#let debbie raise her kid ffs

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

god i had to stop reading fanfics about gallavich and franny because the majority of them shit on debbie and i’m so sick of it

does anyone know any fics with gallavich, debbie, and franny that aren’t anti-debbie? like possibly ones that are written by people who like debbie or at least know that mickey and ian like debbie???? it’s so annoying

[unfolded73]

Near-Death Experience (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Patrick of the past is able to see what his future might hold if he can find the courage to seek it out. (ao3) Rated Teen, 4600 words.

Notes: I don't know, I just have a thing for past versions of characters getting to see what their future holds. Okay yes, I've put Patrick in peril again, but it's just a device to allow him to have an out-of-body experience. He'll be fine. The character of "Debby" is inspired by Michael on The Good Place.

_____________________________

When the sickening cracking sound rings out through the rural Canadian forest, the first thing Patrick Brewer thinks about as he plunges into the icy pond water is what the headline will be in the morning paper.

Local man fall through ice, dies

or maybe

Stupid local didn’t understand basics of ice thaw, dies

or perhaps

Climate change claims life of sad local man

Then he imagines his parents, dressed in black and crying at his funeral. Perhaps bitterly regretting that they didn’t have a second child, a backup child. All they had was this one kid, and despite the fact that they kept him “alive ‘til twenty-five,” like they always used to joke, it still feels like he was a waste of their resources. As it turns out he only made it five more years. They should have had a child who stays indoors and knits scarves and does not follow stray dogs out onto frozen ponds like Patrick apparently does.

It’s only as he slips beneath the icy surface that he finally thinks of Rachel, his fiancée. And if he feels just the tiniest bit of relief at the idea that at least he won’t have to go through with marrying her, well. Maybe that’s the hypothermia talking.

~~~

“Patrick.”

He blinks open his eyes, and then immediately closes them again because everything is very, very bright.

He licks his lips and clears his throat and speaks. “Where am I?”

“Mmm, that’s a bit of a difficult question to answer,” says a woman’s voice. “This place doesn’t really have a ‘where’.”

Patrick makes another attempt at opening his eyes, this time with a little bit more success. Not that it explains anything. He is looking at a tall, angular, middle-aged woman in a gray pantsuit, and beyond her… well, nothing. An infinity of whiteness stretches off into the distance.

An Infinity of Whiteness, good name for that overly earnest rock band you tried to start when you were sixteen, his traitorous brain supplies.

“What do you mean?” Patrick asks.

The woman shrugs and smiles and clasps her hands together. “I think it’s best that for the time being, you not worry overly much about where you are. It will distract from the things I need to talk to you about.”

Patrick is turning in a circle, looking for some other landmark in all of the nothingness. He casts his mind back, and memory strikes him like a punch to the stomach. How he was out for a morning run when he saw a stray dog stranded out on the pond. How he stopped and walked out to try to lead the dog back to shore, memories of the countless hockey games of his youth making him confident of his safety. And then a crack almost like a gunshot and a tumble into frigid water.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Patrick asks the woman.

She winces and see-saws her hand back and forth. “You’re not dead, but you’re not not dead. It’s a bit dicey at the moment.”

Patrick nods, feeling weirdly calm about the news that he’s dead. Or dying, anyway. “Cool,” he replies flatly.

“Look, I try not to intervene in the lives of people, I do. And most of the time it’s not like I even can, you know?” He doesn’t know, but Patrick nods. “But this is one of those unique situations where I can interact with you. I mean, you’re probably not going to make it, but you might!” She gives him a cheery smile and a thumbs up. “And if you make it, this might help you.”

“Who are you?”

“Wow, you’re just full of complicated questions today!” Her perky voice feels a bit like it’s piercing into his brain, and Patrick brings a hand up to pinch between his eyes as she continues talking. “As for a name, why don’t you call me Deborah. Or Debby? I like Debby. It’s not my name, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce my actual name.” She laughs. “As for what I am, I mean, some religious traditions would probably call me an angel? But that’s not really accurate. Demon is closer, but that has a negative connotation that I’m not a fan of.” She wrinkles her nose while Patrick gapes at her.

“You don’t look like you believe me,” Debby says.

He lets out a breath. “What I believe is that I’m hallucinating. That this is random electrical impulses from my brain as it’s denied oxygen.” He read a book about it, about alternative explanations for the things people report as near-death experiences. It’s comforting, knowing that’s all this is, even if it doesn’t bode well for his chances of survival.

The woman — Debby — taps a manicured fingernail against her teeth. “I’m not sure if you believing that is particularly helpful for me? I mean, it probably means you’ll do less screaming, which is good. I hate it when they scream. But I kind of need you to believe in the reality of what you’ll be seeing if it’s going to get your life on track.”

“Wow, that’s not ominous at all. What am I going to be seeing?”

With another smile, she snaps her fingers.

Patrick’s vision blurs and there is a rushing sound in his ears and when he is able to focus on his surroundings, things are still very bright. But this time the brightness comes not from an infinitely white room but from sunshine coming through big panes of glass. Through the window, he can see the pant legs of someone up on a ladder, most of their body out of sight above the view from the window. He turns, and absorbs the fact that he is in what looks like some kind of store. A tall man with black hair is across the room, his back turned as he works at one of the shelves. There are cardboard boxes everywhere, as if the store is being set up for the first time. Bottles sit out on a large table that dominates the middle of the room. Half the shelves are empty.

All in all, it is a very specific and yet somehow mundane hallucination.

Then he watches himself — another version of himself, that is — come out from a doorway with another box in his arms.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see or hear us,” Debby says.

“Okay,” Patrick replies. He wasn’t worried about that, on account of the fact that it’s all imaginary.

“So this is your near future,” Debby instructs like she’s a tour guide.

“David, where do you want these bottles of toner after I put the labels on?” imaginary Patrick asks.

The man he calls David turns and comes over, inspecting the bottles. Patrick’s first impression of the man is of eyebrows and cultivated stubble. “So I want the labels closer to the top than the bottom, so that the bottom of the label hits the bottle exactly at the halfway point,” David says, indicating on the bottle full of pale liquid with a hand adorned with several silver rings.

“Uh huh,” the other Patrick says. “And then where do you want me to put them after they are precisely labeled to your exacting specifications?”

David raises an expressive eyebrow at Patrick’s sass, his mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to formulate a comeback. Then he gestures to a shelf, his hand fluttering. “Over there.”

“Okay.” Patrick watches his other self watching David go back to the shelf where he was working.

Patrick turns to Debby, who is watching them too. “In my near future, I’ll leave my lucrative job in financial planning to work retail?”

“Well, yes, but that leaves out some steps. You leave your lucrative job because you want to escape your old life and move away. Put some distance between yourself and that girl you couldn’t seem to stay broken up with. Then you become a partner in this store because something attracted you to it. Or someone,” she says with a wink.

Patrick looks back at David, his broad shoulders contained within a fuzzy white sweater with black stripes. His other self is focusing on affixing labels to the bottles, but his eyes are straying over to David too, at least four or five times in the minute that Patrick spends watching them.

“Oof, the sexual tension is thick in here,” Debby says, clapping her hands together on each of the last three words.

Patrick feels himself blush, which is weird — why would he be blushing in a hallucination? “Oh, I’m not… you know.”

Debby blinks at him, uncomprehending.

“Gay,” Patrick continues. “I’m not gay.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Look, I won’t claim to understand what attracts one human to want to rub their body on another human’s body. All of it seems disgusting to me. But if you’re saying that you aren’t interested in that one,” she says, pointing to David, “because he’s male, well…” She laughs. “Wait until you see what’s next.”

Debby snaps her fingers again, but at first it doesn’t seem like they’ve gone anywhere. Except the store is organized now, Patrick realizes. The boxes are gone and the shelves are full, sunlight still streaming in through the windows, albeit at a different angle. It’s the golden hour before sunset and everything in the store gleams in the orangish light. His future self (or so Debby wants him to believe) is there again, standing behind the cash register and counting out the till.

David comes out of the back of the store and saunters toward the front. He wears a long sweater and black skinny jeans, and he exudes a kind of effortlessly cool vibe that Patrick isn’t sure he’s ever encountered in the real world. When David reaches the front of the store, he flips the sign to closed and locks the bolt. Patrick can’t help but stare at his graceful hands as they go through this practiced motion. Then David sort of shimmies his way over to the fake Patrick at the cash register, a smirk on his face.

Without looking up, the other Patrick says, “Don’t distract me, David; I’m counting.”

“Who said anything about distracting you?” David says as he positions himself behind Patrick, bending over enough to rest his chin on Patrick’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Patrick says and he sounds annoyed, but the smile on his face is anything but. He continues to count.

Then David angles his head and drags his lips along imaginary Patrick’s neck, making his eyelashes flutter, and the visual makes a flash of heat burn through Patrick like a sudden brush fire.

“See? Are you sure you don’t like men?” Debby asks. “It looks like you like this man, at least.”

“This isn’t real,” Patrick whispers, but he can’t take his eyes off the two people behind the cash register. The way the other Patrick gives up on counting and spins around, pinning David against the white-tiled wall and kissing him, slow and filthy. The way that David’s hands, those graceful hands that Patrick watched on the door, slide down the other Patrick’s back to his ass.

“Yeah, this is where it would help if you weren’t quite so analytical about this experience, because if you don’t believe this is really in your future, then honestly, this is kind of a waste of time for me.” Debby shrugs. “Although it might be a waste of time regardless, because you might die in that cold water. Gosh, human bodies are so fragile! It never ceases to amaze me.”

“Thanks for reminding me that I’m dying,” Patrick says, but his gaze doesn’t leave the two men making out behind the cash register. “Aren’t they worried about people seeing them?” he asks, his eyes darting quickly to the window.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Debby says, and then she gives him an exasperated sigh. “I hoped this might unlock something for you. Why you aren’t happy with Rachel. Why you’ve never considered yourself a sexual person. Why you spent so much time in Brian Richardson’s dorm room when you were at university. Surely some pieces are clicking into place right about now.”

Across the room, the other Patrick breaks the kiss and takes a step backwards. “We have to finish closing, David,” he says, his voice rough.

“Do we, though?” David backs into the doorway of the room behind the cash register and shimmies his shoulders again. “Actually, I think I might need your help with some inventory in the back.”

Fake Patrick only seems to hesitate for a second before he follows David, pulling the curtain closed behind them with a firm flick of his wrist.

“You could go watch,” Debby says. “Like I said, there’s no way for them to perceive your presence.”

Patrick’s face flushes even hotter as he imagines what he might see behind that curtain. “What? No, why would I— I don’t want to— I’m good out here.”

Debby shrugs. “Suit yourself. I know I don’t want to watch. The way you humans put your mouths — which you eat with! — on any and all of each other’s body parts…” She shudders theatrically while a million images flashed through Patrick’s brain. He shakes his head, trying to banish them.

“This can’t be my future,” he says.

“Why not?”

He tries to ignore the sound of a moan and a muffled thump from behind the curtain, and imagines the leap that it would take to quit his job, to break up with Rachel for good, to move to another town, and get into a relationship with a man. None of it seems like something he is capable of, much less all of it.

Still, there is a part of him that also doubts that his brain, even in its dying gasps, could invent anyone like David. He’s unlike anyone Patrick has ever encountered before. He is…

He is, for one thing, unspeakably hot.

Oh.

“Ready to go?” Debby asks.

Another moan comes from the back room.

Patrick nods. “Yes, please.”

She snaps her fingers again.

They are at a baseball field; a small one, the kind you find in community parks, with one measly set of metal bleachers and the grass worn thin in several patches. Patrick spots himself immediately at shortstop, gesturing for the infield to shift position as a left-handed batter comes up to bat. Patrick’s team wears green and white, the words Cafe Tropical in script across the front. There’s a runner on first, edging toward second as the pitcher prepares to throw. Then the pitch — the tink of the metal bat against the ball as it bounces across the infield toward the other Patrick. He fields it easily, flipping the ball to the second baseman who spins and gets the batter out with an accurate throw to first. A cheer goes up, and Patrick quickly realizes it’s the last play of the game.

After some spirited congratulations of each other and from the opposing team, Patrick watches himself walk toward the bleachers, where David is engrossed in conversation with a dark-haired woman in a plaid shirt.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down on the bleachers next to David and putting an arm around him.

David looks up, surprised, one hand curled around a can of soda. Patrick again notices the silver rings on his fingers as the sunlight catches them. “Oh, is the game over?”

The other Patrick laughs, seemingly amused by David’s obliviousness. “Yeah, the game’s over.”

“Did you win?” the woman asks.

“We did, Stevie,” Patrick says, “I turned a game-winning double play.”

David kisses him. “Great job, honey. Or, I’m sorry? I don’t know what the appropriate reaction is.”

The other Patrick smiles fondly at him. “‘Great job’ was correct.”

“Patrick!” one of the other players calls. “We’re headed to the Wobbly Elm for drinks. You in?”

“Yeah, I’ll catch up,” he responds. Patrick looks at David. “I think I’m going to go get drinks with the team. You wanna come?”

“Actually, Stevie and I were going to watch…” He turns and looks at his friend. “What was it?”

“Carnival of Souls,” she says, a wicked smirk on her face.

“Mm, sounds fun.” The other Patrick kisses David on the cheek. “You coming over tonight?”

“Depends; am I in for some more of that repressed homoerotic locker room roleplay?” David says with a leer, leaning toward him with a hand resting high on the thigh of his white uniform pants.

“Oh my god,” Stevie says, sticking out her tongue in disgust. “I don’t need to know about that.”

The other Patrick rolls his eyes. “Probably not, now that you’ve told Stevie about it.” He kisses David on the cheek again. “Let yourself in if you want; I probably won’t stay out too late.” With a little wave, he hops off the bleachers and follows his teammates to the parking lot while David and Stevie set off in a different direction.

“Why did you show me this?” Patrick asks Debby.

“I wanted you to see that you have a well-rounded life here.” He’s still watching the other Patrick in the distance, who at that moment throws his head back and laughs at something one of the other baseball players says. “That you’re comfortable in your identity, because I thought that might be something you’d worry about.” Her voice sounds softer, more serious, more knowing than it has up until now, and Patrick turns to scrutinize her. “Okay look, I’ve paid enough attention to humanity to understand that someone who has been in denial about his sexual identity might assume certain things about what he might have to give up to live as an out gay person. I’m just showing you that you don’t have to give anything up.”

He thinks about that for a second, as he turns to look in the direction that David and Stevie disappeared.

Debby nudges him with her elbow. “You’re starting to believe this is real, huh?”

Patrick shakes himself. “No. No, I’m not.” He isn’t. None of this is real. Angels, demons, a handsome man with perfect hair in a long-term relationship with him… no.

She crosses her arms and looks up at the sky. “Okay. Let’s try this.” She snaps her fingers again.

The kitchen he’s standing in is empty, sunlight filtering through large windows and giving everything a warm, comfortable feeling. Cabinets painted a deep blue contrast against white tile, and Patrick starts to walk around the space. “No one’s here,” he says.

“I might have gotten the timing a tiny bit off,” Debby says.

Patrick goes over and looks at a stack of mail on the edge of the counter. The envelope on top bears his own name, with an address in Schitt’s Creek. He’s never heard of such an unfortunately named town.

Finally, thumping footsteps reach his ears, and a few minutes later he sees himself in sock feet, pajama pants, and a white t-shirt, holding a phone up in front of his face to look into the camera.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” future Patrick is saying into the phone.

“Don’t be smug, Patrick; it’s unattractive,” comes a familiar voice from the phone. Rachel.

Patrick catches a glimpse of her face on the screen as future Patrick walks by, a flash of tousled red hair and freckles. He sets the phone down on the counter and reaches for the electric kettle. A gold band on his left ring finger catches the sunlight. “I can’t help it if I’m always right, Rach.”

Patrick can’t stop staring at the wedding ring. Is he married to—

Rachel groans. “Whatever. That’ll teach me to call to thank you for something.”

The other Patrick fills the kettle and sets it on its base, flipping the switch to turn it on.

“How’s Nathan?”

“He’s good. Actually, that’s, um… that’s the other thing I was going to tell you. He asked me to marry him,” Rachel says.

A wide grin breaks out on future Patrick’s face as he picks the phone up again. “Rachel, that’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you guys. I mean, I assume you said yes?”

Patrick, tiptoeing as if it matters, positions himself so he can see Rachel’s face in the phone in his doppelganger’s hand. She is rolling her eyes. “Of course I said yes. Did you think you’d scared me off engagements forever? Kidding,” she adds quickly.

“Very funny.”

“I might even invite you to the wedding,” she says, “if you’re nice to me.”

The other Patrick looks regretful. “I wish we’d rekindled our friendship sooner. I would have liked you to be there when David and I—”

“Not sure I would have been ready for that last year, to be honest,” she says with a wince.

“Fair enough.”

“But now that I’m marrying someone more handsome than you…”

The other Patrick barks out a laugh, unfazed by the insult. Patrick can’t help but marvel at the way they are still able to tease each other in spite of what must have happened. “He’s also taller. And, I presume, less gay.”

Now Rachel is laughing, and Patrick is so amazed by the sight of their laughter that he doesn’t notice David coming in until he’s crowded up next to future Patrick so that he can peer into the phone. “Hi, Rachel,” he says, a sleepy rasp to his voice. He’s wearing black sweats, the words ‘Radical Feminist’ across his chest in block letters.

“Hi, David.”

The kettle starts to whistle, and Patrick hands the phone — and thus the conversation — over to David so that he can go make tea. David grabs the phone with his left hand, and Patrick can see a matching wedding ring on his finger. It’s all so neat and tidy, and it makes him irrationally angry. Or maybe in light of the fact that he’s currently dying in a frozen lake, the anger is completely rational.

“I get it,” he says, stalking over to Debby. “I get to marry someone I actually want to be with, and Rachel doesn’t end up hating me forever. It’s a perfectly cozy, domestic scene.”

She wrinkles her brow at him. “Isn’t that… good?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking fabulous. And highly improbable.”

Debby taps her fingers against her chin in thought. “Odds that you end up marrying the first man you fall for, are… 1.4% — you’re right, pretty slim, but even improbable things happen sometimes. Odds that Rachel forgives you after three years are high: 71%. You were best friends, so it’s not that surprising that you eventually got past it.”

He turns and looks at them again. David is still talking to Rachel, and Patrick puts a familiar hand on David’s hip as he moves around him to get to one of the cabinets. He pulls two mugs down, kissing David quickly on the cheek as he moves past him again.

Unable to watch anymore, Patrick walks out of the room, wondering what the rules are of his place. Can he wander anywhere in the house he wants to? Can he leave through the front door and walk down the street? If he goes far enough, can he find evidence to prove that this isn’t really the future? Some inconsistency? Some glitch in the matrix?

He pauses at the fireplace, eyes glancing over the wedding pictures arranged in nice frames on the mantel. He and David stand side-by-side in formalwear in the largest photo, smiling for the camera in front of a floral backdrop. In another, they’re flanked by Patrick’s parents on one side and what must be David’s on the other (although David’s mother — if that is his mother — looks like she’s dressed for a costume party). Everyone looks impossibly happy. He stares at his parents’ faces, looking for evidence that they’re disappointed in him, perhaps. He can’t see any.

Continuing on through the house, Patrick finds the bedroom.

He stands over the bed, looking down at the rumpled sheets and pillows, his imagination running away from him and his cheeks flushing hot. He doesn’t want to imagine the kinds of things he does in this bed with a husband (or maybe he really, really does want to imagine it). Sex aside, this is the place where he goes to sleep every night and awakens every morning with David at his side. It’s… a shockingly appealing idea.

He looks up to see Debby watching him.

“So say this is real,” Patrick says to Debby, feeling his heart pounding in his chest at the idea that a man like David loves him — loves him enough to marry him. Loves him enough to befriend his ex-fiancée. Loves him enough to share all the good and bad things about him.

“It is,” Debby says.

“Why show it to me? Will I wake up remembering all this? My supposed future?”

She winces. “No, that would make it all too easy. Or possibly it would drive you mad. But you’ll retain something, I hope. I’ve seen it happen before. You’ll retain enough to know that the life you’re living isn’t the right one, and that you need to make a change. Look, it’s not an exact science, but… oh hey, look at that!”

“What?”

“You’re going,” she says.

“Like… I’m dying?”

“No, silly. You’re going back. You’re going to live.”

~~~

Patrick’s head is on David’s chest, his hand possessive on David’s hip and their legs tangled together. Even though it was only a week apart, even though they’ve now made up in every way they can, it’s still such a profound relief being with him that Patrick feels dizzy. Of course, that could also be the post-orgasmic fugue state he’s in.

“Can I ask you something?” David whispers into the dark of his bedroom.

“Yeah.”

“You said you’d broken up with Rachel a bunch of times. What made it stick the last time?”

Patrick tilts his head back to look up at David. “I ran away and moved here.”

“Right, but what made you do that?”

“Oh, right. I guess since I’ve been avoiding the Rachel topic, I’ve also never told you about the time I almost died.”

David turns suddenly, tipping Patrick off of his body. “I’m sorry, what?” David asks in a high-pitched voice.

Patrick rolls his eyes at David being upset that past-Patrick was in danger, as if it isn’t self-evident that things turned out okay. “I walked out on what I thought was a solid frozen pond. Turns out, not so solid.”

“Oh my god.” David rubs Patrick’s shoulder sort of manically, the way he often does. It’s a gesture that seems like it’s intended to soothe Patrick, but Patrick is starting to suspect David does it to soothe himself.

“Fortunately, some guys saw it happen and were able to lie down on the edge of the break in the ice and pull me out. They called an ambulance and, long story short, I was okay.”

“Okay. What does that have to do with Rachel, though?”

“The accident, it gave me some clarity, I guess? I came away from it with this restlessness that I couldn’t explain. I ended things with Rachel and quit my job and packed up my car and a few days later, I got the job and the room with Ray.”

David kisses him. “I guess lucky for me that you almost died, then.”

Patrick smiles, snuggling into David’s chest again. “Lucky for both of us.”

[ladylynse]

A few of you wanted another Randy Cunningham:9th Grade Ninja fic, right? Well....

Downfall: [FF | AO3] It was all happening so fast. Theresa didn’t want to leave Randy, didn’t know if it was already too late, but how was she supposed to find him now? This time, even the Ninja seemed to have his hands full. (AU or post-S2)

Theresa dove for the bleachers. They wouldn’t offer much cover, but any reprieve was better than none. Debbie followed her into her hiding spot, and she asked, “Have you seen Randy?”

Debbie shook her head. “He’ll be with Howard. He always is. Hiding somewhere, like everyone else.”

Like almost everyone else.

The unlucky ones had been turned into monsters.

And she hadn’t seen Randy since the attack had begun, even though they’d both been in English together. She’d lost him in the rush of the hallway as students had fled, running in every direction despite Miss Wickwhacker’s best efforts to keep them orderly. Theresa’s head still throbbed in time to phantom whistles.

A shriek sounded from the direction of the band room, and Debbie winced. “That sounded like Flute Girl.”

Theresa took a deep breath, trying to slow her breathing and get her racing pulse under control. Debbie looked rattled, but she was certainly more composed, and Theresa wouldn’t be any help to her if she went to pieces right now. “There’s got to be something we can do.”

For once, Debbie looked reluctant to charge headlong into something Ninja-related. “I don’t know if there is besides what we’re doing now.”

That was a lie. It had to be. Or at least an evasion. What they were doing now was running, fleeing like mice from a cat. Or rather, mice from a large number of cats, as well as any number of monsters in vaguely animalistic shapes. Worse still, the Ninja wasn’t having any luck returning the students to normal. The last time Theresa had seen him, he’d been using his scarf to get away from a giant armadillo.

Bucky hadn’t been so lucky.

She’d seen him struggle to escape the armadillo’s claws before choking, shuddering, and transforming himself.

When his blank eyes had turned on her, she’d screeched and ran. If Pradeep hadn’t tried to hold him off….

“There’s so many of them,” she whispered. She couldn’t remember so many transformations happening at once before. A few robots, maybe. A dance troupe or a band or a team—rare, but not unheard of. But every student who got caught by the monsters?

It spread like a contagion, and the only one who seemed immune was the Ninja. If this wasn’t stopped, the entire town—

“I know. That’s why I’m not out trying to get the scoop.” For the first time, Debbie sounded defeated, and when Theresa looked back at her friend, Debbie’s expression was grim. “I’ve put my life on the line for a story before. The Ninja saved me then, but I don’t think he’d be able to do that now. This is out of control.”

More screams. Someone’s hiding spot had been discovered, Theresa guessed, and they hadn’t been alone.

“You don’t think the Ninja can beat this,” Theresa realized.

“I wouldn’t be running if I did.”

“But he’s been around for over eight hundred years! He’s bound to have more tricks up his sleeve than we know about.”

Debbie was shaking her head. “I don’t think he does. Theresa, I’ve been investigating him for almost two years. He’s not some ancient, all-powerful being. He’s someone like us, just with a fancy suit and some powers. I doubt he even has five years of experience, let alone five hundred.”

“But—”

“He’s more likely one of our classmates than the spirit of some ancient ninja. And this time, he’s in over his head.”

Theresa swallowed. For all that Debbie had talked about finding out the Ninja’s identity at length, she’d never put it quite like that before. She’d never doubted him, even though she had tried to convince Theresa he was someone who attended Norrisville High. And now….

“Theresa, look at me.” Debbie looked like she’d been crying. “We might not make it out of this one. You have to know that. You can’t put all your faith in the Ninja, not this time. He’s overwhelmed. It’s all he can do not to get caught himself. This is too much for anyone to fight alone.”

What changed this time? Debbie wouldn’t know the answer, though. Her guesses weren’t likely going to be any better than Theresa’s. The day had started off ordinarily enough. Sure, there had been some exchange student that most of the boys had fawned over again, but if anything, Randy had looked alarmed when he’d seen her, not lovesick. And he’d fallen asleep over his textbook in math again, unlike some of the other boys who had actually started to compose poetry for the new girl. Theresa had been naïve enough to believe that was a good thing; Randy wasn’t going to ogle the new kid if he already had eyes for someone else.

Hopefully her.

“Then we have to help him,” Theresa said. The Ninja had been kind enough to bring her flowers from Randy. If he was willing to do that for him, for them, then she could at least try to do something for him in return.

Besides, even if Debbie had scoffed at her, Theresa still thought the Ninja might be willing to arrange an ‘accidental’ meeting between her and Randy so she could try to thank him properly for the flowers without Howard making some remark and ruining her opportunity.

“It’s too dangerous! We can’t—”

The far doors of the gymnasium burst off their hinges. Debbie pulled Theresa down, but she could still see the giant spider scuttling away from the wreckage—poor Julian—and the pair of rhinos shaking splinters from their horns.

And she could still see the Ninja wrapped tightly in the tentacles of an octopus, which seemed to stand quite easily on its remaining two arms.

As the dust began to settle, Theresa caught sight of a humanoid figure in dark clothing striding behind. A raised hand swirled with purplish-pink power before lashing out, growing into a giant hand and snatching the Ninja along with the octopus.

It began to squeeze.

Debbie caught Theresa’s attention, pointed at the door that led outside, and put a finger to her lips. Theresa shook her head—they couldn’t go, not right now—but Debbie nodded and beckoned to her. The urgency was written all over her face. If they didn’t get out of here now, they might not make it out of here.

But if they left the Ninja, they wouldn’t be any further ahead. “We can’t,” Theresa whispered, trying her best to ignore Debbie’s glare. She pulled her hand free from Debbie’s grip and gestured back to the scene unfolding in front of them. The octopus was free now, standing below the suspended Ninja, no doubt to recapture him if something went wrong.

They had to find a way to make something go wrong before it was too late.

“You’re helpless, Ninja,” the figure—the woman, the Sorceress—hissed, her voice carrying despite the occasional screams from other sections of the school as the monsters—her monsters—continued their scavenger hunt. “Your sword master is trapped, your friends are mine, and your guardian has abandoned you. But I can be a forgiving woman, even considering what you’ve done to me and my partner in the past. Renounce yourself as the Ninja and I’ll let you live.”

They had to do something. Theresa started to get up, but Debbie caught her arm and pointed. The Ninja’s suit had turned red and began burning through the magic that had been holding him in place. A fireball burst outwards, and—

Another phantom hand swatted it away, wisps of magic reforming its damaged parts. “You grow weaker,” taunted the Sorceress and she turned to face the Ninja, who had escaped capture by the octopus and instead landed well clear of all the Sorceress’s minions.

“Your judgement’s wonk,” the Ninja retorted. His hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a variety of Ninja Balls. In quick succession, the spider’s legs were frozen in place, the octopus was seizing under a storm of electrical sparks, and the number of bees in the twin swarms around the rhinoceroses only barely outstripped the tripping balls at their feet.

Ninja Rings flew towards the Sorceress, but she deflected those with nothing more than the wave of her hand. And then she opened her mouth and screamed. The bleachers above them rattled and creaked as the bees dropped from the air and the ice around the spider’s legs shattered.  “I know all your tricks, Ninja,” snarled the Sorceress, “but you don’t know all of mine.”

The Ninja responded with a watery punch (broken as it dissipated the Sorceress’s conjured hand) and a hasty but strategic retreat.

He didn’t see the Sorceress form the second hand and reach for him.

“No!” Theresa screamed, running from her hiding spot before Debbie could stop her. She had to act as a distraction, had to give the Ninja enough time to regroup and figure this out like she knew he could. Like he always had before.

The hand twisted and caught her in a flash. She screamed as the giant fingers tightened, trying to crush the life from her. She took a stilted breath as the Ninja faltered, but the pressure continued, not letting her lungs expand enough to fill properly. Her head began to spin, throbbing in time to her heartbeat.

“Theresa?” The Ninja gaped at her. “What are you doing?”

She couldn’t find the breath to explain.

She’d just wanted to be a distraction.

She’d just wanted to help.

Instead, the Sorceress used the Ninja’s sudden distraction to her advantage, and magic curled around his suit again. He struggled, his suit flashing to red as he gathered the power for another fireball.

Before he could release it or work his arms free, the Sorceress was there, her searching fingers smoking as they reached beneath the Ninja’s mask to pull it off.

There was a bright red glow, but instead of another fireball, the Ninja’s suit furled itself away.

Theresa stared with wide eyes at Randy, who had collapsed to the floor like a rag doll.

Very much human.

Very much helpless.

And very much no longer the Ninja.

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