautiful.”

You nod, imagining a younger San with a passion for music as vibrant as his love for the stars. “So… why did you drop that passion?” you ask softly.

San's gaze shifts to the distance, his voice taking on a heavy tone. “It’s not easy to hold onto a passion for something you know you’re going to lose the ability to fully experience.”

Confusion clouds your expression, urging him to continue.

He sighs, a heavy breath escaping his lips. “When I was a teenager, I was diagnosed with a condition that would eventually lead to complete deafness. It’s progressive, meaning my hearing would deteriorate gradually over time until it was completely gone. Knowing that, knowing I’d one day lose the ability to hear the music I loved, it broke me. Playing the piano started to feel like a cruel reminder of what I was losing.”

So that’s why you saw him at the hospital by the reception weeks ago.

San’s words hang in the air, each one sinking deep into your heart. The weight of his experience, his loss, mirrors the feelings you’ve been grappling with—you weren’t far different from each other, it turns out.

“I remember the day I found out,” San continues, his voice tainted with a deep sadness. “The doctor sat me down and explained that my hearing would gradually decline until I couldn’t hear anything at all. I was devastated. It felt like my entire world was crumbling around me. The thought of never being able to hear the music that had been such a vital part of my life was unbearable. I cried for days, maybe weeks. I didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to accept that something I loved so much could be taken away from me.”

He pauses, collecting himself. “So then, I stopped playing the piano. Every time I sat down to play, all I could think about was the silence that awaited me. It was too painful to face. I felt like a part of me was dying, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

You look at him, seeing a reflection of your own struggle in his story. “How did you keep going, knowing that?” you ask in a soft tone similar to the one he uses all the time whenever he’s talking to you. “How did you overcome that and stay so… positive?”

San’s smile is bittersweet, filled with a resilience that you find both inspiring and heartbreaking. “By finding new ways to connect with the world. At first, it was incredibly hard. I felt lost and hopeless. But I realized that I couldn’t let my condition define me. I had to find other things that brought me joy and fulfillment. That’s when I turned to the stars. The universe is vast and endless, filled with mysteries and wonders that don’t rely on one sense alone. It gave me hope and a way to cope with my reality.”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours. “I also learned to lean on the people around me. I talked to the people I held close to my heart about my fears and struggles, and their support made a huge difference. I allowed myself to grieve what I was losing, but I also focused on appreciating what I still had. And as time went on, I found a new sense of purpose in helping others who were going through their own battles. Sometimes, just knowing you’re not alone can make all the difference.”

San’s gaze softens, and he takes your hand gently in his. “And to answer your question earlier, the reason why I genuinely want to help you is because I know what it’s like to feel lost and alone. And because I believe that even in the darkest times, there’s still a flicker of light. You deserve to find that light, to feel that hope. And if my words can help you see that, then it’s worth it.”

A flicker of light.

“Do you think you’ll ever reconsider picking up the piano again?” you ask, a hint of curiosity in your voice.

San shrugs lightly, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe someday, but in the meantime, I don’t really want to do that. For now, I’m content with my memories. Besides, I’ve found new passions to focus on.” His tone is casual, but there’s a hint of lingering sadness. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he asks, “Why? Do you have a favorite piece you’d like to hear me play?”

A soft smile appears on your lips as you respond, “My favorite piece is Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2.”

San’s eyes light up with recognition and delight. “Really? That’s also my favorite piece to play back when I was a child,” he says, his smile widening.

Seeing San’s happiness brings you a sense of joy you haven’t felt for pretty much almost your entire life. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you realize that his happiness has a profound impact on your own mood.

Wanting to delve deeper into that positivity, you decide to ask him more about his passion for playing the piano. “Can you tell me more about your time playing the piano?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

He raises an eyebrow, surprised but pleased by your interest. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, a gentle smile on his lips.

You nod eagerly. “Yes, I’m sure. Tell me anything about it. Your favorite memories, your love for music, all about it.”

San’s expression softens, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “Alright,” he begins, his voice carrying a nostalgic tone. “Well, I started playing the piano when I was around five years old. My parents noticed I had a natural inclination towards music, always humming tunes or tapping rhythms with my fingers. So, they got me a small keyboard to play around with, and tell you what—I fell in love with it.”

He pauses, a wistful smile on his face as he recalls the memory. “I remember the first time I played a complete piece. It was ‘Für Elise’ by Beethoven. My hands were so small, barely able to reach all the keys, but the feeling of bringing music to life was incredible.”

You listen intently, drawn into his story. “What other pieces did you love to play?”

San’s eyes light up. “Oh, there were so many. ‘Moonlight Sonata,’ ‘Clair de Lune,’ and of course, ‘Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2.’ Each piece had its own story, its own emotions. Playing them was like telling a tale without words.”

He hums to himself, his expression turning more reflective. “But it wasn’t just about playing the notes correctly. It was about feeling the music, letting it flow through me. There were times I’d lose myself completely, hours passing by without me even noticing.”

His enthusiasm is palpable, and you find yourself smiling. “What’s your favorite memory associated with the piano?” you ask.

San’s smile widens. “There was this one time, during a school recital. I was about ten years old, and I played ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ by Gershwin. It was a challenging piece, but I’d practiced for weeks. When I finished, the applause was deafening. My parents were in the front row, beaming with pride. That moment felt like magic, like I was on top of the world.”

His eyes sparkle with the memory, and you can’t help but feel his joy. “That sounds amazing,” you say softly.

“It was,” he agrees, his tone warm. “Music was my escape, my solace. It was where I could express myself fully, without fear or judgment. Even now, though I can’t play as I used to, those memories bring me comfort.”

You nod, finding yourself feeling gravely touched by his experiences. “Thank you for sharing that with me, San. It means a lot.”

San’s smile is gentle, as always. “And thank you for listening. Revisiting those memories every once in a while helps me remember the beauty in life despite its challenges.”

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you remember something you probably should have asked earlier. “Hey… what were you doing here tonight, anyway?”

He chuckles, looking out at the night sky. “This place is my little escape. It’s another spot I go to when I need to clear my head. The park is great during the day, but this cliff... it has a clear view of the night sky, and you know how much I love astronomy. It’s windy, peaceful, and quiet here. No one else knows about this place—well, except for you now.”

He pauses, then adds with a playful grin, “I guess this is now a place only the two of us know.”

San checks his phone and sees the time: 3 AM. He turns to you, concern evident in his eyes. “It’s getting really late,” he says gently, his voice a soft whisper in the quiet night. “We should probably head home. The streets aren’t really the kindest at this hour. It’s not safe to stay out much longer.”

As his words sink in, reality sets in as well. You suddenly realize you ran here without considering how you would get back home. Embarrassment washes over you, and you look down at your bare feet, feeling foolish. “I... I don’t actually know the way back home. I just ran here without thinking,” you admit, your voice small and filled with regret.

San’s reassuring smile does little to ease your embarrassment, but it does bring some comfort. “I figured as much,” he says, glancing at your bare feet and nightclothes. “Do you know your parents’ phone number?”

“Yeah, why?” you ask, puzzled and a bit hesitant.“I’ll call them for you,” San replies. “You can explain everything to them. It’s safer this way.”

Panic rises within you, your mind racing with the possible reactions your parents might have. “No, no—I can't. They don’t know I ran away. They might be awake, looking for me. I just…” you trail off, your voice carrying a hint of guilt.

Sensing your fear, San places a comforting hand on your shoulder, his touch calming. “It’s okay,” he reassures you. “I know the decision you made wasn’t the best, but it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Your safety is what’s important right now. If your parents are upset, it’ll pass. Their primary concern will be getting you home safely. Trust me.”

His calm demeanor and understanding words slowly convince you. Reluctantly, you take his phone and dial your mother’s number, your hands shaking slightly. Almost immediately, she picks up. “Mom…?”

You can hear the worry in her voice as she asks, “Oh my, oh my—darling! Where are you? Are you okay? Are you safe? Where did you run off to?”

“Mom, please calm down. I’m safe,” you say, trying to soothe her. “I’m about to head home now.”

“Okay, okay… where are you?” she repeats, her voice thick with concern and a touch of desperation. “I’m with San,” you say, hoping the name brings some comfort and reassurance.

“San?” your mother echoes, confused and worried.Your father, who is also listening in, seems to recognize the name. “San, the boy from the observatory and the park?” he asks, his tone shifting from worry to recognition.

San leans in, speaking into the phone with a calm and respectful voice. “Hello, Ma’am, Sir. Yes, it's me. I’m with your daughter, and she’s safe, please don’t worry. I’ll take her home now.”

Your parents express their gratitude, their relief palpable through the phone. “Thank you so much, dear. Please be safe,” your mother says before hanging up, her voice filled with gratitude and relief.

You look at San, a mix of gratitude and confusion on your face. “San, you don’t have to take me home, really. You’ve done more than enough by just being here. I can—”

He cuts you off with a small smile on his lips. “I insist. There’s no way I’ll let you walk home with bare, bruised feet. And you did mention earlier that you don’t even know where this place is, let alone how you got here. So let me, okay? Don’t stress yourself out.”

You find yourself in awe with how he was able to shut your mild stubbornness down in a way so gentle as if he was trying to explain to a kid why inserting a fork in an outlet isn’t a good thing to do. So, without a word, you just nod.

As you both stand up, San notices you shiver slightly. Without a second thought, he slips off his dark brown leather jacket and gently drapes it over your shoulders, revealing the plain black shirt he wore underneath.

“But what about you?” You ask, glancing at his now bare arms. “Won’t you get cold?” San shakes his head, offering a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. You need it more than I do right now.”

You nod, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. Just as you’re about to take a step, a sharp pain shoots through your foot, causing you to hiss in discomfort.

San’s eyes immediately drop to your bare, bruised feet. “Let me help,” he says softly. Turning his back to you, he crouches down slightly. “Hop on,” he urges.

You hesitate, feeling a bit shy about the whole situation. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden.” San looks over his shoulder, his eyes filled with gentle insistence. “I’m sure. It’s the best way to keep your feet from getting worse.”

Reluctantly, you wrap your arms around his neck, and he lifts you effortlessly. As he starts walking down the cliff, he moves with deliberate care, making sure each step is steady and safe.

“Where do you live?” he asks once you’ve reached the flat ground of the unfamiliar streets. He nods in recognition when you give him your address, thankful that he knows where the street is. The walk is silent but not uncomfortable. The night air is cool and the city is quiet, offering a moment of calm after the chaos.

As he continues walking, his pace steady and sure, you start to feel your eyelids grow heavy. Exhaustion from the night’s events begins to take over, and before you know it, you’ve fallen asleep, your head resting against his shoulder. San notices your soft snores and adjusts his steps to be even more careful, as he wants to make sure you get the rest you clearly need.

When San reaches your street, he notices a worried couple near your house. Drawing closer, he recognizes your parents, who, in turn, recognize him. Their faces flood with relief as they rush toward him, tears streaming down their cheeks.

“Oh, thank you, thank you so, so much,” your mother sobs, her voice thick with emotion. “You kept her safe. We can’t thank you enough.”

San offers a gentle smile and carefully shifts to let your father lift you from his back. Your father cradles you tenderly, carrying you inside with palpable relief. Your mother and San remain outside, just by the door.

“Where did you find her?” your mother asks, her voice still trembling. San takes a moment before replying, “I found her stargazing at a cliff I visit every night to unwind.”

Your mother nods, understanding. “I woke up with a terrible feeling. When I went to check on her, she was gone, and the window was open. I was so scared she might do something... drastic. She’s been in so much pain, especially after the news today. Knowing she only has a month left... it’s unbearable. I just want to give her a life without worries, but I feel so helpless.”

She holds back a sob, her eyes welling with tears. “I love her so much. She’s my whole world. Seeing her suffer like this, knowing there’s nothing I can do to take her pain away... it breaks me. Every day, I wish I could trade places with her, take away her illness, her pain. But I can’t, and it’s the most helpless feeling in the world. I try to stay strong for her, to show her how much I care, but sometimes I wonder if it’s enough. If she truly knows how much she means to us, how much we would do anything to see her happy, healthy. I wake up every night fearing for her, praying for a miracle, wishing she could live the life she deserves. It’s just... so hard."

San listens intently, his heart aching with empathy as he absorbs your mother’s words. He sees the deep lines of worry etched into her face, the way her hands tremble slightly with emotion—and it brought him a sense of pain knowing he’s now aware of the intensity of the pain both sides of your family felt.

“Your daughter is incredibly strong,” he begins softly. “I know it must be hard to see it sometimes, especially with everything she’s been through. But the fact that she continues to wake up each day, to face her illness and all the pain it brings, says so much about her spirit. Despite all the reasons she has to give up, she’s still here. She’s fighting a battle most of us can't even begin to understand.”

He pauses, glancing towards your bedroom window that your father had now shut close. “There’s a resilience in her that’s rare. Even tonight, when she felt lost and overwhelmed, she found her way to a place that brought her comfort—the stars. That takes a kind of inner strength and determination that not many people have.”

San looks back at your mother, his gaze empathetic and earnest. “And it’s clear where she gets that strength from. She’s had you and her father by her side, showing her what it means to love unconditionally, to fight for those you care about. That kind of support and love is powerful. It gives her the foundation she needs to keep going, even when things seem impossible.”

“Your daughter is a testament to the human spirit’s capacity for endurance. She’s facing something that would break many, yet she’s still standing. And that’s not something to take lightly. It’s something to be incredibly proud of.”

San’s words hang in the air, filled with sincerity and respect. Your mother looks at him, tears still glistening in her eyes, but now there’s a spark of hope and recognition. She nods slowly, understanding the depth of what he’s saying.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. “Thank you for seeing her strength, for being there when she needed someone. It means more than you could ever know.”

San gives a small, reassuring smile. “It’s the least I could do. She’s an extraordinary person, and she deserves to know just how remarkable she is.”

—

The concept of unwinding has never been one to be easy to grasp for you.

You’ve been told it doesn’t hurt to try countless times, but the truth is that it does. It does hurt, and it hurts like a poisonous rose thorn piercing right through your heart. You’ve tried. You’ve tried to forget about the impending doom surrounding your life whenever you feel like it’s what has to be done in order to uplift your spirits, whether temporarily or not. You’ve tried to find it in you to make an effort to light up a dusty torch of hope in the middle of the void of despair. You’ve tried to focus on what you have now rather than dwelling over what you’ll have left in the future.

Why? Because it works for everyone else. The saying that goes “you only live once” is enough to push them to test the waters of their limits and fly beyond their borderlines. The thought of an opportunity no longer passing by once they ignore it when it first shows up is enough to knock it into their heads that they need to make the most of what they’re being given now, knowing they might never be able to have it again. But for you? Nothing has ever worked out well.

Until you met Choi San, at least.

Ever since he first spoke to you about facts regarding this year’s meteor shower sounding like a stuck-up science professor who’s a little in too deep with his profession for everyone’s liking, changes in the way your world spins have occured. Changes that were so subtle you’ve failed to notice it until they were all piled on top of each other—much like the slow process of a build-up of a painting that starts off with weird brush strokes you’d think wouldn’t look good if put together at first.

At first, his words were like bullets trying to make their way through a bulletproof vest. If anything, at some point, you even wondered if he was out—whether of his mind or of touch with reality—because surely a person cannot be that motivated to seek positivity in a world so cruel.

But as seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, the process of it all passes by like a blur and the next thing you knew was you were curious of the bliss of hope enough to wish you could dip at least a finger into his universe, just to see how your life could’ve been, had you not been so adamant to avoid optimism like it’s the plague.

Then one thing led to another, and now you’re unsure whether you want his world or want to be in his world.

Which is precisely why you’re now sitting on an all too familiar bench at the park in hopes of catching a glimpse of the person that pulled you into coming here.

You no longer trust yourself enough to wander off all alone again because you know what happened the last time you tried to commit such a thing. So then, you sit here, silently waiting, even with no guarantee that he’ll magically show up. He could be anywhere—another town, another place, maybe even sleeping. But at this point, it no longer matters much to you. You’ve come to see him as a guiding light, and you want to bask in his radiance as much as possible.

Lost in your thoughts, you’re jolted back to reality by a voice calling your name. Looking up, you see San approaching. “San,” you say, your tone coming off perhaps a little too cheerful than what you wanted to let on. As you shift to make room for him beside you, he sits down, a reassuring presence in the quiet of the morning. “What brings you here?” he asks, curiosity evident in his eyes.

You offer a small smile, one that you’re certain was enough to mask up your blatant lie of a reason. “You mentioned this was a place you come to clear your mind. I thought I’d give it a try, too.”

San’s expression softens, his heart melting at your words. “Is it working so far?” You glance around, feeling a sense of peace you hadn’t quite expected. “Yeah, it is,” you admit, meeting his gaze.

San grins. “You know, I also mentioned that I sometimes try new things to unwind.” You tilt your head, intrigued. “Yeah…?” you trailed off, sensing that there was a catch to his words.

He shrugs, looking around the park. “I mean, you could try that out as well, don’t you think?” he says. His smile became even wider as he gave the suggestion, the shape of his eyes turning into thin crescents, and it reminds you of a cat yawning.

“Ice skating, pottery painting, going to the arcade,” he begins, listing activities with genuine enthusiasm. “Maybe even visiting museums and just exploring different parts of the city.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you consider the possibilities. “That sounds... fun,” you say, a bit surprised at your own interest.

“It really is,” San assures you. “And it might help you find something you enjoy, something that gives you a break from everything.”

And that’s exactly how you spent the following days.

The morning after your not-so-coincidental meeting at the park, San showed up at your parents’ house to get their permission to take you ice skating. You were still asleep when he arrived, so you were completely unaware of his plan. When you finally woke up and went downstairs, you found San chatting happily with your parents in the living room. Letting out a startled shriek, you bolted back to your room, convinced you were hallucinating.

Three gentle knocks came from the other side of your door. “Hey, it’s just me,” San’s familiar voice called softly. Hesitantly, you cracked the door open, peeking out at him. “Are you real…?” you asked, reaching out to touch his face for a brief moment.

San’s cheeks turned a bright red as he laughed, covering his face. “I’m as real as I can be,” he assured you, a bit amused. You blinked at him, still processing his presence. “What are you even doing here?” you managed to ask.

“I planned to take you to go ice skating today,” he explained with a smile. And before you could speak up about your doubts of whether you’d be allowed to go outside or not, he beat you to it. “I already got your parents’ permission, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Before you could respond, he added, “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Take your time to get ready.” He stepped back, allowing you to close the door and gather yourself.

When you finally went down the stairs, you felt a little more put-together than usual. Your parents were quick to compliment your appearance, and San, though a bit late, managed to stammer out, “You look beautiful.”You didn't catch it, but your parents did, exchanging knowing glances. “What?” you asked, and San repeated himself, louder this time but somehow more bashful. “You look really beautiful.”

At the ice skating rink, you nervously stared at the skates in your hands. “You know what, San, maybe this isn’t a good idea…” you murmured, anxiety creeping in.San already had his feet settled down on the ice, extending his hand toward you. “I’ve got you, okay? I promise I won’t let go,” he reassured you with a gentle smile.

At first, you nearly fell over multiple times, your grip on San’s hands growing tighter and tighter until it reached his forearms, then his shoulders. At some point, you both failed to notice, but your arms ended up wrapped around his waist, and your face was buried in his chest out of sheer fear.

San, feeling your trepidation, gently motivated you to let go gradually and trust him. “Don’t be scared, I’m here. I’ll catch you if you fall, alright?”

And although you don’t trust yourself, you certainly do trust San. You took a deep breath and slowly let go of his waist, immediately clutching his forearms for support. He skated backward, guiding you as you learned to move your feet. Step by step, you started to get the hang of it. San’s face then lit up with a proud smile.

“You’re doing great!” he cheered. “Do you think you’re ready to try it on your own?”

Slowly, you nodded. San released you from his hold but kept his hands out, ready to catch you if you needed it. To his surprise and your own, you started skating smoothly. The initial heartwarming moment quickly turned playful as you began to chase him around the rink, laughing and shouting, “If I catch you, you’re a loser!”

San chuckled, skating just fast enough to keep a fair distance. “We’ll see about that!”

For the next day you spent together, you two decided to try pottery painting. As you settled at the table with your blank ceramic pieces in front of you, you asked San if he had a picture of Byeol on his phone. Despite his confusion, he obliged, scrolling through his gallery before handing you his phone with a picture of Byeol displayed. You both decided to put up a makeshift cardboard barrier between you to keep your paintings a surprise until you were both finished. With brushes in hand, you began to paint, each absorbed in your creative process.

When it was time for the big reveal, San removed the cardboard piece, proudly displaying his bowl. He had painted a breathtaking night sky filled with stars and the Orion constellation, knowing it was your favorite. On the bottom half, there was a cliff with two shadowy figures sitting side by side. “That’s us!” he said, flashing his signature cat-like smile that you’ve grown to admire. His depiction of your special spot touched your heart deeply, and you felt a lump in your throat as you fought back tears.

Then it was your turn. Nervously, you showed him your bowl, which featured a detailed painting of Byeol. San’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. He quickly took the bowl from you, examining the well-crafted details. “How did you manage to make her look even cuter? You did so good at this!” he praised, clearly impressed. And by the end of the day, you both decided to switch bowls as a keepsake of the memory.

The following day was spent having fun at the arcade. As soon as you both stepped inside, your eyes locked onto a claw machine filled with Sanrio plushies. You’d always wanted to try your luck at one of these machines, and the sight of the plushies sparked your excitement. Tugging on San’s shirt, you eagerly pointed to the machine. Before he could even ask, you grabbed his hand and pulled him towards it.

Peeking through the glass, you marveled at the assortment of cute plushies. A particular My Melody plush holding a strawberry, adorned with a red ribbon atop its head, caught your attention. “Look! I want that one,” you told San, pointing it out.

Without needing to be told twice, San inserted a coin into the machine. With expert precision, he maneuvered the claw and, on his first try, managed to snag the plushie. As the plushie dropped into the chute, San retrieved it and handed it to you with a triumphant smile. You squealed with delight, hugging the plushie tightly before impulsively wrapping San in a hug. Realizing what you were doing, you quickly pulled away, embarrassed. Little did you know, San wished the hug had lasted longer.

Next, you decided to try the dance machine. San insisted it would be fun, even if you both ended up looking ridiculous. As the music started, you both tried to follow the dance steps on the screen. You found yourself laughing uncontrollably at San’s exaggerated moves and his attempts to keep up with the fast-paced rhythm. Despite the occasional stumbles and missed steps, San’s determination to get it right made you laugh harder, and your shared laughter echoed through the arcade.

Afterward, you moved on to a basketball shooting game. San challenged you, confident he would win. “Prepare to lose,” he teased, smirking. Surprisingly, you gave him a run for his money, matching his score shot for shot. The competitive energy between you sparked playful banter and laughter. In the end, you narrowly lost, but San graciously declared you the winner of his heart, making you blush.

Next on your list was a visit to an art museum, a stark contrast from the loud arcade. The serene atmosphere offered a different kind of beauty, one that you both found captivating. As you wandered through the halls, you stopped frequently to admire various artworks—some by renowned artists and others new discoveries for you.

At one point, while you were deeply engrossed in a painting, San, standing behind you, quietly snapped a photo of you. He was about to take another when you turned around, smiling gently at him. Caught off guard, your face quickly turned to embarrassment as you walked over to him, covering your face and demanding to see the photo, fearing it might have caught you in an unflattering candid moment. However, to your surprise, the photo turned out beautifully.

Not wanting to be the only one captured candidly, you took his phone and insisted on taking his picture too. He protested, saying, “But if I know you’re taking a picture, it won’t exactly be candid, right?”

You waved off his objection, pushing him gently toward the artwork you were admiring. “Just act as if you’re admiring the painting,” you instructed. His shoulders shook as he tried to hold back his laughter, making you scold him lightly. Just as he turned to say something to you, you captured the perfect moment—his eyes closed in a genuine, joyful smile. Proud of the outcome, you showed him the photo. He smiled warmly, noting that you now had matching photos of each other.

Needless to say, you both spent the rest of the day not only admiring the artwork, but also one another.

Finally, the last item on your schedule was a simple yet meaningful stroll around the city. While it wasn’t exactly new to San, it was an entirely fresh experience for you, and he was more than eager to show you around and take you to places you had never visited before.

The first stop was a cozy cafe called ‘Heavenly Brews,’ a place he frequented and cherished. The signage outside was inviting, and inside, the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted you. San mentioned that one of his college friends worked there, and sure enough, behind the counter was a young man your age with long hair, busy making drinks. After a pleasant visit, where you enjoyed some of the best coffee you’d ever had, you left the cafe to explore more of the city.

As you walked, you passed by a lively tavern. The door was ajar, and you could see a bard passionately singing on a small stage, accompanied by a customer who seemed to be enjoying a spontaneous duet. The scene was vibrant and full of life, and it brought a smile to your face.

Continuing your journey, you noticed a large billboard featuring a famous football player. San noticed your curiosity and mentioned that he knew the guy personally. Surprised, you asked, “Really?” He nodded, explaining that the athlete on the billboard was the star of his college’s football team, and San himself had been part of that team too. This revelation added another layer to the fascinating person San was turning out to be.

You spent the rest of the day with him, walking through various streets and alleys, as he pointed out his favorite spots—places he had fond memories of and hoped to share with you. He mentioned wanting to visit all these places with you again, filling his voice with genuine enthusiasm.

Yet, despite his excitement, a pang of sadness tugged at your heart. The looming reality of your limited time made it hard to share his enthusiasm fully. Nevertheless, you managed a nod and a small smile, saying, “Yeah, I’d... I’d love to.”

—

San had told you to get ready for a special evening earlier during the morning by calling you, hinting at a surprise but refusing to divulge any details. “You’ll see,” was all he said as if wanting to leave you on a cliffhanger. He mentioned that your parents would drive you to the location, meaning they were in on the plan but remained tight-lipped about it. Confusion consumed you, but you got ready anyway, choosing to wear the dark red cardigan from your first meeting at the observatory. It held a fond memory and seemed fitting for the mysterious occasion.

As you walked downstairs, you noticed your parents waiting for you, their excitement evident. “What does San have planned?” you asked, unable to contain your curiosity.

They shared a knowing smile but refused to let you in on the details. Instead, they guided you gently to the sofa, their faces full of tenderness. “We just want to say how proud we are of you,” your father began, his voice thick with emotion and eyes glistening with unshed tears. He paused, seemingly collecting his thoughts, before continuing, “Despite everything you’ve been through, you’ve shown an incredible amount of strength and resilience. We see how hard it’s been, and yet, you’ve managed to keep moving forward. Your determination and courage are truly inspiring to us.”

Your mother, sitting beside him, reached out to take your hand, her grip warm and reassuring. Her eyes were shining with tears that threatened to spill over at any moment. “And we’re so happy that you found San,” she said softly, her voice filled with emotion. “He’s been such a positive influence in your life. We’ve watched you grow so much with him by your side. You’ve learned to lean on him, and it’s beautiful to see how much joy and comfort he brings you. We couldn’t have wished for a better person to be with you during these times.” She squeezed your hand gently, as if trying to convey the depth of her feelings through that simple gesture.

You felt a lump form in your throat at their words, and just as you were about to ask them what’s tonight about for them to be so emotional, they stood up and gently ushered you to the car. “You’ll see soon enough,” your mother said with a soft smile.

The drive seemed to take forever, your mind racing with endless possibilities. When the car finally stopped, you found yourself at the base of a familiar cliff—the same one you had run to back then. As you stepped out of the car, you saw San waiting for you, looking even more breathtaking in his well-chosen outfit.

He greeted your parents warmly before they drove off, leaving you two alone. “You look incredible,” San said, his eyes practically sparkling with admiration. Blushing, you replied, “No, you do.”

“I thought I’d fix myself up a little since I want tonight to be a special moment,” he replied bashfully, making you tilt your head. “What’s up with everyone wanting to act strange today?”

San laughed, refusing to answer as all he did was take your hand in his before walking up the path, making sure you wouldn’t trip on anything throughout it. Just before reaching the top, he stopped in his tracks. “Stay still for a moment,” he said, moving behind you. You felt his hands cover your eyes, making you giggle in confusion.

“San, what are you doing?” you asked, half-laughing. “Just trust me,” he whispered. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”After a short walk, he finally asked, “Ready?”

You nodded, and he slowly removed his hands. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight before you. The top of the cliff was transformed into a magical setting. A blanket was laid out, surrounded by twinkling fairy lights strung from the trees. An assortment of treats and foods was spread out, and a telescope stood nearby—the same one from the observatory. There were also cozy blankets ready for use.

“San, this is… I don’t even know what to say,” you said, your voice full of appreciation as you looked around, the warm lights reflecting in your eyes.

He smiled, looking a little shy. “I just… I wanted to do something for you, something I knew you’d like.” Taking in every detail, your heart swelled with emotion. “You know me so well, don’t you?”

You and San sit comfortably on the picnic blanket, a cozy blanket draped over both of you. Although he had prepared separate blankets, you insisted on sharing his, and despite being initially caught off guard, he was quick to happily oblige. Your head rests on his shoulder, your hands wrapped around his arm, basking in the warmth and comfort of each other’s presence. The silence between you is soothing.

Suddenly, you lift your head from his shoulder, causing him to turn his head towards you immediately. “What’s the matter?” he asks, his voice laced with gentle concern.

You smile softly and say, “I’ve been thinking about what you said about knowing that pro football player on the billboard. You know, the one from your college team.”

“Ah, Wooyoung?” he replies, recognition lighting up his eyes. You nod. “Yeah, ever since you mentioned him, I’ve been curious about your college experiences, particularly the life you lived back then.”

San’s face lights up with a mix of nostalgia and amusement. “Well, Woo and I were practically inseparable during college,” he begins. “We were always up to something, whether it was football or just hanging out. Lots of professors absolutely hated seeing us together, cause they know that when we are, we’re always up to no good.”

“Are you still close?” you ask, intrigued. “Not as much as we used to be,” San admits with a slight sigh. “He’s a pro player now, so he’s quite busy. Plus, he’s in a different country at the moment. We still talk to each other through messages and calls every other day, but we don’t see each other often.”

A fond smile crosses his face as he recalls a particular memory. “Oh, you know, I remember helping him make a move on his crush back then. It was quite the operation, and now she’s his girlfriend. Funny enough, she’s the one who took the photo of him on the billboard since she’s a professional photographer.”

You laugh softly at the story. “Sounds like you had a fun college life.” San nods, a nostalgic smile on his face. “Yeah, it was a great time.”

As he speaks, you find yourself drifting into a daydream, wondering what life might have been like if circumstances were different. Would you have met San in college? Maybe you would have been one of the people cheering for him at his football games, or perhaps you both could have been like Wooyoung and his girlfriend.

San notices you spacing out and gently nudges your shoulder. “Hey, everything alright?”

You wave him off with a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.” But just as you lean your head back on his shoulder, a sudden pang hits your chest. You wince slightly but brush it off, not wanting to ruin the moment.

San continues to share more stories from his college days at your request. He talks about the time he accidentally kicked a football into the opposing team’s coach’s face, causing quite a commotion. You can’t help but laugh at the mental image. He also recounts a grocery spree gone wrong, where he and his friends were kicked out within minutes because he broke a shopping cart trying to ride it.

He tells you about the week-long silent treatment between him and Wooyoung over stolen loot in a video game, and how they eventually made up after realizing how silly the whole thing was. His eyes light up with passion as he describes spending countless hours in the local library, devouring books about astronomy. Sometimes he’d stay so late that the librarian reserved a special table for him, where he often lost himself in the wonders of the universe.

Each story he tells paints a vivid picture of his past, filled with laughter, mishaps, and the simple joys of youth. As you listen, you feel a mix of admiration and affection for him, grateful for the glimpses into the life he lived before you met.

Just as you’re about to lean your head back on his shoulder, a sharp pang hits your chest. The pain is more aggressive this time, making you feel like you’re being strangled by an invisible force. Your breath hitches, and you clutch your chest, struggling to breathe.

San’s eyes widen in alarm. “What’s wrong?” he asks urgently, his voice filled with panic.“San, I can’t—I can’t breathe—San, I—” you manage to gasp out, each word a struggle.

Panic grips San as he checks you for any signs of what’s happening, all while trying to calm you down. “Just breathe, okay? I’m right here. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you know this isn’t an anxiety attack. The context and intensity make that unlikely. Tears stream down your face as you grab San’s hands, your voice trembling. “I don’t wanna die... I don’t wanna die yet... San, please... please...”

San’s face crumples with emotion as he realizes what’s happening. He doesn’t want to lose you. Tears pour down his cheeks as he holds your face in his hands, trying to comfort you despite his own fear. “You’re not going anywhere, okay? Stay with me.”

The pain in your chest begins to subside, but the reality of the situation sets in. You both know what this means. With tears still streaming, you cup his face, gently wiping away his tears. “It’s... it’s gonna be alright, San. It’s gonna be alright, okay?”

He shakes his head, his sobs growing louder. “No, it’s not. I can’t lose you. Not now.”

You smile softly despite the pain. “San, listen to me. You’ve given me so much. You’ve made me so happy. This... this isn’t the end. You’ll carry me with you, in your heart, always. I promise.”

He holds you tighter, his heart breaking as he feels your strength fading. The stars above blur with his tears, and all he can think about is how unfair this is. But in this moment, all he can do is be there with you, for you, until the very end.

You look up at him, a calm expression on your face. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. We... we’ve always been meant to end like this, anyway. I’m so, so sorry that I still let you into my world despite knowing that. I’m so sorry for being a burden, for taking your presence for granted, and not considering how you’d feel when the time for us to part ways finally comes.”

San shakes his head vehemently, his tears flowing freely. “No, no, don’t say that. You will never be a burden. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t regret entering your world one bit.”

Tears well up again, but you hold them back. “Still, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we have to end this way, I’m sorry I can’t live any longer to visit all your favorite places with you. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, I’m sorry we can’t live the life we both want to have. I’m sorry my fate has tainted our story. I’m sorry. But I... I want you to remember this.”

You let go of his hands momentarily, and he looks confused until you start signing the words, ‘you’ll forever be my star.’ His heart shatters even more.

“You learned that... for me?” he asks, his voice breaking with sobs.You nod with a smile. “For you.”

You take his hand again, your voice gentle. “I want you to remember that when you feel down, during the times you see yourself in a bad light, when you feel like you’re not doing well enough. Because even if there are days where you don’t feel like the best version of yourself, in my eyes, you’re still my star. The only star in the empty sky of my life.”

“When you reach your dreams, when your name is known enough to catch people’s attention, when you become the star of your field, I want you to look up there,” you say, pointing at the night sky, “and smile. Because I’ll be there, smiling back at you.”

You shift your weak body to lay your head on his lap while he gently strokes your hair. “I think I wanna stay like this for a while.”

A comfortable silence fills the air, broken only by San’s quiet sobs. As you start to feel your body shutting down, you hold his hand, looking up at him. “In another life?”

“In another life.”

—

San, now a renowned astronomer, sits in a sophisticated studio for an interview. His translator is seated beside him, ready to relay the questions in sign language. The interviewer begins by asking San about how his passion for astronomy started. For a brief moment, an image of you flickers in his mind—you had asked him the same question years ago at the observatory. Snapping out of his thoughts, he clears his throat, focusing on the question. His answer mirrors the one he gave you back then, detailing how a childhood fascination with the stars turned into a lifelong pursuit of knowledge.

The interviewer then inquires about how he feels regarding his success. While San provides a positive response, he can't help but bring you up. “If it weren’t for a certain person,” he starts, his voice tinged with emotion, “I don’t think I’d be here right now.” The interviewer asks for elaboration, and San recounts how he met you during a meteor shower. From the moment you expressed genuine curiosity about his dreams of becoming an astronomer, his motivation grew. “This person taught me that it’s okay to fall when you can’t fight anymore, that allowing yourself to be weak makes you stronger than pretending to always be strong.”

When asked if he’s still in touch with this person, San’s expression turns bittersweet. “I’d like to think of them as a meteor shower,” he says, his voice soft. “A passing light meant to remind me of the wonders of life, never meant to stay.”

Returning home, San finds himself gazing at the night sky through the glass windows of his penthouse. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper—a letter you wanted him to receive after you had passed away. Your parents gave it to him during your funeral.

“Hello, San :)

I hope this letter finds its way to you. I don’t know when exactly my timer will run out of seconds to spare, so I’m not sure when you’ll receive this. Still, when you do, I hope you’ll find comfort in reading this, whether you’re feeling tired, frustrated, or when you’re not feeling anything at all.

First off, did you know that the average day on Pluto lasts for 153.6 hours long? You definitely already do, but for now, please pretend you don’t. I read this on a science website while searching up how to cook food in an air fryer—don’t ask me the correlation between those two things—and I just wanted to impress you with it.

On a more serious note, though, I don’t think you’re aware of how much of an impact you’ve left in my life. Before I met you that night at the observatory, it was like I was trapped in this huge bubble of emptiness that I couldn’t make my way out of. Each day was practically hell on Earth for me, and tell you what, it used to be so hard for me to be positive, let alone try. Then you came into the picture with no warning beforehand, and I don’t know when exactly the shift in my world occurred, but it was like there was a lost candle in the very back of my soul that you, somehow, managed to find and light up.

You’re a really cool person, you know? So cool I’m willing to overlook the fact that you always wear glasses when you don’t even have poor eyesight. Your glasses look good on you, though, so I guess I’ll count that as a valid reason. You have this sort of comfortable energy that’s more than enough to put me at ease, and all your words of wisdom are so genuine that even a (retired) pessimist like me had grown to keep them engraved in my mind. Not only are you a cool astronomy nerd, but you own a cat, too! You know, I really wish I could’ve met Byeol when I was still there with you, but I guess there’s a next time for everything, right? Maybe in a different life, Byeol would be my cat instead. Or, even better, we could team up to co-parent him. Doesn’t that sound like a nice reality to live in?

You know, I wish I could be there with you to witness your success. I bet you’re reading this after coming across an article about you that a journalist had published. Or maybe after an interview schedule. Who knows? The possibilities are endless.

I’m starting to get sleepy now, so I’ll end this letter here. If you’re out there, having a hard time, always remember that I’ll always be here for you, even if it’s not in physical terms. I hope your heart now feels a little lighter after reading this, San. I’m so, so proud of you.”

Droplets of tears soaked the letter, and San silently sobbed. Looking above, he sees a single bright star in the empty night sky, and when he managed to put a smile on his face, the star twinkled back to him in return.

Perhaps in another life, you’d be a permanent star and not just a fleeting meteor.

🪞— lividstar.

[samuelroukin]

a while ago you rbd a web weave with a fragment of the herbert mason version of the gilgamesh - its the one that goes "No one grieves that much, she said. Your friend is gone. Forget him. No one remembers him. He is dead. / Enkidu. Enkidu. Gilgamesh called out: Help me. They do not know you As I know you."

anyway I thought that was a lot prettier than I remember the epic of gilgamesh being, so I looked it up and it turns out its more of a rewrite than a translation and also it fucking slaps, start to finish, the whole damn thing is like that quote. its also not super long since most of the repetition has been taken out, like less than 30k for the story itself if I had to guess. I read it around the same time as come hell or high water and the juxtaposition of those two things has been slowly driving me insane ever since. saying its soapghost coded feels completely inadequate, like its kinda the other way around given the relative publishing dates, and also if nothing else your ghost in the timeloop fic is extremely gilgamesh coded, like? I mean refusing to accept the death of his friend is the emotional core of the epic, plus the whole warriors bond and dying in battle thing, plus protecting each other, plus being kind of an asshole. I assume the answer is no bc you've said you don't read much but like, I still want to ask if you've read this book?? and also I guess if you were thinking about afterlife/journey thru the underworld metaphors at all when you wrote your fic (yes I know you don't do that, I feel compelled to ask anyway /lh). - S

oh i should read that! i did reblog that post while i was writing come hell or high water, and someone shared some other parts of that story if not that book so it was def on my mind! and i was for sure thinking about the afterlife and journey, and also had a kind of view of the timeloop being that in between place for both of them. i don't think any of that really came through in the fic, or not explicitly, but a lot of the water metaphors and especially the one that's not a metaphor where ghost um. steps into the river. made me think of the styx

so not as Directly related, but i can't say there was no inspiration there

[speenach]

life update: wellbutrin (aka bupropion) will lower your seizure threshold, all right!

🎶 'cause karma is my boyfriend! karma is a god, karma is the breeze in my hair on the weekend karma's a relaxing thought ...

What is karma?

according to ideapod.com, "Karma is a Sanskrit word meaning 'action.' It refers to a cycle of cause-and-effect that is an important concept in many Eastern Religions, particularly Hinduism and Buddhism. ... it means that the steps of your life, your spiritual development, and your personality are directly molded by your thoughts and actions. Present you affects future you." i hope i'm not too far off, but this lil article does remind me of the way that i think my friend with the relevant knowledge explained it to me sometime in the past decade. unsurprisingly, the song "Karma" might simplify this a little; but even if it doesn't really, 100% accurately represent what karma is, spiritually, it's my favorite Taylor Swift song of the moment. arguably the best on Midnights.

spider boy, king of thieves weave your little webs of opacity my panties* made your crown. trick me once, trick me twice don't you know that cash ain't the only price? it's coming back, around.

*it's actually "pennies," but -- excuse me? 👑 listen to this song and try to tell me you don't hear "panties." or just try to tell me it doesn't make the better lyric. try to tell me that it doesn't fit Taylor's chest voice. try to ignore the harmonies in, "i keep my side of the street clee-ean. you wouldn't know what i mean." tell me this isn't one of the best songs to cat-walk in the airport to. try to keep it out of my karaoke-ing mouth this summer. i dare you.

speaking of airports and causes and effects and summer -- eek! i was supposed to visit Ireland and the UK this past week (only Northern Ireland is part of the UK, fun fact!?). my boyfriend (my actual one, Ben, not the concept) was taking me overseas for his college roommate's wedding. it was going to be very cute! and maybe even nudged me to think more seriously about marriage -- an institution i've resisted since growing up with its politicization, a thing that could maybe actually be practical if i wasn't so worried about the aesthetics of my own fucking personal life being twisted into talking points for the right. fuck them, fuck JK Rowling, fuck bisexual erasure, fuck transphobia, fuck off.

if this sounds disorganized, it's because it is! it's because i want to convey something about the state that my brain apparently reached for me to have my first seizure on thurs, may 11, DURING A LAYOVER IN VIRGINIA, HOORAY!

sorry, the rest of this post might be upsetting for various reasons. content warning for:

expanding on aforementioned seizure & another the next day

psychosis

medical bills from the ER(s) lol

babbling — this isn't really a warning as much as it is a qualification: since i do have some (small) degree of control over who can find me on instagram, and this is likely too long to go viral organically — if you're reading this, it’s prob because i posted it or sent it to you, or it was shared by someone whom i trust with the decision to share. something happened to me last week, and, if this tumblr blog is going to be what i wanted it to be when i wrote my inaugural post in january, it's the place for me to explain what happened from my perspective. i want the people in my life to know. i also, just, can't imagine calling people up just to be like... "hey i had a medical emergency but i'm okay." idk, i want to have my whole-ass say on it. you gotta read the taylor swift lyrics first.

all right, so, right before we left for the airport, i had a meeting with my dissertation advisor about the chapter i've been struggling with for the whole school year. i was so anxious i hadn't slept the night before, even after staying up all of monday night, too, revising the most recent draft. i also smoke a lot of weed, but it couldn't help me sleep this time. instead -- and i say this with some degree of expertise/professionalism -- i must have had something like a psychotic break. i had sent my advisor about twice as many pages as he was expecting, and i literally could not believe it when he told me that what he'd read so far sounded good. i told him i felt like a delusion of grandeur was coming true. and, after that, there was a moment where i literally thought he was reading my mind or speaking to me in code or something. it was weird. i was weird.

for the rest of my waking hours, until my first seizure, i thought i'd unlocked some secret of the universe. overwhelmed by the body language of hundreds of traveling strangers around us, i seriously thought i could read people's minds, too, or at least Ben's. normal airport stuff happened, our flight kept getting pushed back, waiting was miserable; in addition to convincing myself i was reading Ben's mind, i concluded that the only logical explanation for everything was that the internet must be down, like, universally, and/or everyone's collective consciousness was going through something like Opposite Day. ... again, i was weird. but, at this point, it seemed like i just badly needed some sleep. i also kept randomly singing the chorus to “anti-hero.”

sweet like honey, karma is a cat purring in my lap, 'cause it loves me

our flight got pushed back so late that our airline put us up in a "quality inn" for thursday night. my grand mal happened during the lyft ride there, which royally freaked out our driver and pushed Ben over a mental cliff from "my girlfriend's acting weird" to "my girlfriend might die." after sleeping through a $4000 ER visit that i don't remember, that my family and i have to figure out how to pay $2000 for lol, i passed all the psych tests to be discharged. we had a short connecting flight just for me to have the same delusions and another seizure during our layover in new jersey, right around the time our Ireland flight was finally canceled. don't ask me how much the second ER visit was because i don't know yet! friday night, i slept in a hospital bed in a hallway, before i remember getting some scrubs and an actual room for the rest of the weekend. no pillow, though -- just two sheets. i was pretty confused and upset after the first couple times i woke up there and still couldn't pass the psych checks until sunday. but obviously i eventually did, Ben came to get me, and we finally flew home monday.

it's actually kind of funny. it's okay, my home doctor laughed at me, too, when i saw her on wednesday; i am a clinical vignette. like, classic psych case. girl with depression and anxiety misses too much sleep, smokes too much weed, has seizure risk factors, and seizes. (i also wasn’t eating enough, surprise). among other things, i'm on prozac and wellbutrin but am better about the latter, because i associate the former with heartburn, and i get the impression that i can actually feel when the latter works. doc and i decided to halve my wellbutrin dose, at least until i see my therapist and psychiatrist on tuesday, and i'm on a THC/tolerance break. i'm tired from over/writing this, but that's what happened!

karma is the thunder rattling your ground karma's on your scent like a bounty hunter karma's gonna track you down, step by step from town to town. sweet like justice, karma is a queen...

[lily-drake]

The Demon’s Queen

Chapter Nine

First <> Previous

Marinette ducked as the bo staff sailed past her, breath caught in her throat.  She caught the movement of the woman darting her hands clenched around her own weapon as she shot it up blocking the blow that would have come straight down on her head.

“You’ve improved.”

Ruta said, her Russian accent thick as she addressed Marinette with assessing eyes.  She was a tall woman with dark close cropped hair, her eyes a cold gray, and skin a ghostly white.  She was always balanced, every move full of purpose and poise, though unlike Maha’s grace Ruta’s was firm and strong.  Everytime she moved her hands the first thing to notice was her long, thin, spindly fingers that looked as if they were weaving some type of web.  Her face was long, slim, almost gaunt looking as her features pinched together making her face look thin and sharp.  She reminded Marinette of the “Other Mother” from the movie Coraline she had watched when she was younger.  All in all if she had to describe Ruta in five words or less she would say that Ruta was unnaturally spider-like.

Ruta knew how to spin her traps, enjoying close quarter weapons fights the most, though she didn’t mind hand-to-hand either.  Marinette didn’t know how long she had been here as she hadn’t stepped outside since that one night on her second day here, but if she had to guess based on when she was told to sleep, it must have been a week by now.  A week of endless torment and training and punishments for her mistakes.  But in that week, she had also grown stronger, she was now more skilled in battle than she had ever been before, especially without the suit.  Though she loathed to admit it, it made her feel good, powerful even.  Though she refused to admit it, in the back of her mind, she felt accomplished, happy even.  But she needed to escape, she needed to get out of here and at least try to live a life of her own.

Marinette gave her a tired smirk, but it was quickly wiped away when a leg hooked under her own as she did not move quick enough and she was on her back, Ruta’s bow pressing against her throat.

“But you were distracted.  Never lose your focus.”

Just as quickly as she was on Marinette, she was off, spinning the staff through each of her fingers in a casual manner. 

“You learn quick.”

“Needed to.”

Ruta hummed at that, staring down at Marinette with a strange interest deep within her eyes.

“Yes, you fought many magical beings with their very own strengths and weapons.  You made weapons out of your surroundings.  I want to see you do it again now.”

That was all the warning she got before Ruta was moving towards her.  ANother thing she hated to admit, her endurance building with Hadid was also coming in handy.  Though she was still exhausted, she was able to last longer and longer in each fight before she was breathless on the mats.  Even Maha was becoming more and more pleased with her, though the disdain towards her was still palpable.

Marinette ducked away, spinning on the balls of her feet as she turned away, keeping her balance allowing her to use her momentum to help her stand up.  Her leg had finally healed as Tomoe had taught her how to make a healing poultice that she applied daily.  Today she had learned about the different types of toxins that plants produced and how.  She hated how she had to learn about these things, especially because they really did draw her interest.  She wished she could talk to Tikki about this, but the boy refused to let her see any of the Kwamii.  

Lost in her thoughts Marinette barely dodged the kick to her abdomen as her body moved on its own.

“Focus.  You won’t always be lucky.”

She was right.  Marinette didn’t know how much luck she had left as a side effect of wearing the Ladybug Miraculous for so long, for all she knew her extra luck would be gone by tomorrow.  So, she needed to focus, if she wasn’t always aware, she would die.  She shivered at the memory of having to help Tomoe with one of the assassin's wounds.  It was a long gash that stretched from the right side of the person’s ankle that curved all the way up to the left side of their knee.  Purple and red pulsed throughout the leg, heat radiating, and yellow puss leaking from the wound.  It was so infected and Marinette felt as if she would be sick.

“When you lead your own army, you will need to know how to tend to your warriors.  You may be higher than them, but that makes you even more responsible for your troops' health and safety.  We work together here, but it is also survival of the fittest, the strongest lead and survive.”

Tomoe had told her as she began to work on the ninja, who despite the obvious pain they were in, never once made a sound.  It was unsettling, it was wrong.

Marinette moved away, watching Ruta’s body language while glancing for anything else she could use to defeat her trainer.  There was a whip, javelin, crossbows, arrows, throwing stars, the staff in her hands, the staff in Ruta’s own clenched fists.  She took a step back as Ruta approached closer, realizing too late that she had stepped into her web-like trap.  She moved quick, patient, lithe, and aggressive.  The staff swung down at her forcing Marinete to lift her own weapon above her head forcing her to use her upper body strength to push her away.  But now Ruta had the advantage, where Marinette was a distance fighter Ruta was supposedly the best close-combat weapons fighters in all of the League after “The Demon’s Head”.  

Perspiration ran down her face, but Marinette wouldn’t give up. In order to leave she needed to be the best, and that meant she needed to be better than her trainers.  Marinete dug her heels into the ground, making sure she kept her balance as she pushed with all of her might.  Once she had gotten Ruta’s staff far enough away she risked a kick to the woman’s abdomen, forcing her to move away and create distance if she didn’t want to get the air knocked out of her.  

Once she was away Marinette enacted her plan grabbing only the whip as she avoided Ruta and her quick barrage of attacks.  Distance, Marinette needed to keep a distance or she would lose this fight.  The whip looked to be around ten to ten and a half feet long, so if she timed this right and muscle memory served her well she should be able to wrap the whip around Ruta’s staff.  If she couldn’t pull it out of her hand she could use it to give herself enough momentum to get a good kick in where she could at least get Ruta on her back.  

She could feel Ruta’s eyes studying her, flicking them from the whip to the staff in her hands.  An amused smirk lined her thin lips that sent a shiver down her spine.  Her eyes twinkled with a dark sort of mischievous as she gripped her staff and moved.  Abandoning her staff all together Marinette let her arm go through its familiar movements, imagining if the whip was her yo-yo.  She watched as the whip flew through the air feeling hope blossom in her chest that her plan would in fact work. 

It didn’t.  Ruta simply hit the tip away as she moved, and before she could realize what happened, she was on top of her, the staff back up against her neck once again.

“You can do better than that.”

And the staff was off her neck one more.  The amusement in Ruta’s eyes never leaving, like this was all a game.  

“Again.”

Marinette was getting sick of hearing that word.

__________

Damian glared at the report he had just received.  How was this possible, he had been so careful!  He had put together every little detail, so what went wrong?!

“Oh boy, looks like things aren’t going so well for you.”

The cat said casually as it read over his shoulder.  Damian didn’t even acknowledge it.  He knew what it was looking for, and he had been taught and trained to ignore such tactics of frustration.

“It does not matter.  Even if her mother has contacted the Justice League they will not find anything.  We were very careful not to leave a trace of us behind. And even somehow there was something left behind, it has been too long for anything to be identifiable.”  Green met green and both stared at the other until the cat gave up with a long sigh.  With nothing else to say it flew up and rested atop his hair.  Damian didn’t say anything as the creature had been doing this for sometime now, and as it never did anything to bother him he let it be.

Damian pressed his fingers together as he continued to stare at the page.  Batman, his Father, would be in Paris, France in only a few hours time, searching for clues as to Marinette’s whereabouts.  He needed to come up with new contingencies, he could not The League of Assassins be breached.  He had worked hard to keep order here, and no one would ruin it.

With quick movements, he stood up, removed the cat from his hair, instead placing it on his desk before he left the room.  He needed to move, practicing his movements with his sword helped to clear his mind.  So while he did that, he could begin to plan his next move.  

He imagined this new challenge as a game of chess, but the roles of the king and queen were switched.  They have made their first move, nothing has been removed from the board yet.  They want to take his queen from him, that is their main objective.  There were many ways that they could go about this, so Damian needed to go about this game far more carefully than many of the others.  His strategy in this would either cause him to be victorious even with the losses of some of his pawns—he was not foolish enough to believe that he would not lose anything—or he would lose everything.  There was no inbetween  in his mind because he knew that neither of them would give up until the queen chooses a side. He didn’t know why he was fighting so hard for this, but he would do everything and anything for her to choose and stay by his.

Next

Taglist:

@sinoffalsejudgement @peachmuses @myazael @snnoww26 @dur55 @tip-tap-tired @ledalasombra @jennifer-rose123 @kylamai @plz-excuse-my-inner-gay @stella17luna @meduarts @toodaloo-kangaroo @valeks-star @crazylittlemunchkin @achaoticmess1 @queenz-z @doll246 @aespades @liquid-luck-00 @a-slytherinish-gryffindor @demigraceling-blog @kashlyn @castle-bookworms-world @a-classic-bookworm @wheredoesonegetnameideas @ascetic-orange @night-ngale @0anodite0

[skitter-kitter]

Do u have any fic recs? Of desert duo or anything really just your taste in writing is always great

Okay this is gonna be a bit of long one since I’m gonna post recs for Third/Last Life/Hermitcraft (all one category for my sake), Star Wars,

Third/Last Life/Hermitcraft:

Falconer by @theminecraftbee is a PHENOMENAL ficlet. Its desert duo and I adore Bee’s characterization and voice for scar!! If you haven’t read it I highly recommend it!! It’s really short but really good!!! (Plus if you haven’t go through bee’s “a bee fic” tag, they’re all bangers!!)

Notches by @honey-combed is an amazing fic about cubfan and it has had scar show up in every chapter so far!! I really love the author’s characterization of scar and the dialogue is so well written!!

Mimic by @sparxwrites is the third in the series but it’s a phenomenal fic!!! I love the trope of a monster taking the shape of a loved one to trick people and this is such a good exploration of that trope for desert duo!! I’d highly recommend reading the other parts of the series as they’re all phenomenal!!!

a conversation by @sparxwrites mabsksbs another sparx fic but this one is about Grian and scar talking after last life and it inspired my current wip!!

Slipping Through The Cracks by @theminecraftbee literally the only Xisuma fic I’ve ever read but I love it!! Bee’s writing is amazing as always <33

did anybody ever say no to you? by @aviangrian is an amazing fic!! Literally my favorite last life fic ever. I’m so tempted to record myself reading it so I can listen to it to fall asleep. Pink’s writing is really comforting and I love it a lot :))

last man standing by Sixteenthdays I really like this fic!! It’s pretty short but I love this like,, “conversation at the end of the world” kind of vibe it has.

i am a malady, you are my galaxy, my sweet relief by MemeMachine562 literally every web weave I’ve done I’ve tried to get parts of this fic in them. every single one. I love the metaphor about Grian being a gun and the whole fic is phenomenal even without knowing Yandere High School

your bones ache from death (and yet, you look for him) by ApocalypseInvestigator is an amazing magical mountain fic!! I highly recommend it, as it made me obsessed with desert duo and magical mountain as a trio 😔

This Is The Way The World Ends by @hallmarked-error is an amazing fic and I love it. great angst great motifs great repetition!! go read it and weep!!

make you the enemy by camdotcom is in my top three for last life. It’s about Grian being the boogeyman and killing scar and it’s so good!!

DC:

have no mouth by greeneyedfirework this fic is pretty heavy at times but I really love it!! It’s about Slade winding up with a captive nightwing and realizing the teen titans are just kids and I love it :)

Deathstroke’s Apprentices by Beauty_In_Her_Darkness holy SHIT okay if you like the apprentice arc in teen titans you’ll LOVE THIS it has amazing characterization and it’s long and I love it so much

Star Wars:

Eclipse by @spell-cleaver this fic is absolutely phenomenal. I’ve been reading it for close to a week now and it has these plot twists that catch you off-guard but it also makes sense and that makes it so much better. I love her writing style and her characterizations of Luke leia and vader!!

Conversations at the Edge of Reality by @spell-cleaver is another fic that’s just,,, I have no idea where the idea for it came from but it’s so good!!

running through the darkness with his own becoming light by imadetheline this fic!!! The characterization of vader is phenomenal and I love the glimpses we get into Luke’s life!!

Keep quite still and wait by @doorsclosingslowly is another fic with the trope of a monster pretending to be a loved one but with maul and savage and it’s played so well!! I think about this line every time I think about Maul:

“You were set on this path before you could choose, and you have never strayed because you’re scared. You are a ship built without a steering wheel by an evil man, pushed, beset by inertia, and you will go on and on and on until you run out of propulsion or collide with a star.”

Pokemon:

Return by LeDiz is a phenomenal fic!! I know I’ve said that a lot but god. This fic fucked me up. It fits the Pokémon genre and like,,, vibe so well I kept trying to see if this was just a rewrite of one of the newer shows while I read. It’s written beautifully and I adore the use of Shadowing and how Ash’s connection to Pokémon is used both to help Pokémon and to hurt him. The scene with Liepard was brilliant and I adore the authors use of different povs to have it all build up to a satisfying climax!!

Promises by CGJ is an amazing fic. I love this study of Brock and Ash and their relationship and I adore it.

An Unexpected Greeting by kimirce is a personal favorite. I love fics that have Ash actually talk about all the things he’s seen and this is a great one!!

Some fandoms I only have one or two recs for:

“Thank You For Listening, Soundwave” by @ckret2 is one of the best characterizations of soundwave I’ve ever seen!! The dialogue in the second chapter is witty and really great banter. I love how the author writes the trio’s interactions and how soundwave’s view on Starscream shifts through the fic!!

They Let Him In by @sidespromptblog is an amazing Logan Sanders fic!!! I absolutely love their characterization of him and how they use the Orange Side in their works!!! (Also reccing Orange Eyed Delight for the same reason!!)

My Darlin’ What Did You Expect? by Cultivation is literally my favorite The Walten Files fic and I could tell so many stories about how it was written and betaing it but I just ajdvjwvskaba I love it so much and I love how he writes Felix and Jack <33

[glitter-garbage]

12. — thread

Shadowgast, ~1600 words, gen, red thread of destiny, soulmate au (spoilers for the eiselcross arc)

Sent by @quinn-of-aebradore 💜 ...ps: this is not edited at all (one word writing prompts: send me one and a pairing if you like. I might fill them some day!) ---

When Bren learned he had magic, he also learned that he could see things that not everyone did. It wasn’t natural, he had to focus, and later on, he even found out there was an actual spell for it. Still, on more than one occasion growing up, Bren would see the delicate red threads that connected people around him.

“Those mean whoever is connected to you is your soulmate,” his mother explained, “Can you see mine?”

And, sure enough, his mother had a little thread connecting her ankle to Leofric’s. He longed for his own thread to appear, though his mother explained that not everyone had one.

Bren didn’t have to worry, though. He was only fifteen when not one, but two threads connected his ankle to his best friends of all people. By that time, he had already been whisked away to the Academy along with them and the experiences they shared, the successes, the pain, the power, all of that just cemented their connection in his mind.

Until he broke, that is.

After the fire came the Sanatorium, and for eleven years Bren, now Caleb, did not think about that again. Only when he got out did he notice that his ankle was free. Nothing connected him to anyone anymore. It was okay, he was a garbage person. He didn’t deserve love like that anyway.

---

Nott had a red thread. It vanished out to the horizon, and Caleb never saw the thread move in a way that indicated that her soulmate was closer. He wondered if she knew, for a while. Then, he learned the truth. Veth’s soulmate, her husband, kidnapped, imprisoned. He was happy she had met him though, and confident they'd free him. She deserved happiness, he would help her in any way he could.

Two couples in his little group had threads connecting them to each other from the start. Fate worked in mysterious ways, Caleb thought. Beau and Yasha did not seem that close, though Beau’s attraction was obvious, and cringe-worthy at times, but Caleb was sure things would go well for them in the future. Jester and Fjord’s thread almost made his heart break- he had allowed himself to get way too attached to the two, but neither of them were for him, obviously. Destiny had other plans.

Molly did not have any threads, like him. After learning about his past, Caleb wondered if he had gone through something similar to Caleb, the snapping of a thread after a traumatic event. He allowed himself to grow closer to the tiefling tentatively, allowed feelings to bloom slowly. Molly was warm to him, and he thought perhaps it was another form of destiny that would tie them together.

That had been a mistake.

The last one to join their family was Caduceus. He had no thread too, and Caleb had no curiosity about it anymore. His interest in destiny had all but faded.

He loved his friends. He had friends. That was enough, for someone like him.

---

“The Luxon is the basis of how we've been able to free ourselves from the binds of the lineage the Betrayer Gods left for us and to carve our own fates, choose our own paths and sidestep these destinies placed upon us nonchalantly by gods that use us as playthings.”

The Shadowhand was interesting. Dangerous, powerful, enticing. Caleb considered what he said about freedom from destiny, the ability to find your own way. He had certainly strayed from his path, but perhaps that was not the worst thing.

Essek Thelyss, too, had no thread attached to him.

Perhaps because Caleb was no longer obsessing over what destiny had in store for him, perhaps because he was beginning to accept that his own imperfect path was better than the one that had been set for him, Caleb felt empathy towards the drow even after he had betrayed them.

They were so much alike, and Caleb kept his heart more closely guarded now. He did not feel his heart breaking when they learned of Essek's schemes, and that too helped. In any case, he did not see Essek again for a long time. Did not think much about him. There was too much on his plate for that.

---

Astrid smiled at him from across a dinner table and his stomach dropped. Caleb felt the wheels of time turning, felt again like Bren, determined and ambitious and blind to the truth. Eadwulf looked at him with a raised chin, a smirk on his face. He too remained handsome, impossibly so.

When they walked out of Ikithon’s tower, Caleb could make out the thin red thread that still connected their ankles. He thought he was stronger, that perhaps he was ready for this.

“Race you to the top,” said Astrid with a childish smile, before turning back to the tower.

It hurt. He could feel the emptiness of what could have been, what would never be again in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

---

Imagine his surprise when arriving at the Vurmas outpost in Eiselcross, the powerful figure of the Shadowhand could not meet his eyes. Imagine his surprise, when he saw his eyes lighting up when they chose him instead of his old teacher to go down into the ruins. Imagine his surprise when he saw Essek battling, using gravity itself as a weapon, and felt only fondness and admiration for the man. When he showed off his tower and saw the same in the drow’s eyes. And attraction, of course. That went without saying.

It all came to a head when, together, they worked to cast a spell that would shorten time itself and give the Nein their much-needed rest.

Thought it might have felt like seconds to their friends, Caleb watched for long moments, holding magic in his palms to assist, as Essek opened a gash through the fabric of space and time. Real fabric, made of threads of all colors that together seemed to make up what he saw as the world around him. Time seemed to stop around them as Essek carefully worked around the fibers.

“This… Have you been able to see this the whole time?” he asked.

Essek’s jaw was clenched and there was sweat running down his forehead, but he nodded, “Not really. It takes a lot of effort to see this. A lot of energy.”

Caleb hesitated but gave in once Essek’s questioning gaze found his for a moment, “I have always seen the red threads. I- I had my own, for a while.”

“Annoying little things,” muttered the drow, focusing again at the slow-going task of weaving time with his bare hands, “There was a time when I hated them more than anything.”

“You used to have yours, too?”

“Hm? No,” said the drow distractedly, “I hated them because I had none, and I thought I should. The Dynasty looks like a tangled web if you watch for them since so many entanglements are made complicated by consecution. But I never had one, and even though I looked for… someone that could perhaps make it appear, it never did.”

He moved his wrist to the side, and the universe seemed to shift with it. Caleb felt a little dizzy.

“But I had never heard of someone who lost theirs. I thought they were supposed to be, ah, perfect,” Essek smirked, “Unless you did what we are doing right now to yours. That is, changing it fundamentally. Somehow, I do not think that is what happened.”

“Nein,” Caleb chuckled wryly and then held himself straighter, keeping the spell steady as Essek continued his labor. “I… strayed from the path, I think. I did something that was not meant to be.”

Essek looked at him like he was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen, even though the elf himself had the building blocks of reality in his hands at the moment. Caleb flushed.

“I think Caduceus would say that you did exactly what you had to do.”

“Maybe so. But isn’t it hard to know that others will have this… this gift, this sure thing while we will not?”

Essek looped a bright white strand against a colorful, prismatic one while he hummed, thinking.

“I felt the same way for decades. But whatever we will have or not, in that sense, will be of our own making. And isn’t that a gift on its own?”

---

The moonlight shone down on the beach, turning the sea a glittering mass of waves. Other than the full moon, magical globes and luminescent beetles illuminated the space around them. Their friends gathered around smiling tearfully in perfect dissonance. Caleb himself felt his heart beating so fast he thought it might leave his ribcage and seek quietude somewhere far away from his anxiety-ridden body. He stood beside Caduceus, who hummed a sweet song under his breath as they waited.

Finally, the glittering door at the end of the path opened, and Essek slipped out, bare feet delicately touching the sand. Jester came from behind him, and once their arms were locked, they walked on slowly, passing their friends and family on the way to Caleb and Caduceus.

He looked stunning in delicate iridescent robes, and Caleb tried to swallow down his anxiety. Violet eyes framed by silver lines, mouth poised in a gentle smile, cheeks flushed, Essek walked slowly until he was face to face with his intended.

Essek reached for his hand, and they stood silently, gazes locked while Caduceus conducted the ceremony. When it was time, Caleb drew a small spool of red thread from his pocket. Gently, he took Essek’s hand in his and tied a knot around his little finger. He offered the spool, and Essek repeated the gesture, biting his lips nervously. Caduceus cut the remaining thread, leaving their hands connected.

“You are now joined together, not by destiny, but by your own choice. I think that’s very nice,” Caduceus smiled placidly until Veth cleared her throat, “Oh yeah. You guys can kiss now.”

Caleb smiled at the phrasing. He lifted his hand, pulling Essek’s forward until the drow was close enough for him to count his freckles. Their hands tingled as he came impossibly closer. Essek’s mouth was warm against his.

For the first time in Caleb's life, he felt destiny favored him.

---

[fireinmoonshot]

SPIDER | BUCKY BARNES x READER | PART FOUR

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE Summary: Bucky doesn’t know what to make of you when he meets you. You’re friends with Sharon, and you seem pretty easy to read on the surface. But the more time he spends with you, the more he seems to uncover, and the more he becomes tangled in the web you unwittingly weave. Pairing: female!Reader x Bucky Barnes Fandom: Marvel / The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Word Count: 2,769 Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER. A/N: Thank you all for the lovely response yet again! I really appreciate it. We're getting into Episode 4 now, so if you've not seen it yet make sure you don't read this chapter or you'll spoil yourself! Please let me know your thoughts, though. I really liked how this chapter turned out and I tried to make it so it didn't read like I was just writing the episode out word for word so I hope it's okay!

Zemo’s apartment was, at least, comfortable. As soon as you’d arrived Sam had settled in and gotten himself a drink and Zemo had excused himself to shower. You’d gone for a wander around the place, trying to get your bearings. It’d been a while since you’d been out of Madripoor and it felt a little like the ground had just been ripped up from underneath your feet. It was undoubtedly going to take some getting used to. Then, with what Bucky had said in the street. You were overthinking and you knew it, but he’d been right. You hated that he’d been right.

A change of clothes and freshening up in one of the bathrooms the place had done at least some of the job in helping you feel settled in, and by the time you re-enter the living room Bucky’s back, the Dora Milaje is after Zemo and the news that Karli bombed a GRC supply depot has broken.

You settle on one of the seats beside Sam with a glass of water and a heavy heart. Zemo is talking about how he personally believes Karli is a supremacist, but you can’t get your mind off of how three people had died and eleven more had been injured at the GRC supply depot bombing. You have a feeling that more people are going to end up dead if you don’t act soon, and fast.

“She will not stop,” Zemo says. “She will escalate until you kill her.”

You zone back into the conversation, taking a long sip of your drink.

“Or she kills you.”

“How unbelievably morbid of you,” you mutter.

Bucky glances at you and Sam even huffs out what you think could be a laugh.

“Maybe you’re wrong, Zemo. The serum never corrupted Steve,” Bucky says.

“Touché. But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?”

You can’t disagree with him. These people – Karli, her super soldiers. You know that they’re not trying to be Steve Rogers. They’re anything but. But you also know that John Walker, where-ever he is, whoever he is, isn’t qualified for the job either.

Bucky sighs and makes to walk away from the three of you and head toward the couch, looking for a well deserved seat. “Well, maybe we should give him to the Wakandans right now.”

“And you’ll give up your tour guide?” Zemo replies, staring into a cabinet and not even bothering to give Bucky a glance.

“Yes.” Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

Sam rolls his eyes, clearly irritated by the both of them. He says something, you vaguely hear something about his ‘TT’, though you don’t listen to the words. Instead, you stare into your drink, swirling the water around in the cup.

It’s not the first time you wonder if you’ve made a mistake my coming along with Sam, Bucky and Zemo. It’s not like Sharon gave you a choice, but you know that you could have insisted that you not come along. But now you’re wondering even more as you sit in Zemo’s living room, listening to the three men concoct a plan without even needing to consult you. Three men – a criminal, one that doesn’t trust you and one that you just don’t understand at all. You feel out of place among them.

You push yourself up and out of your chair, leaving your water behind on the table, and head towards the hallway that’ll lead you to the room Zemo told you that you could use. Bucky watches as you go, wondering if he should call out and ask you where you’re going, though he hesitates for too long and by that time, you’re out of sight. Sam watches him with furrowed eyebrows.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Bucky looks at him.

“You, staring at her like that. Are you in cahoots or something? I saw you talking on the street. Hell, you stopped to talk to her. What’s that about?”

Bucky scoffs. “In cahoots? Are you being serious right now?”

“Deadly.”

“Yeah, you know what else is deadly?”

“What?”

“Karli if we don’t hurry up and get some information on Donya Madani.” Bucky stands up and heads towards the bathroom. “As soon as I’m done, we’re heading out.”

Sam shakes his head and mutters “Who made you boss?” under his breath.

Bucky hears him. “I did!”

***

You’re not quite sure what you expect to find, but it’s certainly more than you’re leaving with. Bucky is standing and staring at Zemo and a group of children when you and Sam rejoin him. You’d gone upstairs with him, having decided on the journey there to at least try with him, and if he still refused to trust you, you’d give up. Or perhaps you wouldn’t. You hadn’t quite decided yet.

Bucky looks at you as you stand beside him, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your jacket to shield them from the cool breeze. You hadn’t said much to him since he’d joined you at Zemo’s apartment after your talk on the street, and honestly he didn’t expect you to. He didn’t even really know what to say to you, so he’d figured he’d not even bother breaching the topic. If you wanted to talk about it, you would.

You stare ahead at Zemo, eyes narrowed. He’d been a little anxious about you going upstairs with Sam alone, even though he knew deep down that Sam wasn’t going to do anything, especially to Sharon’s friend.

“Someone needs to teach those children not to talk to strangers,” you mutter.

Sam snorts.

“No, seriously. If I was their age and someone that looked and acted like Zemo came up and started talking to me like that, I’d probably want to punch him and run.” You pause and then spot the Turkish delight. “On second thoughts…” You make to walk towards him, suddenly feeling rather protective over the children unknowingly speaking to a criminal like Zemo.

Before you can even make it two steps, a hand closes around your wrist and pulls you to a stop. You look back, irritated, to find Bucky shaking his head at you.

“Don’t. He’s not going to hurt them. They’re giving him information.”

“They’re children and he’s a criminal.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, tugging you back to his side and letting go of your wrist once you’re there. “And I’ll punch him in the face if I have to.”

Sam chuckles. “Don’t tempt him, or me, for that matter.”

“Now you’ve just made me want to watch him get punched in the face.”

Bucky and Sam share a look.

“I will if you will,” Sam shrugs.

Zemo finishes speaking to the children and walks back towards the three of you. “Cute kids,” he says, smiling a smile that makes your skin crawl. He walks straight past you.

“Yeah, I hate that man,” you mutter.

***

The journey back to Zemo’s apartment is quiet and uncomfortable. You feel worried for the children and are contemplating various different ways you could physically injure and maim Zemo. Whatever Sam and Bucky are thinking, you don’t know or particularly care.

What you do know is that you didn’t find what you came for

You close the door of the apartment behind you.

“Well, I got nothing,” Bucky says, heading straight to the couch. “No one’s talking about Donya.”

“Yeah, it’s because Karli is the only one fighting for them,” Sam replies, settling down on the couch opposite Bucky. “And she’s not wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

You find a spot on the couch by Bucky and kick off your shoes so you can put your feet up. All of the travelling around was certainly taking its toll and honestly, you were beyond exhausted. If you had the time to sleep for more than a few broken hours, you’d take it. You rest your head on your arm, laying your head down on the top of the couch, and look between Sam and Bucky.

Sam sighs and elaborates. “For five years, people have been welcomed into countries that have kept them out using barbwire. There were houses and jobs. Folks were happy to have people around to help them rebuild. It wasn’t just one community coming together, it was the entire world coming together. And then, boom. Just like that, it goes right back to the way it used to be. To them, at least Karli’s doing something.”

“You really think her ends justify her means?” Bucky says. “Then, she’s no different than him,” he motions to Zemo, “or anybody else we’ve fought.”

“She’s different. She’s not motivated by the same things.”

You find the courage to speak. “Just because she’s not motivated by the same things as Zemo or the people you’ve fought, it doesn’t mean she’s not unlike them,” you sit up a little straighter as they look at you. “I haven’t fought people like you have, but I’ve fought. I’ve seen what regular people can do with a following. Karli is different, but she’s the same, too. She’s making change, but at what cost?”

Bucky looks at you, eyes narrowed. “I like you,” he says. “You get me.”

Sam rolls his eyes and looks like he’s about to reply when Zemo comes over holding a tray with tea and several tea cups. It almost makes you laugh, the sight of him with the smallest, daintiest pieces of China, but you hold it back, knowing that all eyes in the room would fall on you if you did laugh.

“That little girl. What’d she tell you?” Bucky’s amusement over you is long gone.

Zemo looks at the three of you for several moments before finally giving up the information he’d been holding hostage. “The funeral is this afternoon.”

Beside you, Bucky huffs in annoyance. “You know the Dora’s coming for you at any minute? In fact, they’re probably lurking outside right now. Keep talking.”

“Leaving you to turn on me once we get to Karli. Hmm. I prefer to keep my leverage.”

You watch as Bucky stands up from the couch and walks towards him. Something tells you that he’s not just standing up to talk, but before you can so much as think of anything else, Bucky grabs a tea cup and throws it against the wall behind Zemo. It shatters with a surprisingly loud crack.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?”

Both you and Sam are on your feet in seconds, stepping in-between them. You press a hand against Bucky’s shoulder and try to move him away from Zemo, but it does nothing. He doesn’t move and instead keeps shooting daggers at Zemo over your shoulder.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him. He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing,” Sam says, warning Bucky off. “Let me make a call.” He leaves the room, but not before tapping on Bucky’s other shoulder in an attempt to snap him out of it.

Zemo gets on your nerves by asking “You want some cherry blossom tea?”

“No, you go ahead.” Bucky is seething.

You push on his shoulder again and finally he steps back.

“What, you think we can afford to start fighting amongst each other now?” You ask, directing Bucky out of the living room and down the hall, figuring it’s probably for the best if he and Zemo aren’t in the same room right now. Zemo can enjoy his cherry blossom tea all on his own.

Bucky lets out a long, shaky breath. “Told you I wanted to punch him.”

“When I said I wanted to see it, I didn’t mean today.”

You tug him out of the hall and into your room, closing the door behind you. It’s the first time the two of you have been alone since the street where he’d called you out for contradicting yourself all the time. Strangely, he’s the person out of the three of them that you’re the most comfortable around, yet you also know he’s definitely the one that’s the most rash in his decision making. Hence the broken cup.

Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed and runs his hands over his hair.

“I know that helping him get out was for the best considering everything with Karli and the Flag Smashers, but I’m really regretting my decision right about now,” he admits, eyes focused firmly on the floor.

You walk over and settle down beside him on the bed.

“He has his uses, but just because he’s useful doesn’t mean he’s any less of an ass.”

He laughs briefly and the sound makes you smile.

“We all have regrets, okay?” You continue. “I have plenty of them, you have them, Sam has them, I bet even Zemo has some. Buried deep down. I try not to focus on mine. Maybe you should try the same with the Zemo thing.”

Bucky lifts his head and looks at you. “Yeah, it’s that easy, is it?”

For some reason, you want him to trust you even more now. Having felt disconnected from them all day, but also having felt the thrill when one of them laughs at your joke, or even Bucky just telling you that he likes you… the part of you that wants trust wins out, so you decide to tell Bucky one of your regrets.

“I regret leaving Madripoor and Sharon,” you admit. “She’s the only home I’ve known for the longest time. Madripoor – however messed up it is there – felt like some kind of home because of her. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since the blip, I suppose. Part of me wishes I was still there with her. But the other part of me focuses on the fact that she thinks I’m of more use here, with you guys. So I’m trying to be of use to you guys. I’m trying not to shut myself off. I’m pushing down my regret in favour of trying to be helpful.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Well, I haven’t contradicted myself yet, have I?”

Bucky smiles properly for the first time since you’ve met him.

“And listen, if it makes you feel any better, you entirely have my permission to punch Zemo before we finish all of this. I don’t know Sam well, but I have a feeling he’d be on board, too.”

He chuckles and leans back until he’s laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I meant what I said in there before,” he points in the direction of the living room. “That I like you. That you get me. I don’t know how, but you do.” He looks up at you, sitting up and watching him. “You’re making it annoyingly easy for me to trust you right now, you know that? I feel like I shouldn’t trust you because of the contradictions you make about yourself. But now you’re sitting here, being open and honest with me. Making sure I don’t punch people. And now I feel like I could trust you.”

You’re smiling. “Maybe that was all part of my grand plan.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m joking. It was a joke,” you huff out a laugh. “Learn to take a joke, James.”

He pushes himself up, sitting straight again. “James?”

“That’s your name, is it not? Or do you not like being called James?”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” He blinks. Lets your words settle with him for a moment.  “Bucky, James. I don’t care what you call me. Unless it’s offensive.”

“Well, you’re safe there,” you laugh. “I’m not mad at you, by the way. About what you said earlier. You were right. I do contradict myself, and I do it to protect myself.”

Bucky frowns. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

“Then I’ll try not to,” you say honestly. “Now, have you cooled off enough to go back and see who Sam was calling, or do you wanna stay here for a few more minutes?”

Bucky thinks over your question for a few moments, thinking ever so briefly about staying here with you for a little bit longer simply because he thinks he likes being around you, before nodding. “I think I’m good.”

You nod and stand up, intending to head to the door, but Bucky reaches out a hand to stop you. He means to grab your wrist, but unintentionally ends up grabbing your hand. You whirl, eyes a little wider than you realise, and look at him.

He doesn’t let go.

“Thank you,” he says. “For getting me out of there. For calming me down.”

You smile. “Anytime, Bucky.”

***

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[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 5

A/N  Sorry for the long break between chapters.  As some of you might have seen from my Tumblr blog, I’ve been off on vacation these past two weeks.  Plus, when I felt the urge to write, it was my new Vaquero AU that kept calling to me (21,000 words and counting!), rather than this fic.  Which is probably a good argument for why I don’t like to post WIPs.  In any event, here is the next chapter some of you have been asking for, entitled Third Appointment.  Be careful what you wish for.  Angst ahead, plus a trigger warning for infertility trauma, miscarriage.

The first four chapters are available on my AO3 page.

The Thursday after her impromptu encounter with Jamie and his niece at the Royal Hospital for Children, Claire woke with a strange twisting pain in her gut.  Skipping breakfast, she was halfway to her office before she diagnosed herself with an acute case of nerves, the kind that sprouted between her lungs and ribcage like a vestigial organ whose sole purpose was to unsettle her.

She wasn’t in the habit of meeting patients outside of the clinical confines of her practice, but it was more than that.  Jamie had caught her in a moment of weakness, with both her personal and professional armour missing.  What he might have seen and how he could have interpreted it had occupied her thoughts ever since.

Eating lunch was out of the question.  By the time two o’clock approached, her insides were a buzzing hornets’ nest of anxiety, her palms clammy with sweat.  A half-empty bottle of Xanax called to her from the bottom of her purse.  Before she could weigh the implications of taking one at work on an empty stomach, Jamie’s familiar knock intervened.

She could tell as soon as he entered that Maggie hadn’t needed a transfusion that week.  His russet curls shone like garnets in the midday sun and his uncanny eyes glittered like sapphires.  Still, he avoided looking directly her way as he settled into his usual chair, and she wondered if the overlap of their personal and professional lives had left him feeling unnerved as well.

“No wheat grass smoothie,” he commented, his gaze running over her desk.

“No, I didn’t have time for lunch today.”  It was a blatant falsehood, since she’d spent her lunch hour picking her cuticles until they bled, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Ye should eat more, Sassen..., Doctor Beauchamp.  Ye canna help anyone else if ye’re no’ properly nourished.”  She caught the slip, and for some reason it angered her.

“Is this your attempt to negotiate a reduction in your fees, Jamie?  Dietary advice in return for counselling?  Because if so, I’m afraid I don’t bill on the barter system,” she snapped, despising her churlish tone.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed, then dimmed.  Message received, he sat up straighter in the armchair and crossed a foot over his knee, assuming a position of poised and detached calm that had no doubt served him well during business negotiations.  She regrouped by pretending to glance at her journal for the notes from their previous session, although the space next to his name was accusingly blank.

Boundaries thus defined, the session went surprising well.  Jamie spoke of his relief that Maggie’s latest round of chemotherapy was over, allowing her to return home and to some semblance of a regular life for a child of six.  Claire coaxed him gently towards the topic of his overwhelming guilt for abandoning his family when he was most needed.  Jamie processed pain through the recounting of stories, coming to terms with his self-decreed transgression by weaving together the tale of those he loved and pointing to the holes his absence had caused.

As his resonant voice spun its web of words, Claire became aware of an underlying hum.  At first it was subtle, like the mumble of traffic from a far-off motorway.  But as their hour together ticked by, it grew in strength until she could no longer ignore the buzz that pressed against her from all directions.

“... saw that it was really Jenny and Ian who I was... Claire?  Doctor Beauchamp, are ye well?”  Jamie was watching her with concern, and she realized she’d been shaking her head, trying to dislodge the omnipresent hum.

“Yes, I’m... yes.  Sorry.  Just a funny noise that’s...  Please, continue.”  When Jamie didn’t immediately pick up the thread of his narrative, she tried again.  “You were saying something about Jenny and Ian?”

Instead of continuing his previous thought, Jamie picked that moment to broach the topic she’d desperately hoped he would avoid.

“I hope ye’re no’ upset about the other day, at the hospital.  I didna mean tae impose or tae... o’erstep the bounds of our relationship.  No’ that we have a relationship, mind,” he hastened to add.  “Only a professional one.  But when I saw ye, I couldna resist introducing ye tae wee Maggie.  I hadna told ye about her yet, and I thought...”

“Jamie, it’s fine,” she cut in, halting his rambling explanation.  “She’s a lovely girl.  They all are.  It’s only that, I’m sort of...”

“Ye’re verra good with them.  Children, that is.  Ye’ll make a fine mother one day.”

All the oxygen left the room at once.  Her heart beat so hard there was a bruised feeling behind her sternum.   Launching to her feet, Claire stumbled blindly away from her desk.  She wanted to run, to scream, but her vision was a narrow chasm and a now-deafening throb filled her ears.  She only made it a few steps before her knees buckled and the carpet floated upwards to meet her.

“Ifrinn!”  Jamie leapt to her side, catching her by the shoulders before her head could hit the floor.  He lowered them both carefully to the ground, resting her body against his lap.  “Sassenach?  Claire?  Can ye hear me?  Do I need tae call an ambulance?”  The words reached her from very far away, but the threat of medical intervention acted like a dose of smelling salts.

“No,” she groaned, the room spinning around her like a kaleidoscope.  “No hospital.  I just... need to eat,” she grasped at the most innocuous explanation for her current state.

Without dislodging her, Jamie stretched his long arm and brought back the small basket of miniature muffins that were the day’s offering from Geillis.  With surprising dexterity, he peeled away the paper one-handed and broke apart a bite-sized morsel, holding it gently against her lips.  Realizing that her dignity couldn’t get any more battered, Claire opened her mouth and allowed Jamie to feed her.  After only a few bites, the buzzing disappeared and she was able to sit up on her own.

“Thank you,” she murmured, afraid to look into his eyes for fear of the pity she knew she’d see there.  “You were right. I  should have eaten lunch, I guess.”

“Claire.”  Jamie made a prose poem of the single syllable of her name.  She looked up at him through her lashes, stunned to find him looking back, not with pity, but with something akin to adoration.  “Mo nighean donn,” he ran a tender hand through her loosened curls.  “Ye need tae care more for yerself.”

“I will.  I’ll try.”  And when she said it to him, she really meant it.  Jamie made the impossible seem probable.

They stared at one another, shoulder to shoulder on the floor of her office.  She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but nor did she move.  Her gaze flitted over his face, noticing a vestige of boyish freckles across the bridge of his nose, a mole hidden in the harvest stubble on his cheek.  Jamie was performing a parallel inventory, eyes finally coming to rest at the level of her mouth.

“Ye’ve got a wee crumb, jus’ there.”  Unconscious, her tongue swept out, triggering a predatory response, twin blue laser beams narrowing on the target she had just painted on her lower lip.

“I... I’d verra much like tae kiss ye, Claire.  May I?”

An amputated moan was all she could manage in response, but Jamie must have understood its meaning.  He bent his head until only a whisper separated them.  The air crackled, sending that extra organ plummeting towards her hollow womb.  Clenching her eyes shut in defeat, she closed the infinitesimal gap until they met in an effervescent caress of lip and tongue.

Cold washed over her skin, bathing her in gooseflesh.  Jamie tasted like he looked; a banquet of fresh, volatile flavours that called to mind a picnic in a meadow, a spray of sea foam, the warmth of hearth and home.  She could feel him trembling against her, his moist breath rushing against her cheek in shallow pants.  For a score of heartbeats, Claire was the happiest she had ever been.  Then, reality crashed down around her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, pulling away.  “I... this can’t... I’m sorry.”

Jamie leaned back with a mixture of longing and resignation.  She hated adding herself to his list of regrets, but it was for the best.

“I’m your doctor, Jamie.  This isn’t right.”

“Aye, I ken.  I should apologize, but I canna seem tae find it in me tae repent.”

Jamie stood, reaching down to help Claire up as well.  As soon as it was apparent she was able to stand on her own, he dropped her hand as though it burned.  The line between his brows deepened, and she could see the question forming before he gave it voice.

“What if ye werena my doctor?  Would it be right then?”

“That’s neither here nor there, because I am, Jamie.  A relationship between patient and doctor of a romantic nature is ethically off-limits.”

Jamie nodded, apparently accepting her explanation at face value. Her heartbeat calmed.  He moved slowly, gathering his coat and starting to leave.  

“But what if ye weren’t?” he said, facing the door.  “If we’d met at the hospital, or out on the town?”

“I...” she stammered, searching desperately for any answer except for the truth.  “No, Jamie,” she said at last, watching as she destroyed his last bastion of hope.  “I’m sorry.  I just don’t feel that way about you.”

Nodding abruptly, Jamie let himself out of the office.  She listened to his low murmuring voice through the door as he spoke to Geillis, heard him make an appointment for the following week, then the loud snap of the main door closing.  Only then did she allow herself to collapse once more to the floor, angry sobs overtaking her.

***

“Are ye out of yer fuckin’ mind?” Geillis inquired with her usual brutal eloquence.

With the help of a Xanax, Claire had managed to see her last two patients of the day, and only needed to navigate the shoals of her office manager’s ire before she could go home and fully medicate herself into a dreamless sleep.

“Jes so we’re clear, ye want me tae write a letter terminating your services as a doctor an’ suggesting suitable alternative providers?  An’ ye want me tae send this letter, over email, tae Jamie Fraser?”

“That’s right.”  She had determined that icy calm was the best antidote to this conversation, which was fortuitous, since she felt numb all over.

“An’ what reason am I tae give fer this abrupt conclusion tae yer association wi’ Mr. Fraser?”

“I don’t owe him an explanation.  Only sufficient notice and an opportunity to seek counselling elsewhere,” she said, feigning reasonableness.

Pushed past her limits, Geillis rose from behind her desk, a tiny tempest of moral indignation.

“Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, ye are a good friend, a fine doctor an’ a fair employer.  But I swear by the Almighty that if ye dinna drop the façade and tell me wha’ is going on I am going tae smack ye until yer ears ring!”

There was a certain relief in knowing that Geillis wouldn’t take no for an answer.  And unlike Jamie, she knew where Claire lived and would not let her rest until the truth came out.

“He kissed me.  Or rather, I kissed him.  And I liked it!  That’s why, Geillis.”

Her friend’s shoulders sagged, all righteousness gone in an instant.  She reached around Claire’s frame and held her in a bone-crushing one-sided hug.

“Och, hen.  An’ ye figured ye could deal wi’ those pesky feelings by jes, what? firing him as yer patient?”  

“I can’t deal with this right now, Geillis.  I can’t feel the way he makes me feel.  And this practice is all that I have left.  There’s no way I can risk losing it just for an affair that won’t even last the summer.”

She didn’t need to elaborate on her reasons for that dire prediction.  Geillis knew them as well as anyone.

“He’s an intelligent man, Claire. He’s gonna ken something is up.  Moreover, he’s a good man.  He deserves tae hear the truth.”

Shaking her head sadly, Claire walked towards the door.  Just before exiting, she called back softly to her friend.

“Geillis?  Make sure to include Dr. Rafferty’s name on the list of referrals.  I think they’d be a good match.

***

Monday morning dawned with little promise for the fledgling week.  Moving robotically through her weekend routine, Claire thought frequently of chickens.  How their bodies kept moving once their heads were lopped off, nerves and muscle and bone continuing to function for a time despite the fatal blow.

The elevator chimed its arrival on her floor.  As the doors slide open, Jamie was the first thing she saw.  He loomed by her still-locked office, a sun-topped thundercloud gripping a sheet of printer paper.

She’d worn her best black suit and a pair of chunky heels that brought her closer to his height.  Perhaps, on some subconscious level, she’d anticipated this confrontation.  Perversely, she relished it.  Vitriol and deceit didn’t suit her, but it was preferable to feeling absolutely nothing.

“Do ye mind tellin’ me,” Jamie began before she’d even set foot in the hallway, “jus’ what this is about, Claire?” He brandished the paper like a wanted poster.

“I would think it was self-explanatory, actually.  I’m terminating our professional relationship,” she huffed, golden eyes coming to life for the first time since Thursday.

“Via email.  Sent tae me by Miss Duncan, because ye dinna have the guts tae do it yerself.  Christ, Sassenach, even my ninth grade sweetheart didna dump me so cruelly!”

“I’m not your sweetheart!” she burst out, a flood of emotion cresting with her rising anger.  “Don’t call me that!  I was your doctor, Jamie, and now I’m nothing to you.  Nothing.  Just go.  Please.  Just go,” she finished weakly and without any hope that he’d listen.

“All this jus’ because I kissed you?” Jamie persevered.  At her stubborn silence, he continued, “Nah, I dinna think so.  Ye’re many things, Claire, but a coward isna one of them.”

She found this hysterically funny, since a coward was the only role she played to perfection.  She didn’t have time to laugh, however, because Jamie was suddenly standing much closer, forcing her to lift her chin to meet his stormy eyes.

“Nah,” he continued smoothly, a big cat alerted to the smell of its prey.  “If ye’d objected tae the kiss, ye would have told me so.  Read me the riot act or kneed me in the bawls.  I think ye’re scared, Doctor Beauchamp.  I think that kiss terrified ye, because ye realized ye liked it.  Somethin’ ye couldna  plan for in yer wee journal, right there under yer nose.  Bet it made yer heart beat so fast. So fast, jus’ like it is now.”

Jamie’s hand rested gently over the placket of her suit jacket, where he could surely feel the trip hammering of her pulse.

“Please,” she begged.  “Don’t.  I can’t...”

“Can’t what, Sassenach?” he whispered back, goading her.

The truth hung on her lips, and the toll of the past few days meant that she no longer had the strength to stop it from spilling forth.

“Can’t have children.  Ever.  I tried, for years.  Fourteen miscarriages, fourteen lost chances.  And seeing you with those children last week.  I know it’s presumptive, but I could never deny you that chance, Jamie.  That’s why I can’t see you anymore.”

She was looking down, watching the buttons of his shirt rise and fall with his agitated breath, but as she finished speaking, their movement ceased.  Chancing a glance upward, she was stunned by the fury that had overtaken his expression. 

Jamie opened and closed his mouth several times before he managed to speak in a gritty growl.

“Mutation of the RUNX1 gene tha’ causes leukemia.  I was tested, along wi’ Jenny an’ Ian, after Maggie was diagnosed.  I have a fifty percent chance of passing it along tae my children.  An’ since I canna stand the thought of ano’er bairn havin’ tae suffer as Maggie has, as soon as I got the test results, I went out an’ had a vasectomy.”

Claire recoiled as though she’d been slapped, a high pitched whine in her ears.

“Ye’re no’ the only one who’s hurting, Claire!” Jamie continued, voice dashing against the rocks of her name.  “We’re no’ meant tae suffer alone.  Ye, of all people, should ken that.”

Stunned in the silence following the thunderclap of his revelation, she couldn’t find the words to express her sorrow, her outrage, and her crippling shame.  By the time the power of speech returned, Jamie was gone. 

[allegra-writes]

"Bad together"

Prologue: Benjamin Reilly

Peter Parker x Reader

General audiences

Warnings: none.

"And if I'm dead to you

Why are you at the wake?

Cursing my name, wishing I stayed"

My tears ricochet - Taylor Swift

"... It's a disaster! Look at her! It's like someone took a look at Black Cat, selected everything that made her sexy and then took it out!"

Black Cat. The name froze the young photographer on his tracks right outside his boss' office. He hadn't heard that name in a long time, the last sighting had been well over a year ago. He would know.  After all, it had been him, the very last person to have seen Felicia Hardy, alive or dead.

"What are you talking about? That looks hot af, not to mention badass!" Jade's persuasive voice reached his ears, making him smirk: It was no secret the chief editor had a soft spot for the young intern. And, on her part, the petite brunette was a firecracker. Poor old Jameson didn't stand a chance. "Come on, dad. Single handedly taking down three of the Kingpin's goons? That's impressive. It deserves to be one of the slides!" 

"Not if we don't get a higher quality picture. That blurry video is good enough for a thumbnail, but not for a slide" Slides were a big deal, they were the Dailybugle.net's equivalent of a front page, and if J. Jonah Jameson took something seriously, it was his web site. He prided himself in the quality of the "receipts" of his "tea", as if that validated the trashiness of the bullshit articles he posted, more fiction from hyper imaginative wannabe writers than serious work from real reporters. 

"Well, then let's get the pictures. Where is that star photographer of yours?" 

The photographer rolled his eyes, typical Jade. As if the queen of cool didn't know his name. As if she hadn't graced his bed a handful of times already. 

"That's a good question. Dolores, get me Reilly!"

"I'm here, Jonah" Ben finally stepped inside the office, throwing an envelope on Jameson's desk before throwing himself on a chair across it. He could feel Jade's eyes on him, almost like a physical caress, trailing from the long, slick back curls on the top of his head, to the muscles of his arms, threatening to rip open the seams at the sleeves of his white t-shirt, to his jean clad thighs. Still, he didn't turn to look at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction. 

"What do you have for me today, boy?"

Ben gesticulated vaguely with his head in the direction of Jade, and Jameson caught the hint. 

"Jade, out!" 

"But, dad, my story!" The petulant reply left her mouth before she could stop it, undoubtedly the product of years of habit. But she had the grace to look embarrassed and leave the office without another word, trying to save whatever professionalism she had left. 

Once she was gone, Jameson opened the envelope, flipping through the various pictures of a masked figure swinging around New York in a black and red suit. 

"Hmmm… these are good" the older man praised, staring at the images of a frustrated robbery at 5th avenue

Ben snifled nocomitically,

"There was a fire at 16th avenue happening at the same time" He offered, "we could use that. Spider-Man forgets his roots and leaves his old neighborhood to fend for itself, running off to save some pretty socialite…"

"Oh, that is excellent! See, this is why I like you, kid. You have initiative. Unlike these snowflakes out there. Oh, but Spider-Man is a hero. Hero, my ass"

"Well, when you watch your so called hero sit back and do nothing as your life gets destroyed" Ben shrugged, "the rose colored glasses tend to fall off…"

Jameson made a face at that,

"Yeah, about that… I'm sorry. For the role the Daily Bugle played on that…"

Ben shook his head, 

"You thought you were getting the truth out there. It's not your fault to have been played, along with half the world. Plus," he added, sounding genuinely enthusiastic, "you gave me this job. And now we can really tell the truth"

"Even when our idea of the truth is somehow different" The older man scoffed, flipping around a picture of Spider-Man sat on what appeared to be a hammock of his own webs, eating a hamburger and reading something that looked suspiciously like a comic book, "Still hung up on that high schooler theory of yours?"

"Well, if it talks like a brat and acts like a brat…" Ben took out another envelope, this time containing a few burger king wrappers and, effectively, a spider-man comic book. 

"Where did you even get these?"

"Harlem" was Ben's curt reply, and Jameson knew that was as exact a location as he was going to get. 

"So you still believe this is a copycat? Some kid playing dress up"

Ben simply shrugged again. 

"Well, there seems to be an epidemic of those lately" Jameson admitted, indicating Ben to come closer, passing a tablet to him, "Jade just handled me this, take a look"

Ben took a deep breath, steeling himself, already knowing what he was going to see in it. Yet, a part of him couldn't help but hope to be wrong. To hope the silver haired figure facing three much bigger, stronger looking ones as he pressed play, wasn't the same one he had spent weeks memorizing last summer. Wasn't the body he had found solace in, when everything fell apart, once again, for the hundredth time in his life. 

To hope it wasn't you. 

But when in his twenty-two or so years of existence, had things ever gone his way? 

Ben felt the screen crack under his fingertips.

"I've heard of her" he lied through his teeth, "didn't even think she was real, to be honest. Extremely elusive, and cunning." That much was true, "I don't understand how something as mundane as a security camera managed to catch her…" 

Unless you wanted to be caught, that was. 

"Well, I don't care if she's the fucking Loch Ness monster, I want an HD picture of her on my desk tomorrow to go with Jade's article. I already have a headline: New Catastrophe Jen wreaks havoc on Hell's Kitchen" Jameson's eyes lit up with glee as he weaved his hands up in the air, like writing on an invisible marquee. 

Ben snorted

"Don't you mean Calamity Jane?"

Jameson's face fell, the color rising to his cheeks, characteristic vein popping on his forehead. 

"I meant what I meant, boy! Now, what are you still doing here? You have 24 hours to get me that picture"

"I'm going to need 72," came Ben's unphased reply, "and I want twice what you pay me for the spidey pics"

Jameson's vein looked about ready to explode,

"48 hours. And deal."

Ben jumped from his seat and bolted out of the office before his boss could change his mind, not realizing until it was too late that he was on a collision course with a sweet looking short haired blonde girl. 

"Watch where you're going! Jeez!"

"Me? You're the one who crashed against me!" 

Ben rolled his eyes, but crouched next to the girl anyway, helping her gather the papers that had been sent flying on impact back together.

"Peter? Oh my god, is that you?"

Of course. What an idiot, he should had recognized that annoying, shrilly voice the second he heard it. It had caught him off guard, something he knew he couldn't afford. But how could he had ever imagine he could run into Betty fucking Brant, Yale cum laude, in the freaking dailybugle.net headquarters of all places?

"Sorry, sweetheart. You must confuse me with someone else…" He mumbled, lowering his head even more in a vain attempt to hide his face.

"Of course not!" She insisted, "You're Peter, Peter Parker, we went to Midtown together!"

"Miss, I have no idea what you're talking about…"

"Don't be silly, Peter!" She chuckled, completely deft to his tone or the way his whole demeanor had changed the second she had called him by the old name. "How have you been? Oh, just wait until I tell Ned, he's going to be so-"

CRACK.

At last, the tablet that had been in peril ever since Jameson had put it in Ben's hands, the one that contained his assignment, met its demise, both broken halves falling to the ground, along with all the papers he had picked up for Betty. It was several moments before he could get the shaking of his hands under control, before the tar black rage inside him subsided enough for him to be able to move without shifting. But it had.

"Peter Parker is dead." He deadpanned, dark brown eyes finally meeting Betty's stunned blue ones, "Tell Ned that, he'll probably be glad to hear it"

With that, he stood up and walked away, leaving a confused and agitated Betty behind. 

To be continued...