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thetomorrowshow · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 28 - Denial

title: just one bite

fandom: secret life smp

cw: violence/gore, very unsafe/gross food practices, vomiting

Jimmy’s barely stepped out of the Cherry Blossoms’ Nether portal when—

“What? Hey—!”

Someone jumps on him from behind, shoving him almost to the ground. He staggers forward several steps, trying to toss them off—he catches a glimpse of red hair swinging in his face—

“Gem—” Jimmy grunts, shoving her backward against the edge of the portal. “Get—off—”

She growls in his ear, tearing at his shoulder (between his neck and his armor, a small patch covered by his shirt and usually his jacket, which he had shucked for his trip to the Nether) with her teeth, both hands occupied by holding onto him.

Her weight is heavy on his back, too heavy with how he’s still out of breath from dodging a ghast on his way to the portal, and he shoves back again and this time her grip loosens.

“Someone, help!” he shouts out of frustration, glancing around for anyone as he bucks, finally throwing Gem to the ground.

She scrambles up almost immediately, and for a moment, Jimmy’s certain she’ll jump him again (there’s a glint in her eye, something red that he really doesn’t like), but Scott comes sprinting out of a building, and Impulse comes down the hill from their tower, and Gem backs off, slowly wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Everything okay?” Scott asks, stopping at a safe distance away, keeping a suspicious eye on Gem. Gem moves closer to Impulse, and the two of them have some moment of communication—she nods toward Jimmy, gives Impulse a significant look. He nods back.

Jimmy huffs, clutching his chest. “Jeez, Gem, give a man a heart attack! She jumped me on my way out of the portal!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come through our portal,” Impulse suggests, voice . . . flat, less joke-y than Jimmy would have expected.

Right.

“Well, I’ll just be going,” Jimmy says loudly, backing away toward the stairs—

Only to get bumped into by another person, sprinting on past like they didn’t even notice him.

Bdubs makes a beeline for Gem, where he stops and she . . . nods, again, at Jimmy.

He looks back.

Bdubs is Red, now, Jimmy saw that pop up on his communicator, but when did he throw in with Gem?

And why is the look he’s giving Jimmy almost . . . hungry?

Jimmy doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like this one bit.

“Sorry, Jimmy,” Gem says, thoroughly unconvincingly, her voice devoid of emotion. “We’ll see you soon.”

And, erm.

That was.

“That was ominous,” Scott laughs nervously, and Jimmy has to agree.

Then he leaves, not quite turning his back on them.

There’s something strange going on there, no doubt. Probably best to let it be and focus on his own task.

When Jimmy gets back to Baxter (not back-to-back at Baxter, Martyn isn’t there and he really isn’t sure that he trusts Martyn, anyways, as the man is now the only Red and Jimmy thinks he might jump at the chance to make them both Red), he strips off his armor to replace his jacket and notices the tear in the shoulder of his shirt.

He frowns, tugs down the collar of his shirt, checks out his back in the tiny mirror that Martyn had found.

Okay, not bad. Where Gem had gotten him through his shirt, his skin is a little red, some small bruises sure to bloom soon enough. There’s a bit of blood with the fading imprint of Gem’s teeth, only two or three of them deep enough to actually pierce his skin.

Why on earth did Gem bite him? He can’t taste that good. What kind of task would she, a Yellow, have that would make her attack (and bite?) another Yellow?

Weird. It’s all weird.

Well, he has a minute, and he’s already at Baxter, so Jimmy pulls off his shirt and sets to fixing it up real quick, messy stitches pulling the hole closed.

That’s life. Sometimes your friends ambush you and bite your shoulder. Usually it’s their dog that bites you, of course, but sometimes they need to cut out the middle-man.

So really, Jimmy doesn’t pay it much mind. It doesn’t feel strange compared to some of the things he’s done in the past, honestly. Not normal, not necessarily, but not weird.

What possible bad effects could it even have, anyway?

“Timmy! Get in here!”

It’s that evening, and Jimmy was just stopping by the Roomies’ base to ask for a trade (his pickaxe just broke, he’s short one diamond to make another) only to find the place seemingly abandoned. He’d wandered around for a bit, knocking on doors and glancing about, but he’d finally assumed that nobody was home and decided to go try Pearl instead (though she did die earlier today, and he isn’t sure how amenable she’d be to trading).

But right as he was about to head out, a whispered shout got his attention.

Jimmy looks around again, frowning.

“Grian?” he asks uncertainly. “Are you here?”

A long sigh, and a couple of meters away, a trapdoor pops open, hidden by surrounding grass. Grian’s head pokes out, and he frantically waves Jimmy toward it.

“This isn’t suspicious at all,” Jimmy says. “Is this part of your task?”

“Forget the tasks, get in!”

Which is very unlike Grian.

So Jimmy lowers himself through the trapdoor, follows Grian down a ladder and then a thin, rough-hewn tunnel, then up another ladder until they come out . . . in the Roomies’ base.

“Why couldn’t we use the front door?”

“Trapped,” Cleo says shortly, coming down the stairs, Etho right behind her. “Grian? I thought you said that we weren’t letting anyone in?”

“It’s just Tim,” Grian waves her off. “We need someone we can use as bait.”

“Bait?!” Jimmy sputters, taking a careful step away from Grian. “I’m—I’m not bait! Bait for what?”

What’s with people and having tasks that seem to directly harm him?

Grian, Etho, and Cleo all make dark eye contact. Eye contact that Jimmy doesn’t trust, not one bit.

The front door’s trapped. He can try to go back the way he came, but he can’t get down a ladder faster than someone can drive a sword through him. His pick broke, so he can’t mine out.

“Have you noticed anything . . . weird . . . going on?” Grian asks after a moment, and Jimmy scoffs.

“Weird? Other than you luring me here to use as bait?”

“They’re zombies, Jimmy,” Etho says ominously, and Jimmy blinks.

“What’s zombies?” he asks, assuming they aren’t talking about normal zombies. Everybody knows that.

“The others,” says Grian. “Gem, Bdubs, Impulse, Pearl. We think it started with Gem—she killed Bdubs, right? Then Impulse. But—”

“She killed Pearl,” Cleo interrupts. “And I saw it. Tore her apart with her teeth.”

Jimmy’s stomach turns.

He’s not the biggest fan of violence, but he can get his hands dirty. Figuratively. He usually has to be at least a sword’s length from any death he causes, because he really isn’t a fan of blood and flesh and all that! It makes him queasy just to kill from a distance.

To imagine Gem, literally tearing into Pearl with her own teeth, blood and viscera dripping everywhere until Pearl eventually died in her arms?

Traumatizing.

Jimmy actually wants to vomit just thinking about it. He really doesn’t like gore.

The injury on his shoulder aches, just a little. He rubs it absently, trying to shake the horrible image from his mind. “So—so what makes them zombies?”

“They’re hunting,” Grian says. “Bdubs wasn’t allies with Gem, but now he won’t leave her side. Same with Pearl and Impulse. They’re all together, hunting every Green and Yellow left. They were after Scar, last I saw.”

“They look wrong,” Cleo frowns. “They’re stiff, and their eyes are . . . off.”

“They’re zombies,” Grian repeats, and Jimmy. . . .

Jimmy still doesn’t really believe them. Why—how would there be zombies?

“Sure,” he says, glancing back to the trapdoor. “Can I go now? I have a task, right, and—”

“It isn’t safe—”

“If you don’t want—”

“We need to find other people,” Etho says reasonably, silencing the other two. “Maybe Jimmy can go get Joel?”

“Or he can be bait,” Grian suggests again. Cleo nods.

“Well, now I don’t want to leave,” Jimmy mutters. “Prove that they’re zombies.”

“Right. Come with me,” Cleo says, pushing past Jimmy to head down the ladder.

Which is how Jimmy witnesses the hunt.

Cleo leads him across the map to the Secret Keeper, where they hide behind one of the boulders, poking their heads over just enough to see what happens. They make it there just in time for the hunt to cross past them.

It’s . . . disconcerting, if he says so himself. Four Players on horseback, chasing after Scar, who runs by, panting and exhausted, his hair damp with sweat. Scar climbs up the boulder they’re sheltering behind, shoots a couple of arrows at the pack that has stopped, waiting.

“C’mon, Scar,” Gem calls, and Jimmy hears it again. That odd emotionless quality, the feeling that, perhaps, she prefers not to speak. “You, of all people, will love it.”

“It’s right up your alley, Scar,” Pearl entices, and maybe it’s a trick of his ears, but she sounds the same way. Still Pearl, but . . . not-quite-right.

“No! No thanks!” Scar yells, voice jumpy and panicked and downright terrified. “I don’t want to join your little murder cult, thanks!”

He ducks as an arrow whizzes over his head, and Scar shrieks before running away again.

The pack follows.

Cleo stays frozen for another moment, head tilted slightly as she listens, presumably ensuring that they’ll be safe.

That. . . .

That wasn’t right. Like, Jimmy’s sure that he can justify it with relatively few mental gymnastics, but it wasn’t normal behavior.

“I need to get some stuff from my base,” he whispers, and Cleo shushes him, but doesn’t tell him no, so Jimmy scrambles down from the boulder and makes a break for Baxter.

What does he need? Some food, probably. A note for Martyn—hey M, zombies!!! bye -J—enough iron to craft up an iron pick if he never gets another diamond, a change of clothes, some other necessary survival-y things.

And when he leaves Baxter, he finds Cleo with Scar again, over at the Heart Foundation.

“Scar,” Cleo’s saying, looking down at him from a horse (when had she gotten a horse?) that seems to be very skittish around the quite new fire spreading up to the heart. That hadn’t been happening when he left. “Scar, the ones chasing you—”

It’s out of nowhere that Pearl and Gem ambush Scar, shooting at him as the man jumps away, fear fresh on his face—

Then Pearl leaps off her horse and sprints, faster than should be possible, diving into Scar and knocking him to the ground. Jimmy winces as the arrow in Scar’s back get twisted under her weight, but he barely has a moment to notice it before Pearl buries her teeth into Scar’s upper arm.

Scar screams, flailing, and Pearl pulls back, stringy flesh snapping free in a burst of blood, and goodness gracious Jimmy might throw up, his legs are trembling and his palms are all clammy—

Gem dives to Scar as well, and her teeth dig into his cheek—

A hand grabs the back of Jimmy’s shirt and he panics, kicking out blindly, he doesn’t want to die like that—but it’s just Cleo; she sits him in front of her on the horse and snaps the reins and off they ride.

Jimmy doesn’t watch. He doesn’t watch, but he can’t cover his ears. He can’t not-hear Scar’s warbling pleas for help, his agonized screams, the slow trail-off.

His communicator buzzes.

He doesn’t have to check it to know.

“I told you,” Cleo reminds him, and Jimmy swallows several times.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Jimmy manages.

“Not on me.”

That night, back in the new housing arrangement, Jimmy’s hand brushes against his own shoulder while changing and his breath vanishes from his chest.

No.

If the zombies is a real thing, and Gem’s the one who started it—

Jimmy doesn’t look at the bite. He can’t. Well, he can—Grian has a mirror, but he won’t. He won’t look and see if it’s progressed.

His skin is a bit warm under his touch, though.

Probably just because he’s had his hand on it for so long. He just warmed up his skin, is all. He’s fine.

It still hurts. It still twinges when he presses on it, his shoulder aching just a bit, through and through.

He’ll be fine. They probably have to kill him, right? He’s fine.

Jimmy pulls on his nightshirt, careful that the collar doesn’t slide down in the back, and opens the door to the bedroom, before pulling the rough wool blanket off Grian’s bed and laying it out on the floor, where he’s decided to spend the night.

Goodness gracious. He didn’t expect this to happen this week.

“There’s five of them, then,” Grian says, walking in and stripping off his sweater, left in his white undershirt. He stretches, briefly flexes his muscles (defined by the hard work that comes with joining a new server) in the mirror before throwing himself onto the bed. “Great. I really wanted to have to worry about a zombie apocalypse on top of all my other problems, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy chuckles. “I’ve got a task to do, dude!”

“I’m just surprised they haven’t got you, yet. You’ve cheated death way too many times already.”

Jimmy doesn’t touch his shoulder. He doesn’t even think about it. “Yeah. Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?”

Grian groans. “Tim, I really don’t want to babysit you this week. I’ve already got a dishwasher to keep an eye on, I don’t need two responsibilities.” “You won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Right. You’d better not betray me after this. I gave up space in my bedroom for you.”

Jimmy would never betray him.

He hopes.

It’s day two, and Jimmy’s feeling . . . fine.

Which is a relief, honestly. He skips breakfast to go on a walk, the early morning fog not-quite-cleared, around the back of the base and up the hill, where he stops on the bed monument and sits, the sheets a bit damp from dew.

He slips off his pack, massages his shoulder as he looks out.

He’s not spent much time on this part of the map. It’s nice, different from where he’s set up. It’s very green here, plenty of trees and scurrying animals and whatnot. If he looks to the left, he can see a bit of the mesa, and he briefly hopes that Martyn’s doing all right.

Who is he kidding? Of course Martyn’s doing all right! It’s Martyn, he’s been Red for ages and fine the whole time. And it isn’t like he could even become a zombie—he’d just be out of the game, wouldn’t he?

Facing forward, he can see the Heart Foundation, a grey drab of smoke still hanging over the remains of their heart. Jimmy can see them down there, Tango cooking something up in their open-air kitchen, Skizz feeding their horses.

It’s quiet, this morning.

Jimmy likes the quiet. He really, truly does. He complains about it sometimes, and he’ll be the first to admit that he can get a little loud, but some of his favorite moments in the Southlands had been those nights on watch, just him looking out over the wall at the rest of the world, thinking fondly of the friends who trusted him to protect them.

They should set up a watch, shouldn’t they? Sure, they’ve trapped the entrance, but that won’t stop a dedicated Player by any means. Especially not a team of five of them.

Has Scott been recruited?

(By which he means, of course, has Gem pinned down her closest ally, tearing chunks out of his face as he begs and screams for mercy, her loyal zombies descending upon him like a pack of hungry wolves.)

He left his communicator inside, hasn’t checked it since last night.

Scott could be down. Joel could be. BigB. Not Tango or Skizz, he can see them. Not Martyn, Red as he is. Not Grian, Cleo, or Etho. Not him.

Not him.

Jimmy scrubs a hand down the stubble on his cheek, resolutely ignoring the soreness in his shoulder.

This is just a task. A task that's turning a concerning amount of people Red, but a task nonetheless. If the aim of the task is to change everyone into a zombie, then they'll either achieve it or the time will run out.

They have to survive a week, all told.

They can do that. Jimmy isn't great at surviving in the best of times, but he refuses to let himself die.

He refuses to become a zombie. It makes him want to vomit, even as he pushes his imagination away from the idea of biting down on one of his friends, chewing dripping mouthfuls of—

Jimmy swallows. Twice. He won't throw up.

Then, from behind—the crunching of bramble, footsteps through the woods—

Jimmy spins around, and Joel freezes, sword raised.

“Are you—?” Joel manages, voice rough. He doesn't finish his question. He doesn't need to.

Joel looks like he's been living in a nightmare. His hair is unbrushed, leaves and twigs stuck in it. His hoodie is missing, shirt is torn and fraying at the edges, one long thread trailing down to his mud-stained knees. The shadows under his eyes are deep and oily, his eyes just the tiniest bit red around the rims.

Jimmy shakes his head. “A—a zombie? No, I—are you—?”

Quick as a flash, Joel launches into him. Jimmy barely has time to put his hands up, to do anything, he didn’t bring a weapon with him like an idiot and now he’s going to die—

Joel knocks them both to the ground (Jimmy’s shoulder lands on a stone and a whimper of pain escapes his lips), entirely on top of him, his sword thrown to the side, and Jimmy doesn’t have time to protest because he knows with sickening certainty that Joel’s teeth are about to rip out his throat and it’ll be so gross.

Joel’s face is right in front of his, suddenly, and Jimmy swallows. His wide eyes are fixed on him, unable to leave his face.

Joel is very close. Far too close. Jimmy doesn’t struggle, terrified as he is (though his face warms, blood rushing to it).

Joel’s breath is hot against his nose, his chest heaving against Jimmy’s chest, and Joel grins, teeth shining with saliva, and leans in even further.

“Me neither,” he whispers, lips practically touching Jimmy’s cheek, before rolling off of Jimmy and onto the dirt.

Jimmy swallows again.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Joel laughs, sheathing his sword. “You absolutely thought I was going to eat you, didn’t you?”

Jimmy shakes his head (less as an answer, more as a way to dispel the embarrassing lack of thoughts). “I just—well, anyone could be—”

Joel just laughs again, then starts picking his way down the hill. “Is Etho all right, then? I imagine you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t someone here already.”

Jimmy rolls onto his side. He’d had bread in his backpack; hopefully it hasn’t been squished by his sudden slam to the ground.

He did not expect to get pinned by Joel when he woke up this morning.

And—not pinned, not—even if that’s what happened, it isn’t—

Right. No more thinking.

Jimmy rubs his shoulder, then follows Joel in.

It’s day three, and Jimmy definitely isn’t feeling quite right.

He’s fine, of course. He’s doing well, even. It’s really just the pressure of everything terrible that’s stopping him from feeling entirely perfect, and nothing else.

Martyn shows up around seven in the evening, and he stands outside of the barricaded wall built around the base with crossed arms as Grian looks down disdainfully from the top of the hill.

“I was Red last week, and you let me in,” Martyn shouts up at him. “It’s not fair! You can’t discriminate against me, just because I’m Red! I’ll file a report with . . . with somewhere, I’ll get you canceled!”

“The rules are clear,” Cleo calls down, standing beside Grian. Jimmy, up on the wall, grimaces an apology to Martyn. “No Reds.”

Martyn does the best impression of a kicked puppy that Jimmy’s ever seen, eyes huge and lip trembling.

“Please?” he asks, voice wavering. “I won’t do anything bad, promise!” “He’ll pee on everything,” Jimmy tells Etho beside him.

Etho raises an eyebrow.

Martyn ignores them. “Security wasn’t near this strict before,” he says, voice smoothly segueing into conspiratorial. “What’s with all the extra care? A couple of Yellows are feeling insecure?”

Cleo and Grian exchange a look. Joel, still working on reinforcing the wall, glances over.

“You . . . you know there’s zombies, right?” Grian asks slowly.

Martyn shrugs. “I mean, yeah? Every night. There always have been, I don’t know why this is news to you lot.”

“Other zombies,” Cleo clarifies. “There are. They’re becoming zombies.”

Martyn’s head tilts in confusion. “What’s becoming zombies? The horses? I thought that was established already.”

“No, it’s—it isn’t—”

“Is this someone’s task? Something to do with not seeing a single zombie all week?”

“Just let him believe that,” Grian says tiredly, as Cleo tries to continue explaining. “He’s immune, anyways. No real use trying.”

“Sorry,” Jimmy says, leaning over the wall.

Martyn clicks his tongue. “Timmy. What happened to the Big Dogs, huh?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you were gonna kill me this week. . . .”

“I would ne—well, I would do that, actually, can’t really blame you. Still, Baxter’s missing you. He gets lonely, up on that hill all by himself.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Sorry,” he says. Then, because he does feel a little bad about abandoning Martyn with barely any warning, adds, “I’ll be back next week, okay? It’s . . . part of my task.”

“Oh,” Martyn nods knowingly. “Infiltrate another alliance. All right, Tim, see you around!” He skips off, whistling a high-pitched tune, and Etho shakes his head and clambers down from the wall.

Cleo and Grian leave the hill, go inside through the secret tunnel, and Joel finishes up the part of the wall that he’s been working on and follows Etho in, and Jimmy’s alone on the wall, staring out after Martyn as he leaves.

He’s fine.

His hands are shaking.

“Jimmy, come get dinner,” Joel calls from inside the base, and Jimmy shouts back some sort of response but he doesn’t move.

They have to die to become a zombie, don’t they? His—it doesn’t count. He’s still alive, he’s still Yellow.

The aching pain in his shoulder doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bruise. It’s a bruise that is taking a little too long to heal and that’s okay. It’s probably a bone bruise, honestly. That’s why it’s healing slowly. Bone bruises take forever.

He really, really doesn’t want to be a zombie. He hasn’t done anything for his task all week because all he can think about is this awful apocalypse. How on earth Grian’s managing to do whatever it is he’s doing with that Magma Cube is far beyond Jimmy.

He can’t die. If he dies, he might become one of them. Even if he only has the tiniest bit of zombie infection in his shoulder. If that’s even true. Which it isn’t. More likely, it’s just a normal injury that’s part and parcel of these games.

“Oh, Jimmy!”

Jimmy’s heart freezes in his chest.

At some point, his eyes had drifted down to his shoes, scuffed and dirty, but now he looks back up, dread sinking down his throat.

Scar, coming into view down the path, twirling a shining knife around (one that Jimmy knows, with horrid certainty, he won’t use). His voice is oddly flat, his pace somewhat jolting as he skips his way toward the wall. Behind him, on horseback, are Gem and Pearl. Impulse and Bdubs are nowhere to be seen—that gives them something of a better chance, at least.

But before Jimmy can feel any sort of relief over that, another group catches his eye—Tango, Skizz, BigB, all headed around the side toward the base.

Oh no.

No, they’re being flanked, aren’t they?

“Come on, Jimmy!” Gem yells. “You know you need to, let’s just hurry things up a bit!”

His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth, his feet welded to the ground. They’re here, and this is going to prove once and for all that their defenses don’t work and then it’ll be a bloodbath and goodness gracious he wants to vomit just thinking about it—

“Hey! Leave them alone!” That’s Skizz’s voice, loud and spitting fire, storming over to stand between the zombies and the wall, and oh so they haven’t been turned, that makes things quite a bit better.

“H-Help!” Jimmy manages, given strength by the Heart Foundation’s stance, and they’re human and he can’t just abandon them, can he? “Grian! Joel! They’re here, help!”

He fumbles for his bow, leaning on the wall of the parapet—but his fingers feel weak and can’t quite grasp the string. He drops his arrow before he can fire it, and is he even allowed to fire it? He’s still on Yellow, after all—can he fire it?

His moral quandary is brought to an abrupt halt as Grian pops up from the tunnel, scaling the wall in a matter of seconds. He frowns down at the opposing groups below, then whistles sharply.

“BigB,” he says, and BigB, now beside Skizz, glances up.

“Oh, hey, G.”

Scar grins, his eyes glinting, and Jimmy takes a step back.

“What’s going on?”

Joel has shown up, pushing himself out of the ground, and Etho follows him, both already drawing weapons.

“They’re here,” says Grian grimly. Etho shrugs, stretches.

“Guess we’d better face them, then,” he says, resigned in an almost upbeat way.

“Is Scott with them?” Cleo asks, rolling out of the hole and onto the ground.

Grian hums. “Don’t see him.”

“We aren’t here for a little chat,” Impulse calls up to them. Pearl hums, practically drooling. “We’re hungry. You all get it, don’t you?”

Jimmy swallows. He does feel hungry—just a bit, in the pit of his stomach. But it’s probably because he only had a piece of bread for lunch and he hasn’t eaten anything for dinner yet. It isn’t—it’s not the same kind of hunger.

“Plenty of food on the server,” Grian says evenly. “If you wanted a lunch invite, you should’ve just asked.”

“Oh my gosh, they smell so good,” Scar stage-whispers, loud enough that Jimmy can clearly hear. “Can we please just go for them? I really want to sink my teeth into Etho.”

“Nobody move,” Grian throws behind himself, digging in his satchel. He turns his attention back to the intruders. “You’re out of luck, fellas! Nothing to see here. Nobody’s home, even!”

“Hey, uh, Grian?” Tango asks nervously. “You mind letting us in?”

“Don’t let Tango in!” objects Etho, striding toward the gate to get the man in his line of sight. “He died earlier, he’s one of them.”

“I—what? No, I’m—”

“Come on,” Pearl drawls, then everything is thrown into chaos.

Skizz lunges at the zombies, sword drawn, forcing Gem’s horse to stumble back and Pearl to slide down from her saddle, pulling out her axe. At the same time, Grian finds what he’s looking for and throws it at Scar—an Enderman spawn egg that cracks on the ground next to Scar, an Enderman folding up out of it.

And Etho, sudden panic choking his voice, says, “Oh—Grian, I looked at it—”

The Enderman vanishes with a vwoop, then reappears in the base, arms reaching out toward Etho—

Etho runs, shoving out the gate and across the thinning woods, Scar whoops and takes chase, Tango darts in through the now-open gate, and Jimmy leaps down from the wall and follows after Etho, the screaming Enderman, and Scar.

He isn’t sure what he intends to do—kill the Enderman? Stop Scar?—but he follows, struggling to get his sword out of its sheath.

“Get him, Scar!” Gem encourages, far too close, and Jimmy glances to his left to see her loping along on her horse, keeping easy pace with the train of runners.

She could kill him, no problem. She would just have to divert her course a little bit, slam an arrow into his chest, swing her sword as she galloped by.

The fact that she doesn’t is more disconcerting than anything.

Jimmy just keeps running, feet pounding against the ground, backpack bouncing on his back, air coming in gasps.

Etho is having a worse time of it—he’s dodging and weaving to try and keep away from the Enderman, but his detours mean that Scar is quickly closing the distance between them, his sword poised to strike.

Can Jimmy attack him if he tries to kill Etho?

Does he dare?

He can hear Etho’s heaving breaths, the stones on the beach of the lake scattering under his feet, and Etho’s sword clatters against those same stones as he tosses it to the side and splashes into the water, immediately slowed by the drag of water against his legs. Scar continues in after him, slashing out—the sword cuts across Etho’s arm, just missing his armor, and Etho grunts but keeps pushing until the water becomes deep enough to swim.

Jimmy slows to a stop as he approaches the beach, the burned Heart Foundation base a dark shape over the murky water. Etho’s trying to make it there, the water chopping loudly under his windmilling arms, but Scar strikes—

“Don’t—” Etho cries out, the sound half-drowned as his head sinks under the water—

And again—

And Scar takes a weakly struggling Etho and drags him up onto the Heart Foundation, ignoring his waterlogged coughs to straddle his legs and bite into his chest.

Jimmy does vomit this time.

He really, finally does, he falls to his knees on the rocks and just turns his insides out, hacking and coughing and trying not to hear Etho’s screams over his retches.

He fails.

He hears the flesh tearing from bone, squelches and creaks and horrible gurgling, and what’s even worse is that he can smell the blood.

He can smell Etho’s blood from here, where the stones dig into his knees and his vomit paints the ground—he can practically taste the coppery viscousness floating over on the air. It rests heavy on the back of his bile-flooded tongue; Jimmy bites the taste back (not swallowing it, not devouring it) and pushes himself to his feet, even as the last of Etho’s cries fall silent.

He couldn’t save him.

When Jimmy looks up, Gem is still there. Sitting on her horse, watching him.

She’s going to kill him, now. She’s going to lick her lips and leap for him, and Jimmy’s too shaky from puking to even think about defending himself.

She doesn’t move, though. She stays, and offers him a humorless smile, and raises an eyebrow.

“Ready?” she asks, and Jimmy isn’t sure how to respond.

Instead, he picks up Etho’s sword in the hand that isn’t holding his own and sprints back toward the base.

“I’ll be fine,” Joel reassures Grian, hitching his backpack higher up on his back. “They know I’m here, they’d never think I’d go back to my base.”

It’s the fourth day, and Joel is leaving for supplies.

Jimmy’s feeling. . . .

Well, he wouldn’t say that he’s doing well.

His entire arm is burning. All the way down to his fingertips, buzzy and painful and nauseating. He hasn’t eaten anything, his stomach churning near-constantly.

He’s been ignoring it for too long, but he doesn’t dare look at his shoulder in the mirror. He can feel it, feel the heat that radiates from it, how swollen it’s become.

He’s fine.

He’s fine, and he’s hungry, and he’s fine.

(He’s hungry, but the food that Grian cooks tastes like ash in his mouth, and his stomach is constantly rebelling, so he usually only manages a couple of mouthfuls before feeding the rest of the plate to Cleo’s dogs.)

(And Jimmy watches Joel go, and something in the pit of his stomach growls at the sight of his friend.)

Grian’s certain that the zombie curse is Gem’s task, that she has to turn everyone she can. If he’s right, then it should wear off when the new week starts.

Jimmy’s already made it four days. That’s over halfway through. He can do three more.

Joel, apparently, can’t.

It’s after lunch that day that their communicators buzz with a dreaded message. Joel’s fallen to Gem, which means he’s joined the zombie crew.

That leaves so few of them. Grian, Cleo. Skizz, Tango, BigB. Scott, presumably.

Jimmy.

Jimmy spends most of the day away from the others, gathering food in the surrounding woods. There isn’t much to scavenge, at this point—he finds some berries, an apple tree (nothing that looks remotely appealing). One of Cleo’s traps has a rabbit in it, but he doesn’t touch it.

The bloody fur and raw flesh is the first thing to look somewhat appetizing to him.

On second thought—

Before Jimmy realizes what he’s doing, he’s disabled the game trap and dug his teeth into the mangled fur of the rabbit, tearing into its flesh with wild abandon. His handkerchief of berries falls to the ground and he eats, congealed blood smearing onto his cheeks, it’s—but he barely manages three bites before he’s violently vomiting all over his hands and the carcass, dropping to his knees as his body spasms and rejects the horrid meal.

No. No, that’s—

There are probably bugs on it, maggots, even, he just started eating a dead, raw rabbit without even wanting it, and there’s fur caught in his teeth and his mouth tastes foul—

He has to get rid of the evidence.

He isn’t a zombie. He isn’t.

Jimmy picks up the remains of the carcass and starts sprinting, down to the lake, where he throws the rabbit as far as he can. It lands with a plosh in the water, sinking instantly, and Jimmy sticks his hands in the water as well, washing them of his vomit and the rabbit.

That was—

He feels shaky.

Of course he feels shaky, and it has nothing to do with his cravings. He hasn’t properly eaten anything in ages and he’s thrown up twice in the past two days, there’s nothing in his body to fuel him.

But how can he eat when nothing sits in his stomach?

He’s not going to become one of them, but if he starves himself it’ll be the same difference. He has to figure out a way to eat something. Something close enough to whatever it is he craves that it’ll stay down. And it has to be closer than a rabbit carcass, he thinks, shuddering.

He unstraps his waterskin and swishes some lukewarm water around in his mouth, spits onto the stony beach.

He’ll make it through this.

And he’ll get this horrid taste out of his mouth.

Cleo has a bucket of rotten flesh that she keeps outside the doghouse, used to feed her pets.

That’s where Jimmy gets his supper.

He feigns eating the porkchops that Tango serves, squirreling bites away in his napkin when no one’s looking. Then, when Cleo wakes him up for the second watch, he sneaks out to the doghouse and raids the bucket, taking whole handfuls of squishy, dripping flesh, flies buzzing away.

He eats it right there, leaning over the bucket, too hungry to be as disgusted as he wants to be. He stuffs fistfulls of stinking, green-tinged meat into his mouth, barely chewing as it slides wetly down his throat, landing in his stomach with a sensation that’s almost physical.

It isn’t quite what he wants, but it works. It doesn’t satisfy the craving, it doesn’t make his arm stop burning, but he starts to feel like he can think through the hunger again.

He stops himself before he can eat too much. It wouldn’t do to finally find something that’ll stay down, only to overstuff himself and get sick. And he can’t take enough that Cleo notices that her stock has depleted.

Jimmy washes his hands with a calm sort of detachedness, willing himself not to think of what he’s just done and how revolting it was. If he doesn’t think about it, he can ignore it.

And ignore it he does, until he’s patrolling up the hill, looking out over the server.

There’s someone out there, far off. Climbing around the Secret Keeper’s boulders. Martyn, hopefully. Martyn’s still out there kicking, somewhere, and Jimmy doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the zombies were up at this hour.

Then he freezes, every line of his body going stiff, as he feels something hard poke into the small of his back.

“Hey, babe. Been all right without me?”

Jimmy swallows, his throat gone dry.

The pressure on his back releases, and he turns around as slowly as he can manage, hands held up to show that he doesn’t have a weapon.

Joel’s there. Of course Joel is there. Jimmy had recognized his voice, flat and unaffected as it was.

His eyes glint dully with red, his skin pale in the moonlight. He sheathes his sword, sweeps back his dark hair.

Jimmy swallows again, the rotten flesh threatening to make a reappearance. Joel takes a step closer, his eyes boring into Jimmy.

“I—get out, I’ll wake the others—”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Jimmy clamps his mouth shut. Joel smirks, eyes lighting up.

“You are,” he says. “Gem told me you’re one of us. I didn’t believe her. How’ve you been hiding it this long?”

He’s not. He’s not hungry, he’s not one of them.

“You didn’t really eat much, though, did you?” Joel contemplates aloud. “I made you a sandwich yesterday, and you didn’t eat more than a bite. Are you really starving yourself over this?”

“I’m not starving,” protests Jimmy. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“When did you last eat?”

“I—half an hour ago.”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “So late? What, were you waiting to sneak raw meat? I’ve heard that raw pork is about as close to human flesh as you can get.”

“Rotten flesh is closer,” Jimmy argues, before he realizes what he’s just admitted. Joel chokes out a shocked laugh, just as flat as his voice.

“You—sorry, rotten flesh? Rotten flesh? Jimmy,” Joel says, voice dripping with astonished pity. “That’s probably the grossest thing I’ve ever heard. How could you—?”

“You don’t get it!” Jimmy bursts out, and now he can’t control the words spilling out of his mouth because he’s been on edge for days— “You don’t—I’m fighting every day! Nothing tastes good, I keep throwing up, my friends are dying all around me and then trying to kill my other friends, my arm hurts so bad—”

He cuts himself off, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. The rotten flesh had filled the gaping hole in his stomach momentarily, but the hunger is roaring again, stronger than ever. He can’t even think about it—just the idea of cannibalizing his friends makes him tremble in fear, but it seems so—

So—

“Jimmy.”

He shakes his head, eyes on the ground. “No. I don’t—”

“Just give in.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Joel places a gentle finger under Jimmy’s chin (when did they get so close?), tilts his eyes up to meet his. Jimmy’s breath catches in his chest; he stares at Joel, lips trembling.

“Just let go,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on Jimmy’s. “Don’t you want to be satisfied? After so long of denying yourself?”

Jimmy’s tongue darts out, wets his lips. As much as it disgusts him, he really, really doesn’t want to be hungry anymore.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. Perhaps it’s that, the fear of the pain, the fear of letting go, that’s been making him hold on so long.

Joel winces. “Yeah,” he says, voice still low. “It hurts. But after that . . . after that, it feels so good. Better than you can imagine.”

It does hurt, then.

If there’s anything that Jimmy doesn’t do, it’s pain. He hates pain almost as much as he hates violence and gore, getting anxious over the smallest anticipated harm.

He’ll hold out. The hunger hurts, but it’s a pain he knows.

“Think about it,” Joel says softly, his breath warming Jimmy’s lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

He slips away, into the darkness of the woods. Jimmy stands there a moment longer, chin still elevated, until he can no longer hear Joel’s footsteps heading away.

Then he falls to his knees and sobs.

It’s the fifth day, and Jimmy can barely breathe.

He can’t look at any of his friends without craving them, without longing to sink his teeth into their flesh, and it grosses him out but he can’t stop thinking about it.

Grian’s skin looks so soft, especially the skin right under his chin, above his adam’s apple. Jimmy watches it move as they eat, scrambled eggs that squirm their way down Jimmy’s throat and will surely come back up later. He keeps his eyes fixed on Grian’s throat, pretending that he’s chewing that instead of eggs, and the imagined sensation of blood and skin filling his mouth makes the food almost bearable.

It also makes his hunger that much worse, though, so he abandons the breakfast table as soon as possible, hurrying out to check the game traps.

His arm is useless, at this point. It hurts almost as much as the hunger, has become a chunk of deadweight at his side, heat branching out from him to spread to the rest of his body.

For far too long, Jimmy contemplates just cutting it off and eating it, but would that count? Would it count to eat his own flesh, or does it have to be someone new?

Also, then he’d probably bleed out and just die anyway. That wouldn’t be helpful.

He ends up digging in the bucket of rotten flesh after he pukes up the eggs, shoving the gooey, stinking flesh into his mouth, shuddering and gagging with each piece he forces himself to eat.

It isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, but he can’t. He isn’t one of them. He’s human.

He’s sweating all the time now. The heat from his arm has started burning away at his body, carrying an incurable fever. It’s like his body knows exactly what he’s resisting and is determined to make him suffer about it.

“Jimmy, you doing okay?” Tango asks later that day (evening, the sun beginning to set, Jimmy’s head pounding and his stomach growling every other minute), as they feed Cleo’s dogs. Tango turns the bucket over into the yard, frowns as only a small pile plops out.

“Yeah? Why? Why wouldn’t I be doing okay?”

Tango shrugs. “I dunno, man. You look like you’re coming down with something. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m—I’m great!” Jimmy blusters, tension flowing through his stomach in choppy waves. “I, I mean—maybe a bit warm, but—”

“Better than the zombies?” Tango quips with a grin.

Jimmy swallows. “Um. Yep.”

Maybe it’s speaking of them that summons them. Maybe they just can’t resist such succulent, intoxicating human flesh. Jimmy’s having enough of a hard time with it, and he isn’t even one of them.

But the zombies turn back up, jeering and chanting for them to come out and fight, and Jimmy heaves his chestplate on and picks up his sword to go meet them at the gates before remembering that someone should make sure they aren’t coming in from the back.

He pokes his head over the wall—Gem and Pearl and Impulse are there, but there’s no sign of Joel or Scar or Etho.

That can’t be good news.

“Grian,” Jimmy hisses, sidling over to where Grian is boredly listening to the zombies’ cries, his bow trained on them. “The back. Half of them aren’t even here, they might be coming in the back!”

Then, high on the air, a whistling sound—an arrow flying toward them—

Jimmy moves instinctively. He leaps onto Grian, pushing him down against the parapet, his nose buried into Grian’s soft hair, the hilt of the man’s sword jabbing into his stomach.

The arrow soars over them, landing somewhere on the other side of the wall—landing in Gem, if the answering scream has anything to do with it.

“Sorry! Sorry, I was aiming for Grian—”

Grian’s skin is so close to Jimmy’s mouth right now.

He goes still, breath catching in his chest. Wave after wave after wave of desperate hunger crashes into him.

He—

Then Grian pushes him off, and the moment is broken.

Right, right, Jimmy needs to get a hold of himself—

“Thanks,” Grian mutters, then rolls to his feet, turning his bow behind them.

Sure enough, Joel, Scar, and Etho are standing on top of their base, not far from where Jimmy had spoken to Joel just last night. Had that talk been Joel scouting out the area for a surprise attack? How could he have let it go on for so long without alerting anyone to Joel’s presence?

Joel—it looks like he smirks at Jimmy, though from this distance, it’s hard to tell. Jimmy turns away, raising his sword threateningly toward the zombies on the ground.

Down there, Gem is on the ground, trying to work an arrow out of her chest. Pearl and Impulse are beside her, swords raised against any further attack.

“Tango! Uh-oh, uh-oh—”

Skizz, on Grian’s other side, sprints past Jimmy, almost knocking him off the wall. He jumps off and runs toward the staircase up the hill, and Jimmy watches—Tango’s on the steps, fleeing the hill, panic in his eyes and an arrow in his shield—

Skizz doesn’t last long.

It’s mere moments before screams echo down the hill.

“Come on!” Grian yells, and Jimmy blindly follows him down and up the hill, joining Cleo and BigB already on their way. The four of them round the top of the staircase right as Joel pulls a bite of flesh away from Skizz’s arm with an awful ripping sound, blood spurting everywhere.

Grian leaps into action, forcing Etho to drop Skizz’s other arm and defend himself, even as Scar bites Skizz’s neck, blood quickly soaking Skizz’s shirt. Skizz screams and screams, free arm twitching up and back down, his lifeblood and chunks of flesh just falling to the ground as two zombies tear at him like they haven’t eaten in weeks—

Even as Cleo starts forward, Skizz’s tortured eyes roll back into his head and his body goes limp, dropping like a deadweight. Joel enjoys one more bite (and there’s something in his eyes, boring into Jimmy’s, something inviting and proud and gloating) before abandoning the body, running for the woods. Scar and Etho follow, Etho getting a good slash in on Grian’s upper arm before fleeing entirely.

Jimmy stares at Skizz’s remains, at how much red there is. Someone tore off his cheek before they got there, part of his jaw visible, redstained teeth eerily peering out at them. The air stinks with the scent of his blood, worse than any butcher’s shop, worse than any battlefield.

Jimmy’s stomach turns.

It always does. It always does, he can’t stand gore and violence, he can’t see it happen without bone-shaking terror and enough nausea to make a shipful of sailors hurl their guts over the railing, and right now is no different.

Jimmy collapses to his knees and pukes, two meals’ worth of rotten flesh coming up slimier than it had gone down.

“Timmy saved my life, really,” Grian says, slapping Jimmy hard on the back.

It’s the sixth day.

“Then puked on your shoes,” Cleo points out.

“Yeah, well. He knows I won’t forgive him for that, no use trying. But I think Scar’s arrow would’ve hit me off the wall if Tim hadn’t tackled me.”

“It’s good to have you on our side, Rancher,” Tango says proudly.

Jimmy doesn’t say a word.

He can’t open his mouth.

If he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to resist digging his teeth into Grian.

The man is right beside him, one heavy arm still weighing down his shoulders, and Jimmy is overly conscious of how close their cheeks are. He can’t think of anything but that, can’t think of anything at all except turning his head to attack Grian’s face, tear his skin from his flesh, eat and eat and eat until he can’t feel the starving fever that gnaws on his very bones.

It hurts so, so much.

He can’t continue like this.

If—a deal. A deal with himself. If Grian keeps holding on for ten more seconds, he’ll go for it. He’ll give in. He’ll finally give in. But if—if Grian lets go, then—

Before he can finish defining the deal in his feverish, disconnected thoughts, Grian hops away, off to the small kitchen in the corner, dishing up toast for everyone.

“Skizz will definitely come for me and BigB,” Tango says, taking one of the plates from the counter and sitting at the table. “This place isn’t working anymore—every time they get another one, they’ll just be one closer to totally overwhelming us.”

“So we need to hide,” nods Cleo.

“We need to get out of here,” Grian agrees. “I was thinking maybe the mesa? We can pay Martyn off to keep them distracted, maybe, and hide in the tunnels where we got the Warden.”

“Wouldn’t Etho want to check there?”

“Oh, right, that might be the first place. . . .”

“We could go to my backrooms,” BigB says.

“That sounds terrifying.”

“What? They’re totally normal!”

Sweat drips into Jimmy’s eyes.

The conversation blurs into background noise.

Grian’s not wearing any armor. Cleo already slapped on a chestplate, and Tango and BigB are fully kitted out, but Grian’s still just wearing his sweater and jeans.

He looks. . . .

His stomach is so empty. Jimmy’s stomach feels like it’s tearing itself apart. That’ll kill him. He’s starving.

Surely. . . .

Surely one bite won’t turn him into a zombie?

Just—just one bite, just something to ease the hunger pangs the slightest bit, something to tide him over until the end of the week. He won’t take any more than that, just that one bite, and then he’ll be quiet and do his job, he promises.

Just one bite, one bite of Grian’s mouthwatering flesh, surely he wouldn’t begrudge him one bite? Jimmy saved his life, after all. One bite won’t turn him into a zombie—after all, Jimmy was bit ages ago, and he’s fine!

One bite can’t hurt. It would just be to quell his shaking mind. He’s fine, he just needs one bite. Just one bite.

The sun coming through the window warms Grian’s cheek, a slight rose tinting his pale flesh as he laughs at something Cleo said. It looks delectable, melt-in-the-mouth, disgustingly delicious and it’s everything Jimmy needs, he just needs a little bit, just one bite, that’s all, just the cheek—or some other part, wherever is least inconvenient for Grian, wherever he wants it to be, just one bite—

“Don’t you think, Tim—”

Jimmy can’t hold himself back. He dives across the table with a crash that shakes the whole house, sending toast and plates flying, reaching for Grian, mouth already open—

“Jimmy!” “Hey, what—” He has to! None of them understand, he has to, Jimmy can’t survive any longer like this, he needs—he needs it—just one bite, he just needs a little bit, he just needs to tear Grian apart under his teeth, he needs blood and flesh in his mouth and sliding down his throat in satisfying chunks, he just needs—

Strong hands pull him back. Everyone is yelling, all around him, and Jimmy’s teeth snap down around nothing as Grian scrambles back, knocking his chair over and falling to the floor.

No, no no no, he just needs a bite—

“Just one bite,” he sobs desperately, tears streaming from his eyes as drool drips from his lips. “Please, any of you, just one—just one bite, I promise, I just need one, I’m so sorry—”

They don’t give it to him.

They want him to starve.

They pull him down hard into his chair, and Jimmy barely has time to struggle before they tie him down, heavy ropes pulled tight around his growling stomach and over his pounding heart. He writhes, tries to get at whoever is closest, but his mouth can’t quite reach anyone.

No, no, please! Please!

“Jimmy,” Tango says, and Jimmy manages to focus long enough on his face to see the shocked disappointment painting it. “Jimmy, how long?”

Jimmy takes in a shuddering breath, one that doesn’t fill the hole in his stomach. “Please,” he begs. He can’t take it anymore, he can’t, it hurts so much, he’s going to fall apart but he only needs a little bit to keep going! “Please, just one bite, please!”

“Of course!” Grian says angrily, tossing up his hands. “Of course it would be Tim, of course Timmy would hide that he got bit! You’re the person that everyone hates in zombie movies, Tim! You aren’t special, you moron!”

He doesn’t get close enough for Jimmy to even attempt to reach for, but his lips tremble as he stares at Grian’s flesh anyways, desperate for just a taste. He’s finally broken, he’s finally given in, but he doesn’t need much. Anything, please, anything.

They don’t give him anything.

They leave.

They leave, and they leave him there, and they show Jimmy Grian’s communicator—

<Grian> left you zombies a gift at the base

And he’s there alone.

Alone, shaking and starving, fever and pain radiating through him in waves, he just needed one bite. . . .

“Well. You know, we don’t usually have a taste for people like us, but. . . .” Joel smirks from the entrance, eyes fixated on the tears streaming down Jimmy’s face, at the reddened veins crawling up his neck from his useless arm, at the hunger etched deep into his fearful eyes.

Joel lunges for him, and Jimmy closes his eyes and hopes that he doesn’t throw up as he feels his stomach be literally torn open.

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clarisse-doodles · 9 months ago

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Cass + ballet 🩰 (ft. supportive siblings and good dad Bruce)

I love the idea of Cass enjoying dance. It's an outlet that allows her to express herself without words, and I think she would enjoy the highly technical aspect of ballet combined with its storytelling and emotional side. and as a former dancer I always have fun imagining my fav characters do ballet :)

#ft good older bro dick grayson. and supportive babs and steph. and good dad bruce #sewing pointe shoes in the batcave as one does #cass jus having fun #dick and cass bonding over how they both enjoy stretching and falling asleep in the strangest positions #the rite of passage of trying pointes for the first time #bruce watches her first performance and she gives him a big hug #listen yall when i saw that comic panel of cass seeing ballet for the first time and the way it just Made Sense to her #i havent been normal since #i also just love the idea that eventually cass decides to take lessons and makes friends and learns things she'd never considered because #i think she'd be able to replicate most of the steps just by watching because of her training but she would be coming from #a background focused on martial arts and fighting and not. art and storytelling #and i'd love to see that being explored more. cass using her athletic skillset in something so unrelated to vigilante life #creating beauty instead of causing violence #clearly i've thought about this too much #if you have fic recs PLEASE GIVE THEM TO ME #i haven't read a lot of comics either outside of the first half of cass' batgirl run so recs for comics abt cass welcome as well!#clarisse doodles #dc #cassandra cain #batfam #batgirl #black bat #dc fanart #ballet

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mc-i-r · 1 year ago

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Disposable Heroes

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four Ao3

A/N: Guys, I’m so sorry for the late update! Life has been crazy for me the past couple weeks but I hope that I can get back to writing more regularly. This chapter is the well-awaited Eddie pov, as well as a ton of backstory for him that I didn’t really plan on but it just kinda came out. This chapter is kinda rushed, I’m gonna be honest, but I wanted to get it out to you guys as soon as possible since its been awhile. There are gonna be some major warnings here so I’ll post them below. Take care of yourselves and stay safe, now enjoy!

Tw: homophobia, homophobic language, child abuse, domestic violence, referenced drug use, Eddie being incredibly gay

———

It’s a muggy Sunday morning, the summer sun burning through the last vestiges of chilled night air and frosted dewdrops as it rises from its slumber. Like the sun, Eddie rises as well. However, it’s with much less fanfare and grace due to the obnoxious pounding at his front door.

He groans dramatically, shoving his face in his pillow and willing whoever the fuck decided to bother him at—he glances at his alarm clock on the other side of the room, squinting to read the numbers—nine in the morning to go away. His wish must have pissed off some universal god because the knocking only gets louder, making the window above his desk rattle with every shake of the door.

With a sigh big enough to rival the windy intro of “Holy Diver”, he pulls himself to the door in a zombie-like state. Movements sluggish from his interrupted sleep, he misses the doorknob twice before finally turning it, throwing it open with newfound strength to find one Robin Buckley in all her glory. Her fist is raised and ready to knock again, her face the epitome of righteous fury as she glares at him.

“Uh, hey Buck. Whatcha doi—“ he begins, only to be interrupted by Robin shoving past him and barging into the trailer. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and pulling on his hair slightly before shutting the door.

Kids and their manners nowadays.

“Yeah, sure, come on in. Totally fine. I wasn’t sleeping or anything, noooo,” he says to himself before turning to face his intruder. Whatever Buckley is upset about seems serious, and from the icy look she’s giving him it also seems like it’s his fault. Her hands are on her hips like she’s in a Steve Harrington impersonation contest and plans on taking home a first place prize. Something in him squirms at the thought.

But, he is nothing if not a performer. So, of course, he puts on a show.

“Lady Buckley,” he declares in a posh British accent, bowing deeply with a flourish on his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine morning?”

He’s expecting a fond eye roll, or a laugh, or huff, or something. He gets silence.

“Cut the bullshit, Eddie. We need to talk about Steve,” she demands.

Steve… Now isn’t that an interesting subject?

Now, Eddie has always been different. He was loud, and jumpy, and fidgety, and the other kids never wanted to be friends with him because they were scared. He was always covered in dirt, always barefoot because he either forgot to put on shoes or the ones he had were too small for his ever-changing feet. He would talk to himself, mutter little reminders under his breath or work through the questions plaguing his mind aloud because he just functioned better that way.

Then, at eleven, he found out just how different he really was. He was outside during recess when he fell off the monkey bars and scraped his hands and knees. He huddled on the ground, tears falling down his small cheeks because it hurt and his wounds felt like they were throbbing. Then a boy, James, ran up to him and asked him if he was okay. James had stark blond hair, a face full of freckles, and bright green eyes. He looked so concerned for Eddie, and was gentle when he picked up one of his hands to inspect the cuts littered there. It was that gentle touch that elicited a flutter of butterflies in his stomach, and ever since then Eddie knew.

When he had gotten home to the trailer that day, he felt confused. Other people in his class were constantly talking about who they “liked”; boys liking girls and girls liking boys. About how they would get all nervous around their crushes, and Eddie realized he had never felt that before. All of the girls in his class were just… girls to him. They never gave him that fluttery feeling James had. But… no one ever talked about boys liking boys. No one ever said if it was okay, so Eddie thought it must not be. That boys liking boys wasn’t okay. That he wasn’t okay.

It took awhile, but he finally confessed to Wayne that he liked boys, that he got all the little butterflies that boys were supposed to get about girls. Wayne shook his head and told him that he could feel butterflies for anyone he pleased, as long as they made him happy. They both cried that night, and ended up in a hug so tight they nearly fused together.

Since then, Eddie’s come to accept the fact that he’s gay. Has added it to his whole anti-conformist persona, even. So when high school hit he let himself finally be free. He joined Hellfire club, made friends with the upperclassmen who ran it, and learned all the intricacies of D&D that he never imagined he would. After two years, he met Gareth and Jeff who joined Hellfire much in the way he did. Then, Grant joined halfway through Eddie’s junior year and he quickly recruited him as well. He found his friends, his people, and he finally let himself be himself around them.

He told them he was gay after a long session of lazily practicing in Gareth’s garage and smoking, the weed having loosened both his limbs and his lips. They were all extremely chill with it, even after the weed had worn off. That, however, didn’t exempt them from making fun of him though.

Eddie was loitering in the hallway after school, waiting on Gareth to finish up a quiz he missed the week prior, when none other than Steve Harrington walked out of the pool room in nothing but those little speedos that leave zero to the imagination. Seriously, all those girls were right, holy shit. After he picked his jaw up off the floor, he noticed Steve was looking at him with that adorable little confused puppy look before a god damned smirk fell across his face. Eddie’s face, he knew, had to rival that of a Victorian nobleman fawning over a sliver of pale skin shown by a lady across the room with her face hidden by an elaborate fan because he was literally drooling for the man in front of him.

It got considerably worse when Steve leaned down to drink from a nearby water fountain, making Eddie’s mouth go completely dry with this blatant offering of ass right in his face. In hindsight, it might not have been an offering, per say, but it was definitely there and Eddie was definitely staring. So it really wasn’t a surprise that he jumped when Gareth tapped his shoulder, Eddie having not heard him come up behind him, and he turned on his heel so fast he’s surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

“Dude, you good?” Gareth asked. Eddie opened his mouth, squeaked out, “I’m fine” and immediately felt his face go up in flames. Gareth glanced over Eddie’s shoulder and he could see in slow motion the series of thoughts that crossed his mind. Gareth went from concerned to confused to understanding to smug so fast it was almost comical. When their eyes met, Eddie’s went wide.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” he hissed, and the smug look only intensified.

Once they got to his van, Gareth immediately rounded on him.

“Seriously? Steve Harrington?” Gareth teased. “Of all people, it had to be that douche?”

Eddie groaned and clenched his eyes shut. “I know, Garebear, now shut up before I push you out of the van.”

Of course, news about his little crush spread around his friend group like wildfire, and soon enough he was being teased by them relentlessly. Eddie knew his crush wouldn’t get very far, Steve was very clearly straight and in a happy relationship with Nancy Wheeler of all people. Still, Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about that smirk.

Just as his crush began to fade away, Steve showed up to school with a busted face and eye bags deep enough to rival shitty vampire Halloween make-up from a toddlers costume contest. Feelings came rushing back, the intense need to protect, to find out what happened and get justice for that pretty face.

Then it kept happening, and Steve showed up to school with a beat up face yet again. However, judging by his stumbling and droopy eyes, it came with a concussion this time. Just when Eddie was trying to figure out who did it, Billy Hargrove came stalking through the empty halls and all attention was focused on his scabbed knuckles. On the hungry glare he sent Steve’s way. On the way Steve shrank back a little on instinct.

And Eddie… Eddie just couldn’t leave well enough alone, now could he?

He walked up to Steve, brows furrowed. “Harrington?”

Harrington didn’t turn, eyes still focused on the spot where Billy had been before. Eddie tapped his shoulder. “Steve?”

He jumped that time, like Eddie had actually hit him, and spun to face him. Up close, his face looked a hell of a lot worse and Eddie had to suppress a wince just looking at him. Steve looked at him confused, though it was hard to tell between the swelling and assortment of bandages on his face.

“…Munson?” Steve began. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up.”

He said it flippantly, with a wave of his hand towards his left ear like that explained everything. It didn’t, but Eddie felt like it wasn’t his place to push.

“You good, man? You look like you got in a fight with a dump truck and lost,” Eddie said. “Badly.”

He expected Steve to scoff and roll his eyes, push past him and hit his shoulder too hard to be an accident. He expected him to spit some barb and walk away, to leave Eddie there in the hallway alone. None of that happened, though.

Instead, Steve smiled. A little self-deprecating, but a smile nonetheless. He huffed a laugh.

“Make it a supercharged dump truck and you’ve got it right,” Steve joked at his own expense. It resulted in a shocked laugh bursting from Eddie’s lips, which he immediately stopped by smacking a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away. “That’s not funny. I mean… your joke was, just not,”—he gestured to Steve’s… everything—“this.”

“It’s okay man, I know what you meant,” Steve said sincerely and Eddie doubted why he was ever called King Steve. The person who stood in front of him was the furthest thing from what those jocks supposedly worshiped that Eddie had to hide another bubble of laughter.

“Seriously, dude, did you even go to a doctor?” Eddie asked, and at Steve’s wince he knew the answer. He rolled his eyes and slung an arm around his shoulders, careful not to land too hard in case he was bruised there too, and led him down the hallway towards the nurse’s station.

“Uh,” Steve began. “Where are we going?”

“The nurse,” he explained. “Figured a look wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed a little under his arm, and Eddie decided to focus on him during their walk down the empty hallway. He noticed the way his hair bounced a little with every step, how a couple strands were threatening to fall from their perfectly coiffed positions. He noticed his moles and freckles, how he had a smattering of faint ones all over his face from time in the sun. He noticed how his nose was a little crooked now, with a bump on the bridge that wasn’t there before the weekend. He noticed how pretty his eyes were, with at least three different shades of brown all swirled together like melted chocolate with flecks of forest green nestled in the folds.

He noticed that Steve was looking at him.

They had come to a stop in front of the nurse, yet Eddie’s arm was still over his shoulders. He quickly retracted it, but Steve didn’t move away and neither did he.

“Well, this is your stop,” Eddie nearly whispered out. Steve smiled, just a small quirk of his lips, and his eyes flitted across Eddie’s face.

“Thanks, Eddie,” he started. Steve took a step backwards toward the station and did a little wave with his fingers that had no right being as endearing as it was. “See you around.”

With that, he disappeared behind the thick mahogany door and Eddie was left there alone, face full of flames and smiling like he was in fucking love with the guy.

Fuck, maybe he was a little bit in love with the guy.

That feeling didn’t waver, not even after seeing him in a skimpy sailor uniform as he scooped overpriced ice cream for toddlers in the Mall. Or, when he was pinning him to the rickety wall of the boathouse he was hiding in after seeing Chrissy murdered in front of him by some freaky wizard from an alternate dimension with a broken bottle to his beautifully freckled throat.

That feeling greatly intensified when he saw Steve take an honest to god bite out of a demonic bat and spit the flesh and blood out on the dried lakebed in the previously mentioned alternate dimension.

And, really, you can’t blame him for falling all the way when he found out exactly who dragged his half-dead body out of hell and saved his life.

So yeah, Steve was a very interesting subject indeed.

“Is… Is he okay?” Eddie questions as he straightens from his hunched position, head tilting to the side and making his bangs fall in his eyes. Robin throws her hands up with a mighty huff and a frustrated groan.

“Obviously not!” She exclaims. She starts pacing around his living room, back and forth in front of the coffee table. “He’s obviously not okay because you’ve been avoiding him and making him feel like shit for months and I’m actually really worried about him ‘cause he’s been doing stupid shit that can get him killed and I don’t know how much longer he can go on like this before it completely ruins him.”

As Robin rambles, her face turns a bright shade of pink. She finishes her speech, sucking in a deep breath as if she ran out of air. Eddie’s brows furrow.

“I haven’t been avoiding Steve,” he defends weakly. He hasn’t, not really. He just… he doesn’t want to get hurt.

Okay yes, Eddie is practically in love with the guy, but that doesn’t mean Steve feels the same about him. They’re friends, that’s it. Steve is going to find some beautiful girl and get married and have the houseful of kids he’s always wanted and Eddie will be here, still pining from afar. He knows it would be easier to just forget about him, and forget about the feelings clutching his heart like a starved hawk with its first fulfilling catch in months. That’s why he’s been slowly letting go over the past few weeks, trying—and failing—to get that stupid pretty boy out of his head. Of course, it’s not working, and every day he spends not talking to Steve feels like hell.

So no, he’s not avoiding Steve. He just doesn’t think he could survive it if he confesses and Steve rejects him completely. Staying away means he won’t accidentally reveal his feelings for the man, and judging by how much he’s feeling, it wouldn’t be very hard for that scraggly cat to come clawing and screeching out of the proverbial bag.

Robin, however, thinks the opposite because according to the look she’s giving him, she says he absolutely fucking has.

Eddie sighs. “Okay, maybe I have just a little bit but it’s not—“

Eddie freezes, stomach plummeting as Robin's rambling words take purchase in his mind. She said Steve was doing something stupid, something that could kill him. Flashes of a night now a distant memory play in his mind, one filled with panicked breaths, stilted tears, and a bloody bat with nails.

“Robin… What do you mean by ‘stupid shit’?” Eddie asks tentatively. Part of him wants to know the answer, while part of him fears the idea of ever finding out. Robin only gives him a confused look and crosses her arms.

“Eddie, that’s totally not the point of this conversation and you know it—“ Eddie cuts her off by waving his hands.

“Robin! Just…” he trails off. Should he tell her about Steve? He promised he wouldn’t but…

“Okay, I have to tell you something about Steve but please please don’t tell him I told you because I promised him I wouldn’t but if you also know something about him then I think you should know about this too,” he rushes out, words tumbling fast out of his mouth as his lungs scream for air. Robin’s icy glare has melted a bit, turning into one of anxiety and caution.

He sighs and flops down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks down at his hands. He feels more than sees Robin sit next to him and he knows he has her attention.

“What happened, Eddie?” She prompts, and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“I had a visit from Steve awhile back, around four or five days ago,” he begins. “It was early in the morning and I couldn’t sleep so I was writing notes for a new campaign idea in the living room. I could feel that something was… off, so I looked out the window and there he was.”

He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back and pulling on the ends. He glances over at Robin to find her looking at him. He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before looking back at her.

“He wasn’t all there, Robin. Like… like he was trapped in his mind or something. I thought,” he huffs a deprecating laugh, “for a moment there, I thought he was cursed.”

He doesn’t mention that the image found its way in his head and can’t seem to find its way out, like a stubborn housefly who keeps banging against the glass hoping to be freed. The thought of Steve floating—eyes rolled back in his head while his lids flutter and his limbs shudder and break one by one—has kept him awake on more nights than he can count. The thought of him being subjected to his worst nightmares given life, all the lies that he tells himself turned to truth. The thought of Eddie being completely helpless, watching him die in agony in front of him.

He doesn’t mention that every night since then, he’s called Steve. He needed to hear his voice, to know he was okay. To know he was alive. He never got a call back.

“I got him to come inside but he didn’t stay long. Something spooked him, I think, I just… I don’t know, it was really weird. Like…” he trails off, unable to find the words.

“Like he was in fight or flight mode?” Robin suggests, and he nods.

“Pure instinct.”

Robin groans. “Shit, this is worse than I thought.”

“Wait, did he tell you?” He asks. Steve was so insistent on Eddie not telling her—made him promise, in fact—so why…?

“Well… after a very long, very emotional, and very vulnerable conversation, yes. He told me on his own terms though, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she supplies. “He… He didn’t tell me a ton of details, though. Not… Not like that.”

There’s a pause as Robin clenches her eyes closed and looks away from him.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” her voice comes out just barely above a whisper, something he wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t right next to her. Eddie stays silent, unwilling to break the solemn mood. Robin, however, misses that message entirely as she smacks his arm.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, doofus?!” She accuses, giving him a half-hearted glare that is no less threatening. Eddie holds his hands up in surrender, unable to hide the exasperated look on his face.

“He made me promise!!” Eddie defends. “Plus he gave me those damn puppy dog eyes and I couldn’t say no.”

“He is really good at that, especially when he wants something. He says he has no clue but I bet you he does,” Robin whispers, almost conspiratory as if they’re sharing a terrible secret. Eddie can’t help but smile and shake his head. Screw Harrington and his stupid pretty eyes.

“Did he say anything else while he was here?” Robin asks after a moment of silence.

“No, that was the only thing he said really, other than an absent ‘I’m fine’ before he bolted out the door. It was a very uh… one-sided conversation,” Eddie explains. “He mostly gave only one or two word answers before he panicked and ran.”

“I’m gonna assume he didn’t tell you why he left?” She asks, and at the shake of his head she curses. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

Robin shifts beside him, raising her hand to mindlessly chew on her thumbnail. He thinks the conversation is over. Or, rather, wishes it were over.

That universal god must really hate Eddie today because Robin roughly shakes her head and waves her hands around, letting out a huff.

“Okay, one problem at a time. That was totally not the point of this little talk and you know it, Munson,” she admonishes. “Why. Are. You. Avoiding. Steve?”

She punctuates each word with a, quite literal, punch to the arm. Eddie reels back, dramatically clutching his bruised arm and gives her a fake glare.

“Ow!!” He rubs his arm. For her incredibly bony arms, she really can pack a punch. He’s only half joking that it hurts.

“Answer the question!”

“Fine fine…” he takes a deep breath, knee bouncing with building anxiety before he stands up, unable to quell the urge to move. He paces twice in front of the coffee table before he has the nerve to look at her waiting gaze.

“So, as you know, I am a raging homosexual,” he states, and at his pause, she nods. “And I miiiiiight have a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, enormous crush on him.”

The end of his sentence is rushed out, words jumbled together as he screws his eyes closed and waits for… whatever Robin’s response is going to be. He waits for five seconds. Then ten. Then twenty-five because yes he’s counting. If he knows one thing about Robin Buckley it’s that she doesn’t know when to stop talking so silence is a very rare occurrence for her and now its been a whole minute and something must be wrong so he opens his eyes to find her—

The only word that even remotely comes close to encompassing the expression on her face is seething.

He instinctively takes a step back.

“Edward Lee Munson you better explain yourself right fucking now or I swear to every god out there that I will rip out your spleen and feed it to the neighborhood dogs before you take a step out that door,” Robin all but growls out, eyes icy and cold as they stare through him. He’s quick to explain because he really quite values his spleen, thank you very much.

“Okay, okay, geez I get it! Fine,” he huffs. “I’ve been avoiding Steve because it’s hard to be around him.”

Robin only raises an eyebrow. Eddie groans. He really wishes he didn’t have to explain his big, fat, gay love this early in the morning.

“It’s hard because he’s so…. So Steve all the time. He’s so kind and caring and hot— god, Birdie, he’s so fucking hot—“

“Okay, yeah, I didn’t need to know that,” Robin interrupts.

“Sorry,” he says, a bit sheepish. “Every little smile he gives me feels like a swarm of butterflies are fighting horde-style to get out of my stomach. I just…

“I think I’m in love with him,” Eddie confesses. The way her eyes blow wide is comical, and he’s half expecting them to pop and burst like they do in cartoons.

“But I know better,” he gives her a sad smile. “I know that I’m not special, he doesn’t mean it like that. Like I want it to. And…. And I know he never will.

“I thought that distancing myself would make the feelings go away, make it… I don’t know, hurt less? But not seeing Steve at all… fuck, it hurts worse than dying and I know what that feels like. Now I don’t even have him as a friend,” he scoffs at himself, shakes his head a little and focuses on a framed picture of him, Steve, Robin, and Dustin from graduation on the wall. Focuses on how Steve’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders, hand gripping his upper arm as he smiles shyly at the camera. How Eddie himself is leaning into his side, tucked under his arm as if he belongs there. As if he’ll ever belong there. He looks back at Robin.

“But this is what’s best. I can’t have my stupid heart feeling things my brain knows it shouldn’t,” Eddie ends his little speech by flopping back down on the couch. Part of him regrets telling her, but another small, itty bitty part is almost grateful.

Eddie’s always had a way of caring too much, even from a young age. Wayne could tell you better than anyone that Eddie has always had a soft side. He could tell you that Eddie refused to let him kill any of the bugs that got into the trailer when the weather turned cold and insisted that they be put outside under the trailer where it was at least a little warmer. He could tell you that every time Eddie would see another person cry, he would too.

He’s just always been like that, so carrying this around with him everyday? It was becoming too much to bear, having to put on a face around everyone so no one could tell. So no one could see how it was breaking him inside. Wearing him down to the bone. Slowly, slowly killing him.

Robin sighs beside him and he had almost forgotten she was there. Her voice is quiet and strangely gentle as she speaks.

“Why do you think that, Eddie?”

What?

“What?” He asks incredulously and knows his face is in a similar state to his voice.

“Why do you think Steve wouldn’t like you like that? Has he said anything to make you think he wouldn’t?” She clarifies, which really doesn’t clarify anything at all for him because what?

“Um… are we talking about the same Steve? You know, Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ resident ladies man? Why the fuck would you think I’d have a shot?” He explains. “He’s so painfully straight and I am so painfully not, Robin.”

Robin just looks at him like she’s trying to read his mind. Or, rather, push a thought into his mind. Waiting for something to click. It doesn’t. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Besides, Steve never tried to talk to me about the whole distance thing, so I just—“

“You know what happens when people assume things, Eddie,” Robin interrupts.

“—figured that he didn’t mind,” Eddie finishes with a glare. Robin closes her eyes and takes a breath as if calming herself. She pinches her nose, right between her eyes like Steve always does when he’s frustrated or tired, and turns to him. She takes his hands in hers, and her face is only a mere mask of calm, the tumbling waves of anger rolling just under the surface.

“Eddie,” she begins. “Have you ever thought of the possibility that Steve doesn’t talk about his feelings? That he would keep it all bottled up inside like he does with literally everything else?”

Well, when she puts it like that…

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees. “I only found out about this whole… thing two days ago and that was only because I just so happened to catch him falling asleep at work. He wouldn’t have told me if I didn’t ask him, I know that for sure. He… Eddie, he honestly believes that this is all his fault. That he’s the one that fucked everything up between you and he kids.”

Eddie’s brain screeches to a halt. “Wait, what do the kids have to do with this?”

“You haven’t told them anything?” Robin asks, eyes going a little wide.

“Have I told a bunch of teenagers—whose opinions I regretfully respect—that I have a crush on their babysitter? No, I have not.”

“Okay, yeah that was a stupid question, sorry,” she amends. “Just… the kids are avoiding Steve and I can’t think of a reason why.”

“They’re what!? Wait, why haven’t I heard of this until now?” Eddie exclaims. Robin gives him a look that makes him deflate a little. “Let me guess, you only found out two days ago?”

“Bingo, we have a winner!” Robin fake cheers, raising her arms in a mock-celebratory fashion. She drops them with a huff. “They haven’t talked to him in weeks, Eddie, and I think it’s because you have been avoiding him.”

Her tone isn’t accusatory, but it still makes him feel like shit.

“They must have picked up the sense that something was going on between you two and assumed they should be avoiding him too,” she suggests. Eddie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t get how they could think that, though. I mean, Steve has been nothing but good to them for years now.”

“I know,” Robin agrees. “But they’re kids. Stupid, dumb, ungrateful kids, but they’re still kids.”

Eddie drops his head in his hands, pressing hard on his eyes until spots form behind his eyelids.

“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” He asks it rhetorically, but Robin gives a noise of agreement anyway. “How do I fix this, Birdie?”

“You could start by talking to him,” Robin suggests.

Now isn’t that a terrifying thought?

Because knowing you have feelings for someone is one thing, but telling them? That’s something so far out of the realm of possibility for him that he’s never even thought about considering it.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Buckley?” Eddie exclaims, looking over at her with wide eyes. “I’d like to keep all my teeth if you don’t mind. I mean, I know I’m not your type and everything but some poor schmuck would probably like to look at this face one more time before it's beat all black and blue.”

Robin only rolls her eyes at his rambling—which is rather hypocritical of her if you ask him, since she seems to treat rambling as an Olympic sport she plans on winning every time she opens her mouth. She grabs his face between her hands and honest to god shakes him.

“I can’t tell you everything, but I’m telling you to trust me and talk to him,” she practically demands, giving him a pointed look much like the one from before. Except he still doesn’t know what it means, as that final piece has yet to click into place.

He nods in her hold, partially afraid of her now, and she releases him.

“We need to fix this. Now,” Eddie insists. He looks over at her. “We need to talk to the kids.”

Eddie stands up, running to his room and groaning at the mess he left. Tossing his sheets and blankets back on the bed, he reaches under his bed for the walkie he knows he last saw under there three days ago. Except, it’s not there. He stands up, scrunches his eyebrows, and thinks.

Let’s see… it was next to the keychain that was on top of the VHS sitting on the books on the corner of the desk, then he moved it when he had to answer one of Lucas’ questions which he did while he walked around the trailer and he laid it down when he finished to get some cheese from the fridge, meaning—

Eddie runs back to the kitchen, finding the walkie on top of the fridge, right where he thought it would be.

“Got ya!” He grabs it and runs back to the living room where Robin is waiting very impatiently.

“Where even was that?” She asks but he ignores her, electing to set the frequency so he can talk to the kids all at once instead of answering her. He presses the button.

“This is Eddie the Banished calling an emergency Hellfire meeting pronto,” he orders into the speaker. “I repeat, emergency Hellfire meeting.”

He waits for a response. One minute. Two minutes. Three—

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Eddie mumbles, pressing the button again. “Over.”

Immediately, Dustin responds. “Hear you loud and clear, Eddie. Is this a code red situation? Over.”

“Nope, not a code red. More of a uh…” he glances over at Robin who shrugs. “Code yellow? I think. Over.”

“What the hell is ‘code yellow’? We don’t even have one of those,” comes Erica’s, as always, sarcastic remark. Eddie can faintly hear Lucas yelling in the background.

“Munson, you better not be shitting with us.”

“I promise you, Red, I wouldn’t. Not about this.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, people! You’re supposed to say ‘over’ when you’re done talking! Over.”

“Shove it, Dustybuns, the adults are talking.”

Eddie has to hold the walkie away from him at Dustin’s responding shriek. He presses a hand over his eyes. These kids are going to kill him one day.

“Guys, this is serious. Just get your asses over to my trailer as soon as possible. Robin’s already here, does someone have Little Byers and Supergirl?”

“I’ve got them. Over and out,” Mike responds.

“Erica and I are on our way. Over and out,” Lucas says.

“Be there in fifteen. Over and out,” Dustin declares. Eddie glances at Robin, sharing equally nervous and worried looks. This is not going to be fun.

Thirty minutes later, all of the kids are cramped in Eddie’s living room. Lucas, Max, El, and Mike are scrunched together on the couch, while Will and Dustin sit on the floor in front of them. Erica claimed Wayne’s recliner as soon as her and Lucas got there, refusing to move for the older teens.

Robin is standing next to him, hands on her hips again—really driving home the whole “Steve is my platonic soulmate” bit—as he stands there with his arms crossed. The two of them remind Eddie of disappointed parents about to tell off their kids, which, in reality, isn't too far off.

“Okay, what the hell?” Dustin asks, still breathless from the trek there. “I literally just got home an hour ago. Why did you call us and make us bike all the way here in the heat?”

“Because you deserve it for being shitheads,” Eddie defends and rolls his eyes. He’s met with a cacophony of dweeby teen voices as they retaliate.

“What did we do this time?”

“What?! We didn’t do anything!”

“What did Dustin do, now?”

“Me? Why am I the one being blamed? I wasn’t even here!”

“Because you’re too damn nosey, dude.”

“Ouch, Lucas. Ouch.”

“Hey!” Eddie yells, clapping his hands to get their attention. It startles them all enough to quit talking over each other and look back up at him. “Okay, I’m just going to get to the point. Why are you all avoiding Steve?”

Mike gives him a confused look and crosses his arms, his expression the epitome of teenage angst.

“We thought you hated Steve, dude. You would always leave the room whenever he was around with some shitty excuse so we just decided to do the same,” Mike answers. Dustin nods from his spot on the floor.

“Yeah, we all thought he did something or said something to you since every time we brought him up, you’d shut the conversation down somehow. It just… naturally progressed from not talking about him to not talking to him either,” Dustin explains.

“Steve stopped showing up to things, too. He used to help me practice but he’s not shown up in weeks,” Lucas adds.

“Mom’s gotten really worried about him. He’s not shown up to dinner in a while, either,” Dustin chimes in. He shrugs. “We just thought the feeling was mutual.”

Eddie clenches his eyes closed and throws his head back. Fuck, this is worse than he thought. He hears Robin shift beside him, and knows firsthand the look she’s giving them right now.

“Have any of you even considered asking Steve about this?” Robin asks accusatively. “Or even talking to him about anything other than rides or movie nights?”

Silence falls over the room, so thick and suffocating that Eddie briefly prefers the air of the Upside Down to this. He pulls his hair, scrunching down on the floor and balancing on the pads of his feet.

“This is all my fault,” he groans, twisting strands of hair frustratedly.

“It is,” Robin agrees and ignores the glare Eddie sends her way for that. “But we can still fix this.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Mike asks.

“Why does Eddie look three seconds away from strangling himself with his hair?” Max hesitates, sounding the most cautious he’s ever heard her. Eddie groans and avoids eye contact with the group.

“The reason I’m avoiding Steve isn’t because I hate him. It’s uh… quite the opposite, actually,” he explains, nervously fidgeting with his rings and pulling a thick strand of hair to hide his face. He glances at Robin, who gives him an overly enthusiastic thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes.

Max and Erica give him equally smug smirks while Will looks at him with wide, understanding eyes. The rest of the group, however, look confused.

“Wait, then why are you avoiding him?” Dustin asks.

“Dude, that makes zero sense,” Mike counteracts. El just looks lost, almost like she’s trying to read his mind. Which… he really wouldn’t be surprised if she could at this point. Eddie sighs.

“That’s not the point,” Eddie redirects. “The point is that an issue with me and Steve shouldn’t affect you guys’ relationship with him.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees, and he deftly ignores the pointed look she sends his way. “Steve has been there for all of you for years.

“Dustin, wasn’t it Steve who helped you catch D’art when he escaped from your cellar? He bought pounds of meat for you to lure a demodog away with, then fought a pack of them by himself to keep you safe. Steve put himself in the line of fire again against said demodogs in the tunnels after he was beaten unconscious by Billy, then sacrificed himself to Russians just so you and Erica could make it out alive a year later.”

Dustin clamps his mouth shut from its gaping position—likely from him wanting to defend himself from the truth—and has the decency to look sheepish. Eddie turns his gaze to Lucas.

“Lucas, wasn’t it Steve who helped you train for basketball when you started to show an interest in it? He practiced with you every week, even after a long shift at work or when he felt like shit, just because you asked. Steve protected you against Billy because it was the right thing to do, and took a beating so you wouldn’t. Not many people can say they’d do that for someone else, especially not against anyone as vicious as Hargrove,” Eddie adds. Lucas drops his head in his hands, knee bouncing from his place on the couch.

“Max,” Robin begins. “Steve checked up on you every day after Billy died. He would bring you food or ice cream or a distraction, but he was always there. He would drive you to the arcade just to cheer you up, let you beat him at Dig Doug and Pinball just to see you smile. Steve was terrified to let you be the bait for Vecna, he… he kept telling me that he wished it was him instead. That he should be the sacrifice, not you.”

Robin wipes her eyes where they begin to tear up, and Eddie uses the pause to look at Mike. He still has his arms crossed, but the smartass look on his face has dwindled a little.

“Mike, I know you don’t like Steve because of him and Nancy, but you can’t hold onto that grudge forever. What happened between them had nothing to do with you, so there's no need to be mad at him for it,” Eddie states. Mike isn’t looking at him now, and something tells Eddie that the kid just needs a reality check. Hopefully, this will work. “Steve has been protecting you from the beginning, even when you were more than hostile to him. You’ve at least got to give him credit for that.”

Eddie looks around, sees the morose expressions on the kids’ faces.

“Steve has picked you all up countless times from Hellfire, waiting the entire session out in the parking lot while wasting away in his car. He was there rain or shine, snow or sleet, and he never missed a day. Not once,” he states.

Eddie first found Steve’s presence after Hellfire to be confusing, an anomaly. He didn’t know that the Steve the kids talked about was the same Steve he had a debilitating crush on in high school, not until he saw him waiting outside after the first session the kids attended, leaning against his maroon BMW like a Calvin Klein model. A ball of anxiety formed in his stomach at the sight, because one thing about Steve Harrington was that he’s unpredictable. Eddie just didn’t know if it was good or bad yet.

“You know, usually when people graduate they tend to stay away from high school, not willingly come back,” Eddie teased.

His words seemed to spark some life into Steve, as he jolted from his relaxed position against the hood to stand firmly beside his car. Steve ran a hand through his hair, and looked Eddie up and down.

“You’d probably know more about that if you managed to actually graduate, Munson,” Steve quipped, but it wasn’t mean. He had a smile on his face, and the air around him was friendly. Some of the anxiety churning in Eddie’s gut eased at the sight.

“Besides, who says I’m here willingly?” Steve asked rhetorically, as Dustin made his appearance by running up to him and immediately began talking his ears off about the new campaign. Steve turned his full attention on the boy, nodding along to certain comments even when Eddie knew for sure Steve didn’t know what the hell Henderson was talking about. The other kids soon crowded around the former jock, all talking so incredibly fast that Eddie was surprised the sound barrier survived their cracking voices.

Eddie watched as Steve glanced at him over the kids’ heads, giving him a loose smile and a shrug as if saying, ‘what can ya do?’

Soon, all the gremlins piled into Steve’s fancy car, still talking and gesturing wildly with their hands. Eddie had a passing thought that he should get Steve some earplugs or something to at least help drown out the noise. He immediately shook his head at the thought and jumped in his old, beat up van, driving home to an empty trailer and trying desperately to forget Steve Harrington existed.

“He always waits until the excitement starts to wear off before he takes you all home, letting you talk to each other for nearly an hour after each session despite the fact he never has a clue what you’re talking about. He always listens to you guys, no matter what,” Eddie supplies. “Did you guys know he has mixtapes for each of you?”

At the question, they all look at him with varying degrees of confusion and an all-too-late realization. Eddie huffs, while Robin mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like, ‘of course they didn’t.’

“There’s one for each of you, filled with songs you like or mentioned liking at some point despite some of them not being his own taste. He listens to you, all of you, and it fucking hurts to know you don’t see that,” he exposes, and part of him regrets letting a bit of his anger out. Though, the kids need to know this is serious, that you can’t go through life assuming the worst in people, so if being angry is what it takes then so be it.

The kids have various emotions on their faces, ashamed and regretful being the two most prominent. Dustin clears his throat and looks up at Eddie, flicks his eyes to Robin, and returns them to his lap.

“I… I didn’t realize he did so much for us,” Dustin quietly admits, and a small part of Eddie cheers at finally teaching the kid a thing or two about humility.

“We’ve been taking advantage of him for… for so long,” Lucas breathes out. Max nods morosely beside him, and Will raises a shaky hand to cover his mouth.

Mike rolls his eyes, still petulantly crossing his arms. “Why should we even care about him? All he’s probably doing is wallowing in his fancy house or something.”

He says it with a layer of snark so thick, all the kids turn to him with varying levels of bitchy glares. Eddie, however, can tell his attitude is a mask, a way for him to hide how he’s truly feeling to prevent from being too vulnerable. From being too open. Eddie knows a lot about that.

It started when Eddie was four and he scraped his knee on the harsh gravel outside his parents’ run-down home in Kentucky. Tears rolled down his chubby cheeks as he ran inside to tell his mom, who he knew would take care of him. She told him to play outside, and not come in until she told him so, but his knee really hurt and he was scared they would have to cut it off if it bled too much. At least, that’s what Charlie—a kid who lived two streets over—said they would do.

When he stepped over the threshold, something felt off. The house was quiet, more so than normal, and it set him on edge. The TV was filled with static that grated on his little ears, and he covered them with his hands as he made his way over to turn it off. He picked up the antenna off the floor, wondering how it got knocked off the top of the TV in the first place. He looked around the living room, finding it in a similar state of disarray. He followed the trail of broken things before him; the overturned coffee table, a spilled ashtray, a stray pillow, and the chair his dad always sat on, pushed far out of its normal place. He questioned who could have messed up his house like this, leaving a big mess behind.

He found his answer when he ventured into the kitchen, just a few short steps from the living room, and found his mother laying on the floor. She was on her stomach, arms splayed out as if she tried to catch her fall and head turned to look at the doorway where little Eddie stood. Her eyes were closed but she was still breathing, the floral pattern of her dress moving with each breath. Shards of ceramic were spread out around her, littered with droplets of dark blood that spilled from a cut on her forehead. It dripped down the side of her face, along the curve of her cheek and onto the floor where it formed a small puddle. Her skin was pale in the artificial light of the house, the soft yellows doing nothing to soften the tones of her ashen face.

“Mama!” He ran up to her, falling to his knees beside her still body. He shook her, trying to get her eyes to open, but all it rewarded him was a pained grunt. His eyes welled with tears again, this time for his Mama, but nothing he was doing was working.

A shadow fell over the floor and he looked up to find his father blocking the light from the gold-colored light fixture above the kitchen table. His face was stern and dirty looking, his stubble well past the point of a five o’clock shadow and leaning more towards a sleazy strip club owner. There was a smear of blood on his face from his hand, which he noticed was bruised around the knuckles. However, the sight of what was in his other hand made him freeze, entire body going stock still.

In his father’s left hand were the remnants of the broken plate on the floor, the jagged edges cutting into his skin where he gripped it tightly. Matching blood littered the edge, and a splatter of the dark liquid traveled up his hairy arm and disappeared into his rolled up flannel sleeve.

He looked up at the figure before him, and the tears spilled over against his will.

“What happened to Mama?” He asked. “Why won’t she wake up?”

“‘Cause she’s sorry, son,” his dad answered, throwing down the ceramic and causing it to shatter against the floor. Eddie flinched, and his father caught the motion. He hadn’t been able to quell it, hadn’t learned how to hide his fear yet. The man scowled at him, lip curling as he grabbed Eddie’s arm and hauled him off the floor in one solid motion.

“She’s weak, Edward,” he began. This close, Eddie could see the redness of his eyes, and the deep purple bags that hang underneath. “Just like all women. Do you wanna be weak, boy?”

Eddie shook his head, and his father gripped his arm tighter. “Answer me!”

“N-No sir,” Eddie muttered, voice small and weak in the face of his father.

“Then stop that fucking crying, don’t be a sissy. I ain’t raising a fucking faggot, Edward.”

With that, his dad dropped his arm and stumbled into his bedroom down the hall. As soon as his figure was gone, Eddie turned back to his mom, crouching next to her. Sometime when his dad was talking, her eyes had opened and her breathing grew stronger. Eddie felt like it was nothing short of a small miracle.

“Mama, are you okay?”

“‘M okay, baby,” she replied, pushing herself off the floor with a grunt. She sat up with Eddie’s help, and frowned when she saw the reddened mark on his arm. “I shouldn’t have let him do that to you.”

“You were hurt, Mama. ‘S not your fault,” Eddie reasoned, pulling his arm out of her grasp to wipe at some of the blood on her face. “You’re bleeding, too.”

“Oh,” she began, reaching up to touch the wound as if she hadn’t realized it was there. “It’s nothing, Eddie, just a little scratch. Mama will be okay, promise.”

She didn’t look okay, this close, with her sunken-in face and slowly forming black eye Eddie hadn’t been able to see before. But his Mama was always right. Always.

“Pinky promise?” Eddie asked, holding out his little pinky. His Mama smiled, and raised a shaky hand to lace her pinky with his.

“Pinky promise.”

A year later, he was riding in the car with his Mama, backpack at his feet. She was dressed nicer than he ever remembered her being; a baby blue, short-sleeved dress hugged her slender frame, paired with white heels, white bug-eyed sunglasses, and a sheer white scarf she had tied around her hair. Her suitcase was in the trunk, but his father was nowhere to be found.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Where’s Dad?” He asked. His Mama cleared her throat before she answered, voice shaky.

“He’s not coming with us, Eddie,” she said. “We’re going somewhere far away from him. Somewhere new.”

“Where?”

“Have a look for yourself, honey,” she said, pointing to the window. Eddie crawled up on his knees to look out, seeing a sign welcoming them to a place called Hawkins. He sat back down in his seat, looking back at his mother.

“What’s here?” He asked. His mother smiled.

“Your Uncle Wayne. He’s my brother,” she supplied. “We’re just going to pay him a little visit, okay?”

A few short minutes later, they were parked in front of a small trailer, a gruff looking man waiting for them on the newly-built porch. They got out of the car and Eddie grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders before his Mama led him up the steps.

“Eddie, this is Uncle Wayne,” his Mama informed. He looked up at her and she nudged his arm, urging him to say something.

“H-Hello, sir,” Eddie greeted, sticking out his small hand for the man to shake. Wayne huffed a laugh and crouched down, causing Eddie to take a step back on instinct, before he took his hand and shook it.

“Nice to meet ya, Eddie,” Wayne began. He let go of his hand but stayed crouched. “You can call me Wayne, or Uncle Wayne, or Uncle, or—hell, Todd for all I care. Just none of that ‘sir’ business, you got me?”

Eddie smiled and nodded. “Sorry, si—uh, Uncle Wayne.”

“That’s better, boy,” Wayne said, smiling as he clapped his shoulder softly. Wayne had kind eyes, blue and soft around the edges. They weren’t mean like his fathers. Instead, they looked exactly like his Mama’s—save for a few extra wrinkles around the edges. “Why don’t you go on inside while your Mama and I talk?”

Eddie did as he was told, walking in the trailer and taking in his surroundings. It was small, smaller than his house, but cozy. A couple mugs were hung up on the wall, paired with three trucker hats and a framed picture he was too far away to see. An old, floral patterned couch sat on the long wall of the living room, a coffee table in front littered with an opened can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of chips. The windows were open to let light in, making the space feel much bigger than it actually was.

He stepped into the kitchen, just a pace away from the living room, and took in the red-toned wooden cabinets and cream countertops stained with coffee rings yet to be wiped away. There was a hallway to his left where he found a single bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom was small, just big enough for a stand-up shower, toilet, and sink. A single toothbrush sat in the cup on the side of the sink along with a bar of soap and an almost empty tube of toothpaste. On the other side of the sink though, Eddie noticed an unopened toothbrush. It was blue and had sparkles throughout its plastic. At the bottom, there was a small dog sticker and it made him smile a little.

His attention soon wandered to the bedroom, where he found a little twin-sized bed and tons of boxes. The bed was bare, save for a folded up quilt near the bottom with a pillow on top. The boxes were filled with various things; clothes, books, a cassette player, shoes, and tons of other small trinkets. He sat on the ground, pulling a box closer to look through it. There were thin books near the top labeled ‘Hawkins High’, and he flipped through it to find pictures upon pictures of people. He read the names, sounding them out to see if he could get them right. Some of them were weird, though, and he quickly put the book down to look at something else.

There was a box of cassette tapes to his left and Eddie scooted over to look through it. There were tons of names he didn’t recognize as he rifled through the plastic cases, though one stood out to him.

He picked up the Fleetwood Mac tape along with the cassette player from a box near the closet, plugging it into the wall and putting the tape in. He eyed the front door, seeing it still firmly closed. Just then, the tape clicked, causing him to jump, and he pressed play.

The familiar voice filled his ears, and he smiled. He and his Mama used to listen to Fleetwood Mac back home in the kitchen while they made supper, singing along with the tape or the radio to fill the house with music. The sound of it brought a smile to his face, and he closed his eyes as he listened to the words.

Engrossed in the music, he barely registered that the front door had both opened and closed until a soft hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Eddie, baby, I have to go,” his Mama said, and he jumped to his feet. He kinda felt bad about going through Uncle Wayne’s things without him being there, but if they were leaving then he didn’t think he would get too mad.

“Where are we going now, Mama?” Eddie wondered. His mother’s face turned pinched, and she lifted her glasses to look at him directly. She wore make-up, much more than she usually did, and as she crouched down Eddie could see it was barely disguising a bruise along the top of her right cheekbone.

“Eddie, only I’m leaving,” his Mama corrected. “You’re staying here with Wayne.”

At that, his whole world fell apart.

His mother, his Mama, was leaving him. It didn’t seem fair that he couldn’t go with her, that he couldn’t stay with his Mama like he wanted to. Wayne seemed nice from their brief interaction, but he didn’t know him. Not like he knew his Mama.

His stomach sank to his feet, and it felt as if someone poured ice-cold water over him. His eyes grew wide as tears welled, spilling over his cheeks.

“Why, Mama?” Eddie sobbed, wiping at his face because he wasn’t supposed to cry. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“You just can’t, Eddie, I’m sorry,” she stated. It felt hollow, her explanation. Like she was hiding something.

“But why?”

“Because you just can’t, Eddie!” She snapped, and Eddie’s breath caught. She sounded mad, but Eddie had never heard her get mad, not at him at least. He didn’t know what he did, only that she wouldn’t let him go with her.

She took a breath and cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“But- But you can’t leave me!” Eddie wailed. “Mama, please!”

She opened her arms and he fell into them, clinging hard enough to deem separating impossible. She hugged him back just as tight, and Eddie saw evidence of tear tracks streaking through her caked-on foundation.

“I know, baby, I don’t want to leave you either,” his Mama soothed. “But Wayne is going to take care of you, okay?”

Eddie looked over her shoulder to see Wayne leaning against one of the kitchen countertops, smiling sadly at him. Eddie screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his mothers neck.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Eddie mumbled before he moved to look at her. “Pinky promise you’re gonna come back for me.”

His Mama cried and wiped at her cheeks, smearing the make-up and making the bruises appear fresh on her pale skin. She held out a pinky, and Eddie laced his with hers.

“I promise, Eddie,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead before getting to her feet. Her and Wayne shared a hug on her way out, and Eddie caught Wayne wiping his eyes too. He and his uncle stood on the porch as his mom drove away, waving until her taillights disappeared around the curve of the road.

That was the last time he saw his mother.

Unfortunately, it was not the last he saw his father.

He stayed with Wayne for two months until his father found him. They had grown accustomed to each other in that time, Eddie having warmed up to another parental figure and Wayne having gotten the basics down for caring for another being. Wayne insisted he start school in the fall, and he was two weeks in when all hell broke loose.

His father rolled up to the trailer in a fancy-looking sports car Eddie knew his dad didn’t have the money for. He stumbled out on the gravel, banging on the door until Wayne pulled it open.

“The hell are you doin’ here?” Wayne asked, standing firm in the doorway.

“I’m here to get my son,” his father demanded. He pushed past him and stormed the place until he found Eddie in the only bedroom—Wayne having set up a cot in the living room.

Eddie hadn’t expected to see his father again, mostly because he didn’t think the man really cared for him. That was prominent when he snatched Eddie off the bed and hauled him out of his room.

“Dad?” Eddie questioned. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m taking you away from here,” his father responded, glaring at Wayne who stood blocking the doorway.

“You’re not takin’ him anywhere, Al,” Wayne countered. He crossed his arms, looking far more intimidating than Eddie ever imagined. “He’s happy here.”

“He’ll be even more happy with me,” his dad insisted. “With his real family.”

“Son of a bitch, Al, I am his real family!” Wayne yelled. “You ain’t got the means for takin’ care of that boy, and you know it.”

His father stood toe to toe with his uncle, glaring at him. He whispered something Eddie was too far away to hear, but it made Wayne deflate completely.

Eddie didn’t want to leave. He found that these past two months with Wayne were filled with more happy memories than he ever remembered having back home. Wayne was nice, a little rough around the edges but he was a big softy inside. He cared about people, that much was evident in the way he was constantly helping people out around the park. He was a good person, so leaving him felt like his Mama all over again.

“Come on, son,” his father demanded, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the trailer. Eddie looked back at Wayne, eyes stinging. He waved, and Wayne waved back. He watched the trailer from the backseat until he couldn’t tell which one was theirs, only facing the front when his dad snapped at him.

They rode for hours, far past the Indiana state line, until they ended up in a strange city filled with tall buildings and blinding lights that made Eddie’s eyes sting. They went through the city, stopping on the outskirts in a run-down neighborhood even more decrepit than his old house in Kentucky.

He spent two years with his dad in a city he came to know at St. Louis, but it never felt like home. Not like the trailer with Wayne, or anywhere his mother was. He learned how to hotwire cars and how to drive like a bat out of hell whenever his dad told him to. He learned that he was too much to take care of; his father constantly complained about feeding him, keeping him clothed, taking care of him like a father should. He learned that showing emotions would only get you hurt, that he had to hide them to survive. He learned what all the different white powders did to someone, how they would affect your mind and your body. How they made his father violent, or remorseful, or depressed, but never happy.

His father was on a bad trip when a rush of red and blue lights invaded their windows, sirens blaring and making Eddie’s ears ring. Their front door was kicked open, the old wood splintering easily under the force of a steel-toed boot. Police flooded the house, and Eddie was grabbed and dragged out before he had time to comprehend everything that was happening.

He was sitting in the back of a cop car with the door open, body completely still as police went in and out of their house. He couldn’t let them know he was scared out of his mind, that he was afraid of what they would do to him. He knew the best way to get through it was to show nothing at all. To be indifferent. Emotionless. It was the only thing his father taught him that he deemed useful.

His father was dragged out of the house by two policemen, kicking and screaming at them but Eddie couldn’t hear what he was saying, ears having gone deaf to anything other than the ringing in his head. Next thing he knew, his father had broken free and punched one of the officers, causing several to tackle him to the ground and handcuff him before practically throwing him into a car and hauling him away. All Eddie could do was watch, knowing there was nothing he could do to help him.

“You got somewhere to go, kid?” One of the cops that took him out of the house asked, leaning against the open door and blocking the flashing lights. Eddie nodded, and the cop took him back to the station where he called Wayne.

“Eddie, son, where are you? Are you okay? If that bastard hurt you, I swear to god—“

“Wayne,” Eddie began, his voice rough from not using it. “Can you come get me?”

A pause. “Sure, kid, where are you?”

“St. Louis,” Eddie supplied. There was cursing on the other end, muffled so Eddie couldn’t tell what was said but he knew Wayne well enough. Even after only two months, the man had become more like a father to him than his own dad ever was.

“I’m coming right now to get ya, just hold on tight, okay? I’ll be there ‘fore the morning.”

True to his word, Wayne showed up right before dawn in his beat up truck. He stormed the station like a madman, looking for him. He was rumpled, like he threw on just enough clothes to be decent before booking it all the way here. If he knew Wayne, that’s probably exactly what he did.

“Eddie? Eds, where are ya?”

“Sir,” the lady at the front desk interrupted. “I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice—“

“Wayne!” Eddie perked up from the desk chair he was sitting at in the station, running around desks before jumping straight in his uncle's arms. Wayne held onto him just as tight, and he could’ve sworn he heard a sniffle or two come from the man.

“I was so worried, Eds,” Wayne whispered. “I tried lookin’ for ya, I swear I did, just—If I’d known he’d taken ya to another state I wouldn’t’ve stopped ‘til I searched the whole damn country.”

“I know, Wayne,” Eddie muttered. “I missed you too.”

As much as Eddie tried, he couldn’t put up that mask of indifference around his uncle. He could try, sure, but it never worked longer than five seconds before he saw right through it and it crumbled at Eddie’s feet.

“Let’s get you home, son,” Wayne insisted and before he knew it, Eddie was asleep in the passenger seat of the truck as they took the highway home.

Since then, Eddie and Wayne had become inseparable. There were no secrets between them, no masks. They weren’t needed, not when Wayne was more than good to him. They weren’t wanted, either, since Wayne made sure to remind him that showing emotions wasn’t a bad thing. That it was good, healthy.

It wasn’t until much later in middle school when he learned that having a mask was necessary sometimes. Especially when people started calling him a freak and a weirdo because he wasn’t identical to everyone else. Because he lived in a trailer with someone that wasn’t his biological parent and wore hand-me-down clothes that were baggy on him since his growth spurt hadn’t hit yet. He donned the air of indifference he had left behind long ago, letting the names and rumors bounce off his skin like water off an umbrella.

That need intensified when high school hit and the rumor mill grew exponentially. Suddenly, he was bombarded with accusations of Satanism, prison time, drug dealing—though that one was true—pet raccoons, and, at one point, an army of undead babies he sucked the life out of that he could command at will. Really, the shit people came up with was astounding, and Eddie learned to shove it all away. None of it was true—save for a couple things he would never, in a million years, tell another soul at Hawkins High—so he made sure to act like it was true. Let people believe what they want to believe. In the meantime, Eddie used it to his advantage to prevent anyone from getting too close. From looking past the barrier he put up between himself and everyone else.

So yeah, Eddie knows a little bit about where Mike’s coming from.

“Actually…” Robin starts. “Steve’s not doing so great—“

“What?!” Dustin squawks out, cutting Robin off and all but jumping up from his seated position. “Why the hell did you not start this whole damn thing with that?!”

“We were getting there, Henderson!” Eddie clarifies. “Now sit your ass down.”

Dustin—for once—does as he’s told. Eddie looks to Robin and gives her a nod, letting her have the floor.

“Steve’s got it in his head that he’s the only one allowed to sacrifice himself for us, that he’s only needed or wanted when he can put himself in the line of fire. So, like the caring dumbass he is, he’s been wandering around Hawkins at night because he’s worried that something will happen.”

“But I closed all of the gates,” El starts, head cocked and eyebrows scrunched like a confused puppy. “We are in no more danger.”

“I think part of him knows that, Supergirl,” Eddie explains. “But he needs to know for certain, to make sure you guys are absolutely safe.”

She nods, and sadness finds its way to her eyes. Eddie feels a pang of sympathy for her, knowing that learning how to live all over again is never easy.

“He’s not been sleeping much,” Robin continues. “It’s like he’s barely there anymore. Like he’s just… a shell.

“He thinks you all hate him. He thinks he deserves this for all the shit he did in the past, even though we all know he’s more than made up for it by becoming a decent fucking human being,” she spits out. There’s anger in her eyes now as she glares at a stain on the carpet, unwilling to look at the kids but needing to get her point across. “He broke down in my arms because this is the fifth fucking time the people he’s loved has left him and I think… I think this time broke him.”

She raises her head and looks over the kids, tears balanced on her lower eyelashes and threatening to spill over.

“You’re his family, the family he got to choose, and you still… you left. Just like everyone else has.”

The room fills with silence as the words sink in.

“How… How do we fix it?” Will asks, his quiet voice now loud. Eddie sighs and rakes a hand through his hair—a motion that keeps reminding him of Steve—before shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I know part of it is my fault, I admit that. I shouldn’t have just stopped talking to him all of the sudden, I should’ve… well, there’s a lot of things I should have done but I didn’t, so I plan on fixing that,” Eddie admits. He looks around the room, makes as much eye contact as he can to drive his point home. “You should too. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it, not this time. Not for this.”

The kids all nod, and Eddie gestures to the door to dismiss them. They all look like kicked puppies with slouching posture and ducked heads, walking out of the trailer with their tails between their legs. Dustin and Mike are the first to hop on their bikes, ready to either apologize and get it over with or get as far away from his and Robin’s disappointed glares as possible. Before they can push off, Eddie calls out to them.

“Hey! Give it a couple days,” Eddie orders. “Steve… He’s going to need some time. Go to him when he’s ready, okay?”

He’s met with various nods and ‘will do’s as some of them take off, their knobbly knees hitting the handlebars of their too-small bikes. Then, he notices a particular brunette has yet to leave, her bike with little white training wheels still standing in the grass. Her big brown eyes lock with his and, even though there's a porch between them, he can feel the seriousness in her gaze.

“I miss him. He was always very nice to me,” El confesses. “He always gave me piggyback rides.”

Her face falls a little. “I did not know we were being mean to him.”

Eddie finds himself softening a little at her words.

“I know, Supergirl,” he winks at her. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

She giggles in response and hops on her bike, meeting up with Max who stopped to wait for her a few yards away.

Eddie closes the door, falling against it with a thud. He groans, the sound bouncing off the thin door and out in the empty trailer. He turns to go to his room, preferably to wallow, before nearly jumping clean out of his skin.

Well, he thought the trailer was empty, except there now stands one Robin Buckley who has resumed her unimpressed, hands-on-her-hips, "you're a fucking dumbass" position from earlier.

"Jesus H. Christ!" He exclaims. A hand comes up to grab at his heart which is actively trying to beat out of his chest as his lungs grapple for air. "Birdie, I forgot you were there."

"Yeah," she deadpans. "Clearly."

Eddie straightens up, and quirks an eyebrow at her rather over dramatically. Robin rolls her eyes.

"Well?"

"It's a deep subject," Eddie sarcastically responds. Robin, unfortunately, doesn't find that funny. "'Well' what?"

"Go apologize!" She yells.

“Okay, okay, geez!”

Eddie pats himself down, looking for the keys to his van before Robin clears her throat. He looks over at her to see an unamused quirk of her eyebrow before she points to the hook by the door where his keys hang.

“Thanks, Buck!” he exclaims, pressing his hands together in prayer to the saint she is. Grabbing them, he throws the door open and clears the steps in one jump, stumbling a bit on the landing but really, he’s quite proud of this rare athletic appearance.

Jumping in his van, he slams a random tape in the deck, grinning a little at the song that plays first. Despite his obvious avoidance of the second track, the Master of Puppets album still holds a very special place in his heart. So it's really not a surprise that the song that just so happens to play first reminds him of the very man he’s going to see, sacrificial tendencies and all.

He slams on the gas, tires squealing as he peels out of Forest Hills trailer park faster than he ever has before.

He’s not running away this time; not running from a small cheerleader’s body trapped on his ceiling, not running from angry town hicks with their fiery pitchforks, and not running from a creepy interdimensional demon who enjoys sucking the life out of depressed teenagers.

No, this time, he’s running to something. Running to Steve.

He just hopes Steve will let him.

———

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still-breathing-au-p3r · 5 months ago

Text

At first Minato thinks the sound he hears is his eardrums popping, but a moment later he realizes that it came from a distance– a distance they’re closing as they sprint onward, in fact.

In front of him, Sanada stops short. “What–?” Minato can barely hear him. “Dammit… Both of you, hang on!” He takes off again, not even short of breath.

Minato is almost jealous. Despite all of his time spent with the track team, he feels dizzy and ready to collapse by the time the alleyway behind Port Island Station comes into view. Every breath might as well be filling his lungs with tar instead of air.

The shadows in the alley sharpen and focus into human shapes– not two, but three of them: one sprawled on the ground; one standing as tall as it can; the third looming over them both, arm extended towards the smallest figure, taking aim–

“Takaya!” Minato’s voice sounds foreign in his own ears. He wouldn’t have guessed he’d be able to speak at all, much less shout.

Everything happens all at once after that.

Takaya’s whole body jerks towards Minato’s voice.

The shape on the ground lunges up and forward, taking the smaller figure crashing back down with it.

The gun goes off with a sound like–

Like a gunshot.

It isn't a clap of thunder. It's not at all like the crack of a whip.

There is no metaphor that can soften the truth.

The noise that tears open the silence of the Dark Hour is a gun being fired: a spark igniting powder propelling a bullet at shattering speeds towards the soft, vulnerable bodies of his friends.

Speckles of something dark and reflective fan through the air, glittering obscenely where they catch the light of the moon. Takaya almost seems to glow under that sickly light; pale skin and hair and eyes and shining silver gun gleaming ghost-bright in the murk of the alley, in stark contrast to the dark shapes huddled on the ground.

He meets Minato's eyes briefly. His expression is openly astonished for less than a moment before it shifts to fury, then is immediately papered over with a mask of calm indifference. He says something, but Minato is still too far away to hear. The Dark Hour swallows him up faster than Minato would have assumed possible.

He isn't terribly preoccupied with Takaya's Houdini act at the moment though, because–

"Shinji–!"

Aragaki lies prone on the pavement with Amada pinned underneath, whose breath is coming in shallow, panicked gasps, his face pale under dark splotches of blood. The bullet intended for Amada has shredded Aragaki’s right shoulder into a confusion of gore and torn wool and glimpses of pinkish-white that Minato tries not to think too hard about.

“Hang in there, Shinji!” Sanada hauls him off of Amada and onto his back, revealing another wound in his gut, a black well of blood. More of it dribbles sluggishly from the corner of his mouth. Aragaki doesn’t cry out in pain as Sanada and Mitsuru rearrange him in their hold, lifting him off of the cold concrete and supporting his head. He hardly makes any noise at all.

Minato feels like his ears have been jammed full of cotton. He can tell people are talking, but he can no longer pick out any voices or words. His vision tunnels, phantom colors chewing at the edges.

He stands there and watches as Yukari frantically tears out of her jacket and hands it off to Mitsuru, who packs it hard against Aragaki’s ruined shoulder.

He stands there and watches as Junpei unties his own jacket from around his waist and uses it to dab gingerly at the side of Amada’s face– it’s only now that Minato realizes that not all of the blood that Amada is wearing is Aragaki’s. The shape of Amada’s left ear is all wrong, like some of it is just missing, but Minato only catches a brief glimpse before Junpei presses the jacket over the injury and holds it there, hiding it from sight.

Yukari tries to summon her persona. Io flickers above her like a mirage for less than a second before vanishing. She pulls the trigger again, but the result is the same. She pulls the trigger again and again and again, face contorted and body heaving with sobs that Minato can’t hear. Io stops appearing at all. He stands there and watches.

It’s no use. They’re too far from Tartarus or any powerful shadow that could be harboring a piece of its influence. They’re too close to the end of the Dark Hour. Minato has two personas that can cast Recarm, but they wouldn’t be of any use even if he could draw his evoker, if he could move at all.

He stands there. And he watches.

Aragaki is saying something to Amada, and Amada answers through his sobs. Their mouths are moving, but Minato still can't hear. Why can’t he hear anything? Why does it feel like his mind is clouded over in static?

Something jabs hard into his side and suddenly Minato’s ears work again, like a loose wire has been jarred back into place.

“--ato! Minato! Hey, are you listening?!” He blinks, dumbfounded, and turns to the source of the voice. Junpei is staring at him. Minato has no idea what he’d call the expression Junpei is making at him, but it’s not one he’s ever seen him wear before. “Give Sanada-san your coat, man! We need to stop the bleeding!”

Even though he can hear again, it still takes him far too long to actually comprehend what’s being said. Junpei starts to repeat himself before it finally clicks and Minato shucks his jacket and hands it over. Junpei passes it off to Sanada, and Sanada presses it against the hole in Aragaki’s stomach. Aragaki doesn’t even flinch, just looks over at Koromaru gently nudging his hand. He pets him weakly. It’s probably the most movement he can manage.

“Just a few minutes–” Fuuka says, nearly hysterical. “The Dark Hour ends in a few minutes. As soon as it does, I-I’ll call an ambulance!”

“Did you hear that, Shinji?” With the hand that isn’t leaning on the makeshift bandage, Sanada grabs Aragaki’s, gripping tight. Aragaki grips back, much weaker. “Just hold on for a bit longer!”

“Aki…” Aragaki’s voice is quiet and thready, but everyone falls silent at the sound of it. “Take care of him…” He slowly inclines his head towards Amada.

“Don’t talk like you won’t be around!” Sanada says through gritted teeth.

“Pr…promise me, Aki.”

Sanada’s breath hitches and he bites his lip against it. “…Alright. Alright, I– I will. I promise I will.”

Aragaki smiles and Minato’s heart lurches. It’s sad. It’s final.

It’s relieved.

Aragaki is smiling like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. He looks so content that Minato almost envies him. “This is…how it should be…” he sighs.

He slumps in Mitsuru and Sanada’s arms. Minato’s ears ring. There is a chorus of strangled cries from his teammates.

Amada chokes like he’s been stabbed. “No–! H-he can’t–!”

“Is he–?” Junpei’s voice shakes.

“He’s alive,” Sanada gasps, still clutching Aragaki’s hand. “He’s still breathing–”

“I can feel his pulse,” Mitsuru affirms, pressing two fingers gently to Aragaki’s neck. “It’s weak, but it’s there. He’s only passed out, but unless he gets medical attention soon…” She can’t even finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. The implication is heavy enough.

“Still breathing,” Sanada murmurs to himself. “He’s still breathing–” He says it again and again, as though he can force the words to remain true through sheer repetition.

Without fanfare, the green glow of the Dark Hour vanishes. The murky clouds that had blotted out the stars disappear and the moon returns to its normal size.

“Yamagishi!” Mitsuru exclaims.

“R-right!” Fuuka is already dialing. Her voice is strained and thin but steady as she relays the necessary details, and the person on the other end of the line thankfully seems to understand. It isn’t until she closes her phone that Fuuka allows a choked sob to escape. “Th…they’re on the way,” she says, her voice breaking.

All they can do now is wait. Nobody speaks. Most of the team crowds around Aragaki, if nothing else to assure themselves that he’s still alive. Only Amada stays off to the side, until Junpei breaks away to crouch next to him and speak quietly.

And Minato. He’s frozen in place, staring at the battered body of a man he’s come to greatly respect as the life slowly leaves him. His eyes burn, but it doesn’t feel like the sting of tears. They don’t feel wet at all. Has he been blinking?

A hand rests on his shoulder. “Minato-san,” Aigis says, her vocals strangely gentle. How does she feel about all of this, Minato briefly wonders. “Are you alright?”

“...No,” he answers, voice barely audible even to himself. Minato hasn’t felt like this since… not since Back Then. Not since the bridge, and the car.

Aigis’ face remains as impassive as always, but somehow she still looks sadder than she ever has. Sadder than Minato thought she was capable of. “I am here if you need me.” The compassion in her voice feels like a brick thrown against his chest.

It’s only a few minutes until they hear sirens, but it’s the most agonizing few minutes of their lives. Even in Tartarus, where a minute can stretch like taffy, time has never seemed to creep by so slowly.

A group of punks has started to gather, trying to gawk at the sprawled figure hidden within the protective ring formed by his teammates. They scatter as soon as the ambulance pulls up, stopping right next to the huddle. Four paramedics pour out and swarm around the injured parties as fast as they can. Two police cars arrive moments later. Officer Kurosawa steps out of one of them.

The alley is filled with disorienting pulses of red and blue light. Minato almost misses the sickly haze of the Dark Hour.

There’s a whirlwind of voices– explanations and questions and medical jargon– but Minato absorbs none of it. He just watches (again– again, he just watches, and does nothing) as three of the first responders transfer Aragaki onto a stretcher and load him into the ambulance. The fourth gently guides Amada inside as well.

Everyone wants to go with them, but there’s only enough spare room for one more person. Minato isn’t surprised when Sanada insists it be him. Nobody argues, and the ambulance takes off the moment Sanada is inside.

The last train has already left the station, so the rest of them will have to find another way to the hospital. And they will. They have to.

None of them can bear the idea of doing anything less.

#Persona 3 #P3 #Persona 3 Reload #P3R #Shinjiro Aragaki #Akihiko Sanada #Ken Amada #Minato Arisato #Junpei Iori #Yukari Takeba #Fuuka Yamagishi #Aigis #Still Breathing AU #SBAU Main Plot #SBAU Canon #SBAU October #SBAU October 4 #fic #violence cw #gun violence cw #major injury cw #moderate description of injuries #(minato's weird bond with takaya made him call out)#(thereby disrupting the angle of his shot and making it not *as* lethal as it is in canon)#(the worst part is that minato will never know that actually saved this life)#(there is no way for him to know that that action is what tipped the scale from 'Shinji dies' to 'Shinji lives')#(also including a little bit of our headcanon regarding why just using healing magic wasn't an option)#(god do you know how hyped we are about posting this part)#(this is where things REALLY kick off we are so excitedddd)#minato pov

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violetmuses · 1 month ago

Text

Tandem - Multifandom Crossover ❤️‍🩹

Title: Tandem - Multifandom Crossover ❤️‍🩹

Fandoms: “Rebel Ridge” + “Bad Boys”

Characters: Terry Richmond + Armando Aretas

Love Interest: Female Reader

Main Storyline: When Terry Richmond arrives in Miami, who knows what could happen next?

Tandem Masterlist

@peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda @amethyst-loves-bucky @planetblaque @sweettea-and-honeybutter @lovedlover @xjjawsomex @readingisahobby @kindofaintrovert @nelo0wesker @gg-trini @cloveroctobers @maliagurl @nobodygetsza @twinklestarslight @yassbishimvintage @sweetiepie4190 @persethegawd @mangoes03 🏷

=====

2024

Relocating to Miami, veteran Terry Richmond wanted to start life all over again after escaping the rural and dangerous town of Shelby Springs.

Upon entry, the new apartment offered more than enough space. Justice grounded some peace, but even with his cousin avenged, time still burned.

After taking this much-needed shower to clear emotions, Richmond dumped the weathered backpack and organized his very few items.

Learning the brand-new area, Terry signaled that elevator and chimed down. Modern decor prolonged this lobby as sunlight illuminated.

Just before Richmond headed outside, one different man entered the building.

Detective Mike Lowrey of the Miami Police Department would introduce himself to staff members.

“Someone will move here, but we'll handle everything.” Lowrey took charge.

Red and blue overcasts crossed that Florida skyline. Even sirens wailed.

What the hell? Terry thought.

Just when Richmond planned to ask questions, the entrance opened.

Officials escorted this handcuffed man right into the complex and Richmond's nerves heightened with each passing moment.

“Yo, what's going on? You good, man?” Terry almost gritted his teeth.

This guy named Armando Aretas wouldn't respond at first.

Wearing this Bud Light shirt, Aretas chose one trucker hat that veiled his brown eyes. Jeans covered both legs and boots stepped along.

“It's fine, we got it.” Lowrey noticed Richmond's concern and tried to settle this problem down.

“What in the world?” Several people offered questions as well.

Yet when police unfastened Armando's handcuffs, voices shared relief in all directions.

“Come with us.” Lowrey gestured to Richmond and led Aretas near the elevator.

“Yes, Sir.” No matter what, Terry offered respect as all three individuals moved upstairs.

________

“It's a long story, but Armando is my son.” Lowrey stood in the hall with Richmond once Aretas settled his own apartment.

“Why bring out that police motorcade?” Terry squinted.

“Like I said, it's a long story. Just know that he works for the department now.” Lowrey explained.

“Aight.” Terry cleared his throat. “If he's not in trouble, I'll feel better honestly. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Detective Lowrey excused himself from Richmond and returned to Armando's space.

Time would explain what happens now.

*****

Armando woke up as sunlight greeted the bedroom windows. Gaining this furnished apartment, he organized essentials yesterday.

Packing his new laptop bag, Aretas left to “explore.”

Reaching the hallway, Armando pinged this elevator and noticed that someone joined.

“Terry.” Richmond ended up clipping his name first.

“Armando.” Aretas wouldn't make eye contact, but followed Terry's lead with introductions.

“You good?” Terry repeated his genuine question from yesterday.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Armando accepted Terry's kindness.

Heading outside, both men walked in silence as vibrant lanes of South Beach lined up.

Cheerful voices beamed and upbeat music played out loud from vehicles while Terry acknowledged surroundings.

“Found a coffee shop.” Richmond pointed near one storefront and welcomed Armando past its threshold.

“Good catch.” Aretas moved.

_____

“Morning. Could I have some black coffee and a muffin, please?” This muscular man stepped toward the counter and greeted you. His bright eyes nearly prompted your heart to rattle.

“Got it. Anything else?” You grinned while counting his order.

“No, Ma'am.” Terry almost smiled not long after paying up.

“Can I have a name for the order?” You set out markers.

“Terry.” Richmond quickly stated his own first name

“Thank you. Just wait for a second.” You prepared everything.

Stepping out of the line, Terry gave room for different customers, but noticed Armando using his laptop from this window seat.

“You want something?” Terry leaned inward this time around.

“I'll get up in a second. Appreciate it.” Aretas noticed Richmond's words again.

“Terry?” As expected, you called Richmond's name.

“Be right back.” Terry reached the main counter again.

“Here you go.” You handed out his order and smiled once more.

“Thank you.” Terry almost grinned before sitting back down.

______

Armando stepped up next and Terry observed everything.

Once you rang more items and called Aretas, Armando gathered his regular coffee and took one scone, not even messing up his device.

“Not bad.” Aretas said. “I'll have to leave soon, but thanks for helping.”

“No problem.” Terry nodded, but looked elsewhere as this Porsche rolled near the curb.

“Gotta go.” Taking coffee, Armando stepped outdoors and joined the passenger seat of Mike Lowrey's classic ride.

______

Staying behind at the coffee shop, Terry observed how you handled customers and clocked out that afternoon, leaving this place just in time for lunch.

“Excuse me?” Richmond stood from that window seat and questioned you.

“Yes?” You welcomed him outside as this bench waited near the storefront.

“I'm new here, so thank you for the coffee.” Terry stepped forward and shook hands.

“Of course.” You smiled.

“Something happened at my apartment complex yesterday. This guy moved in, but officers showed up and…” Richmond trailed off when you cleared your throat.

“Armando Aretas…” You nearly whispered. “The police are quiet for different reasons now, but look up his name whenever you can. Most of that information is public.”

“I will. Thank you.” Terry stood and began to walk away, but you spoke up once more.

“See you tomorrow?” You wanted to know if Terry would come back.

“Yeah, I don't mind. Take care.” Terry nodded and bid farewell, leaving your side.

******

Buying his own laptop, Richmond planned to learn information.

Nothing could've prepared him for upcoming details, though.

What the fuck?!

Realization tunneled this search. Soon enough, Terry's heart raced and dropped all at once.

Aretas launched havoc on several counts and attacked officials from the Miami precinct four years ago.

Richmond even found one vital news report from the large-scale case:

“Famed Miami Detective Mike Lowrey was shot one evening. The video quickly surfaced online and went viral in a matter of hours. Footage first appeared on the darknet and soon spread to mainstream social media platforms. Authorities believed that the shooter uploaded this video himself.”

Damn! Terry slammed his laptop, fed up beyond words.

No matter what, Armando's crimes remained true with permanent ink.

*****

Another morning brightened, yet Terry's mind clouded again.

When Armando's main door opened, Richmond almost flinched while unarmed.

“Hey, hey, Woah! You good, T?” Armando lifted his empty hands.

“The barista warned me and I did some research last night. Y'all left out too much.” Richmond turned frustrated without yelling. “Nobody told me about your case.”

“Dammit!” Aretas paced back and forth, quietly upset. “I can explain what happened, all right?”

“Go ahead.” Terry arched his brow. “I got plenty of time on my hands.”

_______

Sitting with Terry in private, Armando started talking first.

“After leaving the military, I joined the family cartel. My mother planned everything and hoped that I wouldn't spare Lowrey.” Aretas grounded his truth.

“What happened to your mother?” Terry settled the question.

She's dead.“ Armando never hesitated with that phrase.

“Damn, man.” Richmond attempted. “The case is harsh, but I'm sorry.”

“Honestly, there was nothing good about our situation.” Armando declined. “She lied to so many people.”

“You learned the truth now, right?” Richmond attempted.

“Yeah, but you know what? I really don't wanna talk about this anymore.” Mentally exhausted, Aretas stopped debating and glanced toward his new watch.

“Fair enough. You're right, so let's get out of here.” Apologizing, Terry stood from the bench and followed Armando to this new spot.

*****

“Hi, Terry. Good morning.” You've smiled and already learned his order as Richmond faced the register.

“Morning. Thank you for giving the update with Armando. We've talked.” Richmond quietly acknowledged how he checked details last night.

“Of course. We can't risk more issues if people haven't learned that case because Armando just got back.” You nearly whispered the response like code

“You know a lot about this one.” Terry glanced around.

“I used to work as an informant.” Still facing Terry now, you offered black coffee and handed over this muffin again.

Wow. Richmond noted.

_____

“Hey.” Slightly accented English rasped near your direction when Armando stepped forward.

“I'm not a snitch.” There's no joyful greeting this time around. “We've lost too many people and I just want everyone else to be safe.”

“I know.” Aretas completely understood your point.

“Listen, I'm not afraid.” You arched one brow while ringing up his regular coffee with another scone.

“I searched your name, too. Why give up the police department for a coffee shop?” Aretas moved ten steps ahead and had learned all about your skills.

“You.” Your genuinely pleasant voice darkened for the first time. “Once the case guaranteed prison, I quit.”

“Thought you weren't scared?” Armando slyly chuckled and departed the line, waiting for his order.

____

“Armando?” When you called his name, the area nearly silenced and almost everyone held their breath. Even Terry closed one fist to veil his mouth.

“Ooh!” Everyone observed as you traded the items. Within seconds, Armando stepped back and didn't face drama.

When Aretas sat back down, Terry almost smirked.

“Why the face?” Armando clipped.

“She hasn't kicked you out.” Richmond pointed near the register as you kept working.

“Whatever.” Aretas casted both eyes toward that ceiling.

______

Armando exited that local coffee shop as Mike Lowrey's classic Porsche rolled out again. Before long, Richmond sat with privacy this time.

When you began to leave for lunch once more, Terry still noticed your presence.

“Don't worry.” Terry laughed and opened the front door for you. ‘I'm not hard-headed like Armando.”

“Very funny.” You walked toward Florida sunlight and joined the storefront bench as usual. “Any plans today?”

“No, Ma'am. Still figuring out my apartment complex.” Richmond glanced toward you.

“You'll learn.” Now, your gentle voice encouraged him. “Living somewhere new is a process.”

“I understand.” Terry nodded.

“Oh, shit! Sorry, but I gotta go.” Your phone buzzed seconds later.

“No problem. See you.” Saying goodbye, Terry watched you almost jog around the block for some odd reason.

What now? Richmond thought.

*****

Once you entered this restaurant, confetti popped upwards.

“Happy birthday!” Members of the AMMO squad cheered after standing from this large table.

“I thought you needed something! This is my lunch break.” You hugged weapons expert Kelly and tech genius Dorn laughed for a moment.

“We've already cleared the schedule with your manager.” Captain Rita Secada welcomed your spot from that table. “Take this weekend off.”

“Thank you, Rita. Everything looks great!” You smiled toward the platters and would share each meal with friends.

Just before indulging, you realized that Detective Marcus Burnett, Mike Lowrey's longtime partner and best friend, peeked around one corner.

“Where's my niece? Happy birthday, girl!” Marcus shuffled footsteps into the private room.

“Thank you, Marcus!” You opened both arms to hug Burnett and still observed his recovered heart.

Not long ago, Marcus collapsed during Mike Lowrey's wedding.

Lowrey fell in love with Christine, an experienced physical therapist. She also help .ed Mike heal with his shooting recovery that took place years back.

“Doesn't matter if you've left the team. You're still important, Rook.” Marcus shortened one of your nicknames.

“I appreciate it. How's everyone?” You acknowledged Burnett's family.

“Everybody's fine. Megan just gave birth to a baby girl.” Smiling, Marcus counted his second grandchild.

“Aw! Congratulations, Grandpa.” You laughed while messing with Marcus. Even Kelly almost giggled.

“Pop-Pop.” Marcus corrected the title and arched his brow toward you.

“You're still old!” You joked right back and everyone cackled.

_______

“Happy birthday to you!” Servers pushed the cake forward as everyone sang along.

Grateful, you blew out candles and prepared your sweet tooth, sitting beside Kelly and Rita.

“Oh, damn! You cut the cake already?” Detective Mike Lowrey showed up with his wife Christine.

“Might bring this party to the house, Rook. Now we're crammed in here!” Marcus chuckled.

“Stop it, Marcus! Let's get some cake and go from there.” Mike jokes with his best friend.

Even you hugged Christine, sharing dessert with everyone as sunset arrived.

There was no better feeling here.

******

Armando returned to this apartment and showered after trading used car keys from Mike at the precinct.

Lowrey had just picked up his wife Christine to celebrate your birthday elsewhere.

“Going back home with everybody if you wanna visit.” Mike called. “We can't stay at this restaurant all night.”

“I don't think she likes me.” Aretas knew better than to interrupt your surprise.

“Even you and I need to work on things, but I'm trying all right?” Lowrey still attempted. “Come over. It'd be good.”

“I know. See you later.” Armando hung up, prepared to deal with the occasion.

****

“Don't argue tonight.” Marcus warned both you and Armando.

“Hey, be careful. Now you're instigating.” Lowrey cautioned Burnett.

“Hold up, I brought wine.” Settling down Mike and Marcus, Aretas carefully held two bottles.

“Thank you.” Mike welcomed Armando inside and you found Christine again, heading to the backyard.

______

“Still mad at me?” Armando offered the question while sharing cake with you.

“No.” You shook your head. “Only cautious.”

“That's fair.” Aretas nodded in return as music played.

“In all seriousness, how are you doing?” You wanted to help Armando regardless.

“Better. Things are pretty quiet.” Aretas offered his vague response.

“Started messing with Terry yet?” You laughed about one regular from the coffee shop. Terry Richmond even became Armando's neighbor.

“No, but can I ask you something?” Aretas leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah?” You silently waited for Armando's next move.

“You want him?” Armando clipped the unexpected idea.

“What are you talking about?” You squinted. “We just met.”

“Y'all smile almost every day now.” Aretas pulled his observations with Terry. Even coffee transactions looked more joyful.

“It's none of your business, but you sound jealous.” You nearly laughed.

“C'mere.” Throwing out trash for both of you, Armando started flirting.

“Yes?” You stand from the table and trailed Aretas, intrigued.

“Stop ignoring me.” His slightly accented English nearly whispered to reveal this truth. “It actually hurts my feelings.”

“Did I hurt your feelings or bruise that ego?” You corrected his phrase this time. “Get it together, okay? You're not the big bad wolf anymore.”

Taking your words, Armando became outright silent as you walked away and started dancing with everyone else that night.

*****

The next morning, you wake up after somehow choosing this living room floor.

In some corner, this air mattress waited nearby and even one of Armando's wine bottles looked empty.

What happened last night? Your now pounding mind buzzed questions.

When Kelly emerged from the kitchen, you took random sunglasses to dodge brightness.

“Where's everybody?” You stood up and joined K, greeted by many choices to eat.

“Mike and Christine are running errands, Rita left, and Dorn took my car to the auto shop.” Kelly pinpointed almost everyone.

Before you'd question Armando's spot, footsteps moved toward the living room.

“You're wearing my sunglasses.” Aretas chuckled and gestured by your face.

As you gaped while embarrassed, Kelly covered her mouth in shock.

______

“What happened last night?” You offered the question between Armando and Kelly.

“Lots of drinking and dancing.” Kelly just smiled towards you. “We all crashed down here when Mike and Christine went upstairs.”

“How much did I drink?” You absolutely cringed right now.

“You finished that wine bottle with Armando and danced together.” Kelly took a moment and drank water.

“Dancing?” You then furrowed your brow near Aretas.

“Yeah, it was fun.” Armando nearly smiled, but caught himself.

“I definitely have some videos. Hold on.” Kelly seemed more and more humored.

“Oh, no!” You removed the sunglasses, but still veiled your face this time.

Just when Kelly began scrolling, Armando's phone started ringing.

“Hello?” Both you and Kelly stopped messing around when Aretas picked up the call.

“Dude, it's Terry. We need help, man!” Terry Richmond somehow contacted Armando.

“What happened? I'm listening.” Aretas put Richmond on speakerphone to hear every detail.

“The coffee shop's manager is dead.” Terry exposed that truth loud and clear.

*****

As sirens wailed throughout and emergency lights flashed beyond direction, yellow tape met that coffee shop when law enforcement intervened.

For the first time since quitting, you prepped one of the uniform jackets and dodged guidelines to help. Sitting back would never become an option.

“Estimated time of death?” You questioned experts after joining that crime scene.

“Last night around 10:00 PM.” One professional spoke up this time.

“Quick kill. Discreet enough to avoid some outward panic.” Mike observed, requesting for you to bring Terry Richmond for questions. “Get Terry, Rook.”

“All right.” You turned away from that body bag while the forensics team moved along.

______

“Explain what happened, T.” Drifting back to the police station, you joined Armando while Terry occupied this interrogation room.

“Uh, everything seemed normal. Walked by the coffee shop and picked up my order as usual, but when I left that restroom to go home, there was spotting on the floor.” Terry leveled his response right now as bright eyes focused.

Spotting? Fuck! You realized. Blood.

“Where did you find that spotting?” You offered more questions for Richmond while Armando typed. “Did you see anything in the restroom?”

“No, Ma'am.” Terry cleared his throat. “There's an employee door and office space located directly across from restrooms.”

Bingo! Of course you memorized the layout this year and pictured each area.

“Who found that body?” You offered that chance just in case.

“I found your manager sitting dead in his office chair.” Richmond's deep tone answered.

Despite remaining composed, your heart still dropped.

______

“We'll block this area until further notice. Who knows what else happened?” Returning to the crime scene, Lowrey took charge again.

“Looks like another homicide case.” Marcus Burnett cringed.

“Nope.” Lowrey declined. “Our squad just confiscated plenty of drugs, too.”

“What the hell?” Burnett still can't believe what's going on.

“Rook, bring Terry along.” Lowrey asked you to invite Richmond near everyone else as a precaution.

Here we go.

*******

Once this team confirmed an investigation, Mike, Marcus and Rita returned home before kicking off the police department's brand-new game plan.

You bring Terry around as expected and gathered remaining members of the AMMO squad.

“Sorry for the last-minute rush. We can't take any chances if you stay near that crime scene.” You explained this plan as Terry entered your house.

“Don't worry. I get it.” Terry nodded, glancing around.

“Make yourself at home. Kelly and Dorn would crash here all the time.” You welcomed Richmond.

“Thank you.” Terry nodded and gathered his backpack, scoping the residence just in case.

______

While Kelly and Dorn occupied one of the guest rooms, Terry showered upstairs.

Down by that kitchen, you've set up this Bluetooth speaker and quietly played music while cooking for everyone. If only circumstances improved.

“Hey.” Slightly accented English caught your attention and you carefully turned around.

“Almost done making dinner. Did you need something?” You asked.

“Where's your outlet? I just need to charge my phone. ” Aretas lifted his cell.

“Check underneath my kitchen counter.” You gestured for a moment and finished cooking as Armando walked over.

“Thanks.” Armando plugged the phone and washed his hands, setting the table with five plates or matching silverware like second nature.

When that kitchen table looked ready this evening, you'd texted the group chat and everyone started heading downstairs without fail.

“Smells good in here.” Terry almost smiled over some good news.

“Thank you, T.” You still expressed gratitude right now.

“You're welcome.” Terry's bright eyes almost glinted once more.

Kelly and Dorn sat together, but Armando observed when Terry found this spot near you.

“Let's not mention the case. How's everyone feeling?” Dorn spoke up next.

“Never respond. We'll end up with therapy cards…Ow!” When Armando faced Terry, you stepped on his foot under the table.

“Don't be rude.” You say.

“That hurt.” Aretas clenched his words near you and Terry sipped water to avoid laughing.

“Get some ice or stop complaining.” You're just trying to eat and Armando frustrated nerves once more.

“Damn!” Even Terry chuckled while Kelly and Dorn almost looked on.

“What's so funny?” Armando clipped venom toward Richmond this time.

“Chill…” Terry warned. “Regardless of the case, you're getting uptight now.”

At that moment, Armando stopped talking and excused himself from this table, choosing to finish his meal outside near the patio.

Ditching your meal, you followed his path and closed the sliding door.

______

“What the hell?” Your voice started debating. “You can't keep doing this shit!”

“Go back inside and leave me alone.” Ignoring his plate now, Aretas locked eye contact with you.

“Don't tell me what to do in my own house!” This nearly raging tone gritted anger. “I brought y'all here for safety reasons.”

“Why even do it?” Armando kept going. “We can take care of ourselves and you're not a babysitter.”

“I won't leave anyone behind, not even you, Armando.” No matter what happened next, your words shared this vow.

“Thanks.” Heading back, Aretas found his spot at the table and tried to feel better.

******

“Everything okay?” Terry checked on both of you when Kelly and Dorn planned to sleep.

“We're good. See you in the morning.” Armando nodded and would shower late before resting himself.

“Aight, see you tomorrow.” Richmond dapped up Aretas for the evening, but stayed downstairs with you.

Glancing over your shoulder, smiled for their moment of kindness.

_____

“Don't worry. I'll straighten things up. It's the least that I can do. Terry wanted to help out as you'd reorganize the kitchen.

“We'll work together. Deal?” You compromised instead.

“Deal.” Terry cleared different places as you cleaned up. “So how long did you stay with the police? Y'all have pictures everywhere.”

“About seven years.” You've signaled the dishwasher. “AMMO wasn't even founded yet when I joined that precinct.”

“Impressive.” Terry almost whistled before fanning out this new trash bag for the garbage.

“Thank you.” You smiled and described the origin of your nickname: Rookie. “Mike and Marcus call me Rook because of my age. It's not an academy thing.”

“You know enough information and can't feel outdated here.” Terry washed his hands before sitting down in the living room once you both finished responsibilities.

“Yeah. It's sad, but let's just say that older CIs aren't discreet anymore.” You joined Terry. “No comfort means no details.”

“How did you find Big Dawg?” Almost laughing, Richmond vaguely referenced Armando.

“Someone called with an anonymous tip that night.” You explained. “We locked down coordinates and found a bloodbath sprawled out near the Miami Harbor.”

Shit! Richmond shook his head.

“How rough?” Terry went on.

“No survivors: shootings, stabbings, money toppled over that dock. It was one of the scariest things I've ever seen.” You remembered the problem, but never crossed Aretas until now.

Before Terry asked further questions, you both looked up to see Armando heading back downstairs.

Fuck. You thought.

Fresh out of the shower, Aretas wore this tank top with loose pants, heading back to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Changing the subject, you leave this couch and watch Armando get a snack.

“Can't sleep?” You laughed.

“Isn't it obvious?” Aretas casted both eyes toward that ceiling and found one bowl, dumping popcorn.

“Grouch.” Chiding Armando, you gathered more snacks to share with Terry as well. “What's wrong this time?”

“Nothing.” Aretas declined.

“Hey, don't start that shit again. “She's just checking on you, all right?” As his deep voice returned, Terry defended you while correcting Armando.

“Stay out of it because I wasn't even talking to you.” Aretas clipped right back.

“Be grateful that she didn't throw us to the wolves now.” Richmond nearly sized up Aretas while talking about your home. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

“Stop taking charge.” Armando backed off and gestured around.

“What are you talking about?” Terry squinted, puzzled.

“You moved here and everybody thinks you're special, but I can't even spend five minutes alone with her.” Armando expressed himself. “Maybe we'd have a better relationship if you'd back off.”

“Not my problem.” Terry lifted both hands, sitting beside you once more.

“What do you want?” You crossed both arms and looked toward Armando.

“Don't ask me that.” His voice noticed you even more as Armando took the popcorn and headed right back upstairs.

“What?” Frustrated, you squinted near Terry by this point.

“It's better for everybody if you talk to him. Good night.” Arching his brow, Richmond leaves you as well.

______

When you finally planned to sleep in your own bedroom, someone knocked.

You opened this door to see Armando standing in the hall.

“Hey. I'm sorry for irritating you…” Your voice trailed off when Aretas stepped closer.

“I'm sorry.” His brown eyes locked your presence when Armando sniffled quietly. “I just…”

“Yeah?” You tried to listen because his voice still mattered.

“Nothing changes what I did, but y'all still ganging up on me doesn't help, either.” Aretas expressed more feelings. “I might as well go back to prison.”

“Maybe if you weren't so quick to hide from everyone, things would be different.” You offered another perspective. “I just wanna solve this case and go back to normal.”

“I know. It's not easy for me, but I'll try. Get some rest, okay?” Struggling this time, Armando stepped back and you could sleep without interruptions.

******

By morning, everyone settled around the kitchen together when you finished cooking breakfast.

“Pass the hot sauce, baby girl?” Terry slipped that nickname by you while looking for one condiment.

“Here, T.” You didn't even correct him and exchanged the bottle, picking up silverware to eat again.

“Thank you.” Terry nodded and spiced eggs for his meal, moving on.

Dorn and Kelly froze in unison here, surprised beyond words.

“Espero que te quemes la lengua.” Using his native language of Spanish, Armando wanted Richmond's tongue to burn.

“What was that?” Terry caught on.

“Doesn't matter.” Aretas stood from the table and noticed Richmond once more. “Help us solve the case or leave.”

“Back up. Gettin’ tired of your attitude.” Of course Terry wouldn't fight, yet patience grew thin.

“Guys…” Dorn wanted to settle this problem for everyone, but Kelly stopped him.

Terry sat back down and still warned Armando. “I thought you wanted another chance here.”

“Stop assuming shit. You have no idea what's going on with me.” Aretas defended himself again.

Out of nowhere, your phone rings, breaking silence and moving tension elsewhere.

Putting the call on speaker for everyone, you know better this time.

“Hello, who is this?” You leveled this question for so many reasons.

“Hola, Mami. Que tal?” One familiar chuckle reached your phone when Armando's old goon Zway Rodriguez picked up.

“What did you do?!” After reaching his breaking point, Aretas snapped upon realization, held back by Terry and Dorn when hearing Zway's voice.

“Just keep me out of prison and I'll explain everything. Otherwise…” Zway requested his own terms.

“What?!” Armando's rage only worsened, but Terry and Dorn still wouldn't let go of Aretas.

“Be careful, man. I'd hate for this special girl to be the next target.” Zway dropped that call, bringing everyone into this chaotic frenzy.

******

“Are you saying that Zway killed this coffee shop manager?” As you stayed home, Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett gathered AMMO members near the department.

“We'll find out soon enough.” Dorn tracked information to find puzzle pieces for the case.

“Compromised again?” Mike questioned protocol once more.

“No, but if we don't listen to Rodriguez, she'll be dead.” Dorn grounded the truth with your safety and planned to lock that case.

“Be careful while you plan Zway's interrogation, all right?” Marcus and Mike also warned Captain Rita Secada. “We can't even put Armando in the same building.”

“Fair enough. Go ahead and deal with Rodriguez yourselves.” Rita stepped out of the precinct.

________

“Listen, be grateful. Armando would've kicked your ass, Zway.” Marcus Burnett paced back and forth while questioning Rodriguez.

“No, Marcus. If it wasn't for us, Zway would be dead at the morgue tonight.” Mike folded both arms and stood in one corner.

“Keep me out of prison.” Zway dared to speak this time.

“First of all, don't fuck around. Did you kill the coffee shop manager or not?” Mike Lowrey squinted.

“Yeah.” Zway dropped his bored response without showing emotions.

“Why?” Mike prompted immediate eye contact, keeping composure.

“It's all revenge.” Zway continued. “I even planted drugs y'all found at the coffee shop.”

“Revenge for what?” Mike questioned.

“When Armando shot me near that helicopter four years ago, I fell into water, but survived.” Zway revealed. “Keep me away from prison unless you want problems.”

Glancing toward one another, Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett left the interrogation room.

_______

“It's official, y'all. Zway just confessed to everything.” Marcus exposed the truth.

“Is it possible to keep him out of prison?” Dorn looked concerned.

“No. We need a different plan.” Marcus shook his head.

“We've got no other choice, then.” Lowrey darkened his voice.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Marcus worried.

“Somebody needs to kill Zway.” Lowrey couldn't turn back this time.

_______

While staying home as a precaution, you find Terry and Armando in the living room.

“Hi.” You spoke up.

“Hey.” Both protective men faced your direction as sympathy reached their eyes.

“Thank you for looking out.” You've expressed so much more gratitude.

The doorbell prompted all three of you to glance forward, but Terry checked your RING Camera first.

“It's Lowrey and Burnett.” Terry pinpointed your friends.

“Let them in, T.” You offered permission, but Armando stood up anyway, ready for the next plan.

“Before we start talking about this shit, c'mere, Rook.” Lowrey opened both arms to hug you.

And for the first time since handling Zway's call, your eyes began to well up. Even Marcus wouldn't pass jokes.

“What's the plan?” Your kind voice lowered without hesitation.

“Somebody needs to kill Zway, but Armando can't do it or he'll go right back to prison.” Mike revealed this truth.

There's no other choice. You've realized the possible outcome.

“All right, then.” Enough was enough. “Bring the squad together and back me up. Whatever happens, I'm not going down without a fight.”

______

By nightfall, members of the AMMO squad returned to your home and prepared this attack from different corners.

“Watch the house, Terry.” You offered brief yet vital instructions. “That's all we need from you.”

“Yes, Ma'am. Be careful.” Armed himself, Richmond focused as you rolled out with everyone and silently waited for more.

******

“Have Armando take henchmen, Mike!” Marcus yelled out loud while steering another motorcycle and neon lights painted streets. "Don't let him catch Zway!”

“This is a battlefield, Marcus!” Lowrey moved among blaring engines. “No more rules. I am not responsible for Armando tonight.”

“What about his redemption, Mike?” Marcus still attempted to be logical.

“If Rook dies, Armando's second chance won't even matter.” Lowrey gritted his teeth over your chance to live. “Let's go!”

______

Zway Rodriguez punched speed without fail as racing motorcycles caught up.

Glancing past his shoulder, Zway quickly realized that someone lifted their firearm while still directing the motorcycle.

No! Only one person crossed missions through anger four years ago.

Armando returned.

“It's Aretas, move faster!” Zway attempted to warn other goons.

While Zway prepared to dodge Armando, he didn't even notice that your motorcycle joined this fight.

“Here's payback.” You pulled this trigger and immediately spiraled Zway's route, dashing to escape between shadows.

“Zway's dead!” Armando turned near you without removing his helmet.

“Follow back to my house! We gotta check on Terry.” You would return home as expected.

******

No targets, only silence.

Terry Richmond heightened awareness while keeping watch in your home. Even distant sounds located for the neighborhood matter at this point.

When engines revved out loud to line up vehicles this evening, Terry knew that signal.

The AMMO squad returned.

“Open the door, T!” You hurried to run inside with everyone else.

“C'mon!” Terry almost pulled the doorknob this time.

Kelly and Dorn entered first, no longer hiding in that surveillance van.

Mike and Marcus pulled through next as Rita stepped up before long.

When you and Armando reached this house, pain nearly dampened Terry's face.

Regardless of the plan, it's still a miracle that you're alive.

Just when this group would settle with relief, lights shut down as the home turned pitch-black.

“Stay armed and keep watch here! No friendly fire.” Terry warned you and the AMMO squad.

Within seconds, glasses shattered from rear living room windows as bullets rattled, searching for carnage.

“Look out!” You screamed, trying to defend yourself while every moment prompted chaos.

Yet when lights returned for the living room, everyone else glanced around, realizing that Armando and Terry no longer battled here.

“Be careful while searching for them. We gotta move!” Lowrey stepped over countless bodies while instructing all of you.

Where did y'all go?! Your thoughts rushed as panic heightened even more.

______

“No corras!” Rasping Spanish once more, Aretas warned enemies not to run. Seconds later, vengeful bullets sparked through lethal fire.

“I hear Armando's voice in the garage.” Kelly finally noticed echos. “Go, go, go!”

Scoring the garage, you found absolute carnage here. Even Terry moved forward and disarmed other goons.

“Listen! Either deal with me or I'm throwing you to him. It's your choice.” Richmond still warned targets about Aretas.

As bullets raced, fear struck combatants every single time.

“Give me your weapons and leave.” Terry gritted without hesitation.

While still fighting others, everything slowed down when this bullet pierced time.

You fell back and toppled against the hard floor right now.

“Dammit, she's hit. Armando!” Terry barked through shock.

As blood spilled with each passing moment, you wince despite the guard of your own vest.

Footsteps rushed to your aid as you still recognized Kelly and Dorn.

“Call paramedics!” Dorn hurried.

Rita, Mike and Marcus kept fighting elsewhere in the house, not realizing your injury yet.

“T….” You struggled, grimacing without assistance.

“We'll handle this, all right?” Terry still planned to help right now. “Keep your eyes open.”

Soon enough, Footfalls dashed to reveal Armando's presence.

“Move!” Slightly accented English pulled more feelings when Aretas shoved Richmond out of his way. “What the fuck happened?!

Entering the garage themselves, Mike, Marcus and Rita stood flabbergasted on sight.

“Aw, shit!” Mike grilled everyone over your accident. “She's losing too much blood past the vest. Where's medical?!”

“I already called for help!” Dorn shouted with an explanation.

“Well, medics better hurry up and reach that bullet!” Marcus exposed his anger. “My niece is dying.”

Just when you trembled near deadly pain, sirens wailed outside once more.

******

While beeping sounded, fluorescent lights almost blinded your vision as you woke up in the hospital.

“Hey, Rook.” Detective Mike Lowrey joined your bedside this morning.

“H-Hi...” As you struggled talking, exhaustion replaced that cheerful voice.

“Just take it easy.” Mike cautioned. When you sat up, different wires aided.

“Terry and Armando?” You looked for Richmond and Aretas.

“You got it. I'll get 'em right now.” Mike pointed between you and the door.

_____

“She's awake, c'mon.” Crossing the lobby, Mike updated Terry and Armando as you wished.

“Made it. How are you doing?” Before long, Terry knocked first and held flowers, showing this rare yet great smile.

“Tired.” You attempted.

“Better than nothing. You're still here.” Terry joined the bedside chair and sat down.

“What happened?” You couldn't help asking questions despite everything.

“We barely reached the hospital and experts took out your bullet during surgery.” Richmond never lied.

“Thank you.” Your pained voice expressed gratitude once more.

“You're welcome.” Terry said. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I can't stomach anything. Maybe later.” Even your throat seems uncomfortable.

“Okay.” Richmond took notice. Let me know and we'll help out.”

Knocks resumed and Armando stepped in, no longer wearing tactical gear.

“Hey, sorry.” Aretas walked closer. “I got some water for you and the vending machine held up.”

“Thanks.” You tried.

“We just found out that you'll be discharged soon.” Armando revealed.

“How soon?” You questioned.

“Tonight or tomorrow.” Armando nodded.

“Thank you.” It's a habit just to repeat that kind phrase.

Even while you smiled through fatigue, your mood brightened again.

*****

Given permission to leave that hospital, you could finally return home, but wouldn't handle work until further notice. There's no other choice this time.

Headlines soon revealed that the coffee shop became defunct. This establishment pulled too much drama following Zway's dark investigation.

During your recovery, even Armando helped on a regular basis and only slept from his downtown apartment when working at the police station.

Sooner than later, Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett had planned another special cookout for the department. Friends still invited you today.

Planning to leave with Armando, you both signaled the group chat first.

“Where's Terry?” Moving near that driveway, you haven't heard from Richmond yet.

“I don't know.” Armando finished packing this car as you joined the passenger seat. “He might've gone to the park early or something.”

Just before Aretas would drive, another vehicle pulled up.

Richmond turned down the driver's seat window of this brand-new SUV.

“What are y'all waiting for? Let's go!” Chuckling through joy, Terry guided your route toward the public park.

This happy ending could shine at last.

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wangxianficrecs · 10 months ago

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Overwhelming Enthusiasm by Shadaras

Overwhelming Enthusiasm

by Shadaras (@shadaras)

M, 1k, Wangxian

Part of the MDZS Casefic Exchange

Summary: When the library’s alarms went off, Lan Qiren wearily expected to arrive to find an apologetic Wei Wuxian—possibly with one of the young disciples who looked up to him—explaining that No really I didn’t mean to touch that, I’m so sorry, let me reset that for you. Kay's comment: This was actually really funny, though I would give it a light gore warning. Really enjoyed it and the flavour of a good uncle Lan Qiren who has considerably warmed up to Wei Wuxian post-canon. Excerpt: “Shufu.” Lan Wangji let out a long breath. “A creature attracted to Yang energy appeared unexpectedly. We may have, ah. Overfed it. Until it burst.” There was a wealth of understatement in Lan Wangji’s words. Lan Qiren stared at the lattice-worked carvings that edged the library’s ceiling and attempted not to imagine the sequence of events. Or how Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian had ‘overfed’ such a beast. “I see,” he said neutrally. “Have you identified the source of this creature? I’m surprised it could appear within the wards.” “I think it snuck in with us,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “There aren’t any obvious holes in the wards, and I don’t think it manifested from any texts in here, though admittedly I haven’t had time to check yet. Also, um, you can turn around? If that would help.”

pov lan qiren, post-canon, canon era, blood and gore, aftermath of violence, coitus interruptus, good uncle lan qiren, nerd wei wuxian family feels, slice of life, everyday means everyday

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

#Wangxian Fic Rec #The Untamed #Wangxian #MDZS #Kay's Rec #February 2024 #Overwhelming Enthusiasm #shadaras #Mature #short fic <15k #pov lan qiren #post-canon #canon era #aftermath of violence #coitus interruptus #good uncle lan qiren #nerd wei wuxian family feels #slice of life #everyday means everyday

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waywardwizzard · 5 months ago

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Curling into a ball, Simon groaned, vaguely aware of someone shouting. A gentle hand on his shoulder made him flinch.

"Easy, doc', just me."

"Mal?" Simon slurred, squinting up at the captain. "How - ?"

"L'il sis threw a fit, figured you were getting into trouble."

Concerned blue eyes flickered over him. "And it seems you were. What the ta ma de happened?"

Simon shook his head, wincing when it gave a vicious trob.

"They tried to take my money." He blinked, "Which is funny considering that I don't have any."

Mal laughed and helped him sit up. Curling an arm around his aching ribs, Simon glared at the captain.

"It's not funny."

"Whatever you say, doc'." Standing up with a grunt, he offered him a hand, "C'mon, let's get back to Serenity."

□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□

Author's note -

I kind of like this one. Don't know why but I do.

@whumperless-whump-event

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bougiebutchbitch · 4 months ago

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seeing 'dead dove & proship dni' on a blog is a first for me. like. i've seen 'proship dni' - and even if I think it's stupid, because you're basically saying 'I believe it's okay to harass people who create fictional situations I disapprove of', it doesn't surprise me anymore. But 'dni dead dove'??? you hate properly tagged fics and want that nasty stuff just floating around in the ecosystem where anyone can accidentally stumble across it? Like turds in a river?? okayyyyyy

I know, I know, they think fiction = reality. They want to eradicate any and all darkfic altogether, regardless of if you're a survivor exploring your feelings/trying to understand your abuser's pov, or digging into the nitty gritty awfulness of trauma recovery, or just putting fictional characters in a horrific situation to see what they do, like a fictional saw trap that is hurting literally no one. Y'know, like TV writers do all the time. I know they buy into the idea that video games cause violence. But like. ???

#it was someone who posted about my current fave show too which. is BURSTING with dead dove content lmao?????? wtf #why are you watching th* b*ys if you hate dead dove.... buddy #for the record my personal stance is that there is Nuance. Video games don't cause violence but they can spread for example islamophobic #propaganda (i.e. CoD)#and I'm 100% with the idea of AO3 mods intervening over rampant racism/antisemitism/homo/transphobia because. yeah.#sometimes people do write truly VILE fic that is clearly designed to hurt people of colour/queer people/other minorities #but if you read a CLEARLY MARKED AND TAGGED DARKFIC #covered in warnings #it's.... pretty fucking obvious that you are NOT meant to take that as a how-to guide on living your actual real life.#I truly fail to see how that is causing any material real harm #whereas say. a fic that is *abhorrently racist* 1) isn't gonna be tagged as such lmao and 2) isn't gonna show clear signs #that the author doesn't actually think what they're writing about is moral or real or should be applied to real life

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peppered-moths · 16 days ago

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volta

grian vers. / scar vers.

cw: mildly dubious consent, asphyxiation (non-fatal)

Scar can’t stop the trembling of his hands. He feels every heartbeat as it pounds through his skull, threatening him with an imminent migraine. The feeling of red still thrums in his veins, and he just can’t quite shake it off. Jimmy’s staring at him; Scar can feel his eyes cutting into the back of his head. He unstrings and restrings his bow, ignoring the way it makes the wood creak.

It’s the same bow he’d used to shoot Grian out of the sky earlier. A cheap shot, he’d called it, but Scar had done it anyway. It’s not exactly like he didn’t mean to. It’s just that–

Scar has killed Grian before. It’s not exactly a common occurrence, but it has happened. Somehow, though, it’s almost felt–normal. Like he’s killing just anybody, not Grian.

He’s not afraid to admit that he’s in love with Grian. It’s been a fact since– well. Since. It’s just– it’s just.

Grian loves so explosively, sometimes literally. He’s killed Scar before, as well. But he makes a game out of it, of feeling Scar’s blood on his knuckles. Grian would laugh until he cried, shoulders shaking and breaths becoming hysterical. Scar would just watch, half-bewildered and all the way in love. Even as Grian’s hands crept up just a little too far, curled around his throat, nails making crescent indents. He wants to know what it feels like; to love the blood on his hands the way Grian does. To throw himself so wholly into the fire, and to come out burned, delighted to be alight.

He stands up, seized by a sudden need to know; is it the same? He can hear Jimmy’s cut-off noise in the background, before he, apparently, decides to leave Scar to his own devices.

He climbs down the mountain as quietly as he can, and he catches sight of Grian right away. He’s sat, dangling his legs over the edge of his bridge, scraping a flint and steel together over and over. Scar creeps closer, onto the railing of the bridge.

“Careful,” he says, right as a spark lands on Grian’s hand. He’s up before Scar can even blink, sword glimmering with enchantments in the night. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt,” he finishes, taken a little bit aback. He’s not even yellow anymore, really?

Grian is silent for a moment, the point of his sword describing small circles in the air. “Like you’d care about me getting hurt,” he decides, and Scar bites his tongue. “Go away, Scar. It’s the middle of the night.”

I wanted to see you, he thinks, I want to remember why I wanted this.

“What, I can’t make a friendly visit to my neighbor?” Grian wrinkles his nose as Scar steps down from the railing he’s been balancing on. The point of his sword lowers, almost imperceptible.

“You have to schedule an appointment. We’re not available. Go home.” Grian hisses the last part, like he’s taken personal offense to it. Home. Scar’s not sure where that is anymore.

Still, he makes an overexaggerated moue of disappointment. “Aw, can’t you make an exception?” He steps closer again, flirting with the edge of Grian’s sword.

“No.” Grian keeps his eyes on him; Scar can feel him tracking every movement he makes. Scar is just studying him in the moonlight, the way it silvers everything about him.

“Hey,” Grian snaps. “I mean it. Leave.”

And, you know, usually Scar would. But there’s some question pressing down on his tongue that he can’t quite verbalize. And he doesn’t leave.

He feels Grian’s sword dig into the soft skin of his neck, the prick of warm pain. This is familiar; Grian, at arms-length, never quite close enough to touch, but always close enough to hurt. He moves closer anyways.

“What’s your game?” He can hear Grian’s heartbeat now, flutter-stutter in his ears. “Or do you just have a death wish?” Maybe a little, he almost says, when it’s you. But that’s not what he’s here for, so he smiles wide, trying to hide that. But Grian is starting to slowly retreat, to escape to some place Scar will never find him again.

“What if I said I was apologizing?” He raises his hands, palms up, guileless. He’s not. There’s nothing he’s really sorry for; only that he couldn’t do it right, the way that Grian wanted it. Up close and personal.

“Then you can do it in the morning. But you’re not here to apologize.” Sharp as ever, even though his eyes are darting around like he’s looking for an escape route. They freeze, sudden, on his throat. Scar pauses, tilting his head, to show off where the blood runs thickest.

“You’re right.”

Grian makes a confused sound, slowly dragging his gaze back up to meet his eyes.

“I’m not here to apologize.” Scar takes a breath, takes a gamble. He gently lowers Grian’s swordpoint, pressing down. He steps back. Scar steps forwards.

“Stop,” Grian begs, all prey animal. “Stop.” He curls in on himself even as he backs away from Scar, into the railing. Still, there’s–something–there, in his eyes. Something intent.

“But you don’t really want me to, do you.” Scar wonders about that, a little. Grian is shaking, the way he does every time he kills Scar. Like it’s the most terribly lovely thing in the world. His sword clatters to the ground.

“I don’t think you really even care that I killed you,” he tries, watching as Grian’s expression shifts, caught between fear and something unnamable.

“I hate you,” he says, even as his fingers curl like he wants something. “I hate you.” Scar’s heard that one a thousand times.

Scar nudges the diamond blade with his toe. He doesn’t particularly want to be stabbed through the heart tonight, so he kicks it off the bridge. Returns his attention to Grian.

“I think I know exactly what you want.” Scar wants to do something awful. Something that will stick. Something that’s love, something that’s blood, something that will make him feel like he’s doing the wrong thing.

“Don’t,” Grian breathes, barely a whisper.

Scar ignores him in favor of kissing him. Grian leans back against the wooden railing, tilting his head up to meet him. He feels those hands curl against his throat, feels Grian’s pulse hammering, and hums softly. In an old habit, he rests his hands on Grian’s waist, only to feel dangerous pressure on his windpipe.

He pulls away from the kiss, blinking. Grian’s hands stay on his neck, even as he glares.

“What the hell do you want, Scar,” he pants, fingers constricting and loosening in little spasms. That’s not really a question he can answer, so he elects not to.

Grian bites down on his lower lip. Hard. His fingers are tight, too tight, around Scar’s throat, but he’s never really cared about little things like that, so he kisses him again and again, flailing desperately for a feeling he’s not sure he can even name.

Eventually, though, he has to break for air. His chest is too tight, the little gasps of air he’s getting through Grian’s chokehold not enough to sustain him. He breathes for a moment. Two.

Then Grian shoves him back.

Scar stumbles away, reeling a little. He can see, past the haze, the shake of Grian’s shoulders, the animal panic in his eyes. He can’t bring himself to be sorry. Instead, Scar brushes a hand over his throat. It burns when he swallows, fades to a dull ache when he doesn’t. His fingers come back red.

Still, he can’t feel it. Whatever euphoria, whatever love it’s supposed to be–it just hurts.

“Go,” Grian tells him. Whatever he says after that is a jumble of sounds. He opens his mouth–to justify himself, to apologize, to spit vitriol right back–and closes it. Then he opens it again.

“Grian–” he tries. “I–” I don’t understand how it’s supposed to be. I don’t know why I can’t love your blood in my mouth. I can hurt you, but it never feels any different.

“I really don’t know what you’re not getting,” Grian says, and it feels like a damnation, an answer to the questions he can’t bring himself to ask. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. His mouth tastes like metal.

Grian still looks like a vision, even trembling and clearly still gasping for breath. But it’s not the violence Scar thinks he loves. It’s just Grian. There’s no guilt, but there’s no rightness to it either.

He leaves, keeping their encounter broken-off, bottom lip stinging. It’s only a quick climb back up the mountain. Jimmy stands up as he approaches, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he relaxes when he sees Scar.

He tenses again as he notices the mottled mess of bruising ringing Scar’s throat, but then he meets Scar’s eyes and must see something there, be it reassurance or simply exhaustion, and glances away.

Scar doesn’t say anything as he sits back down, just laces his fingers together and pretends he’s holding someone’s hand in his own. It’s poor comfort, but it’s better than nothing.

I don’t know how to love you right, he thinks to nobody at all, and I don’t think I ever will.

#local aroace writes a metaphor for asexuality/aromanticism disguised in violence #is anybody surprised?#just to be perfectly clear: what scar does in this fic is absolutely Not Okay #it’s meant to explore a little bit into the different kinds of love-as-violence expressed by the two of them #but just because he decides he doesn’t like it doesn’t immediately absolve him of his actions #just so we’re all on the same page #anyways. wow #that life sure is wild #scarian #wild life #life series #trafficshipping

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mxmarsbars · 5 months ago

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wrote some more dl!clock duo angst for anybody interested ^_^

make sure to mind the tags !! this one does contain some violence and death

#tw violence #tw character death #tw blood #angst #tags are better explained on actual fic these are just baseline warnings #trafficshipping #clock duo #impdubs #double life #double life smp #trafficblr

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thetomorrowshow · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 19 - Blood Trail

title: washed up

fandom: hermitcraft smp

cw: blood and violence

It was his own fault, really. His own fault that he didn’t check the durability on his elytra, that he hadn’t bothered to enchant them with Mending. How was his laziness more pressing than Mending?

So Etho had tumbled out of the sky, drifting where he could on his damaged wings, until he managed to crash into a tree and fall through its branches, where he landed on the ground just at the edge of a forest.

Etho groaned, pushed himself up onto his knees. His face stung from the lash of the branches against his cheeks, his entire body sore from the impact against the ground. He might have broken his right wrist, caught under his body. It was already swelling up, his hand practically useless.

He wiped his other hand across his face, grimaced when it came away bloody. A quick look down showed he was bleeding from a multitude of different scrapes on his body, his clothes torn here and there. None of them looked serious, or even all that deep, so that could have been a lot worse.

A wrist and some scrapes wasn’t the end of the world, but the dull pain coming from his ankle told him that wasn’t all. He shifted to sit, tugged down the sock of his right foot to check it.

Yep, it looked about the same as his wrist, already swelling up. Maybe broken, maybe badly sprained—either way, he wasn’t walking out of there.

It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. He could be in a lot worse of a situation. Sure, night was falling, but if he messaged the main chat for help, someone would come get him.

<Etho> hey anybody on-world and awake

<Docm77> Hello

<Cubfan135> I never sleep

<Tango> so not bdubs? haha

<Etho> my elytra broke far away… ://

<Tango> oh etho

<Cubfan135> no mending?

<Etho> I haven’t gotten around to it

<Docm77> how far away are you?

<Etho> idk pretty far out

<Etho> [COORDINATES]

<Tango> oh dude that’s forever away

<Etho> yup

<Cubfan135> needing some help?

<Etho> well I think I broke my ankle

<Cubfan135> oh nooo

<Docm77> no potions?

<Etho> nope

<Cubfan135> suiting up now

<Docm77> omw

<Etho> thanks guys haha

Etho set his communicator down in the grass, dug through his satchel. He usually carried a couple of bandages, so he could at least wrap the ankle, get it some support.

He did find an ace bandage, thankfully. He set one end against his ankle, started looping it around the arch of his foot and the joint of his ankle. He moved with practiced efficiency, pinning the loose end and pulling his sock and his shoe back up over it.

He tested it carefully, putting a bit of weight on that foot. Not too bad, but nothing that he thought he could reliably walk on.

A groan sounded from the treeline, and Etho’s head jerked up, scanning the trees for movement. Had the sun already set enough for monsters to spawn?

He wouldn’t be able to wield a sword all that well. He last practiced left-handed combat . . . two or three years ago, probably, on a consistent schedule, he just hadn’t needed it in so long. . . .

“This is why you stay on top of your skills, Etho,” he told himself. Maybe he could construct some sort of shelter? Or—

Another groan from the forest. He’d never been that fond of building, so he didn’t tend to carry that kind of stuff on him. Especially not when he was just flying out to find some unexplored cave, his pockets as empty as they could be. Sure, he had torches, but that wouldn’t be enough to fend off a horde of zombies.

He passed over a village not too long ago, didn’t he? If he could find a large enough stick to lean on, maybe he could make his way back toward it. Surely it wouldn’t be too far of a trek—he remembered seeing it just before he crashed.

Etho glanced back at the forest, the most likely place to find a stick. No sun filtered out through the thick canopy of trees, the darkness much deeper than it ought to have been, even at this late hour.

Yeah. That probably wasn’t going to happen.

He had to lean on his sword, then, and hope that it was enough. Luckily, the ground was dry enough that the tip shouldn’t just sink into the earth. Etho counted that as a blessing and started off, adjusting his left-handed grip on the hilt after each step, trying to find what worked best.

It wasn’t all that helpful, to be honest. The sword was just too short to work the way he wanted it to, and he would have preferred it on his other side. Just his luck that he happened to break the wrist and ankle of the same side of his body.

He probably should have wrapped his wrist, too, but he wasn’t in the habit of carrying more than one ace bandage, and he didn’t really have time. His arm shoved into his sleeveless coat, held in place by the halfway-zipped zipper, would have to do.

He should message the others, let them know that he was moving and heading toward a town, but when he reached for his communicator at his belt, he found the holster empty.

Uh-oh.

Etho turned (slowly, too slowly), spotted his communicator on the ground where he’d left it, ten feet behind him, resting in the grass.

Come on.

“Okay,” he breathed, staring at it. How long had it taken him to walk those couple of steps? Not too long, surely, mere minutes, but minutes were everything at sundown.

Should he risk it? Grab his communicator, or keep making his way toward the village?

It was more important to be able to update his friends, probably.

He tightened his hold on his sword, started to hobble back to his communicator. He tried to keep his uneven footsteps quiet, careful not to disturb any monsters in the woods, but the grass underfoot was dry and crunched, and his gait wasn’t particularly suited for quiet at the moment.

He made it to his communicator, though, and puzzled for a moment with the concept of picking it up. He could bend forward if he put his weight on his sword, but he wouldn’t be able to pick it up with his free hand. Not to mention, when he attempted to bend over, his back shot through with stiffening pain—deep tissue bruises from his fall, no doubt.

Right. How was he meant to do this?

He could crouch, he supposed. On one leg, though? Well, his right leg might not take much weight, but it could at least steady him. He would have to put his sword into its sheath, unable to hold it and unwilling to drop it.

He fumbled with it, awkwardly trying to work his sword into the sheath with his left hand. He managed to slide it in, though, and was about to crouch when he heard the snapping of underbrush.

Etho looked up, eyes trained on the dark woods. He scanned them, back and forth, and quickly identified the source of the movement—a bush, right up at the edge, trembling as something pushed its way through—

A rotting hand shoved aside the last branch, and a zombie stumbled out, arms reaching toward Etho.

Now, Etho didn’t usually have any problems dispatching zombies. A quick stab and slash, maybe a running jump, and they were down. One of the easier monsters to handle, honestly. Far easier than creepers or skeletons.

But this zombie was . . . different.

Etho had seen zombie villagers before. He’d always shuddered at their twisted features, their not-quite-right noises. He’d killed those as well, if they were too far gone to be restored.

This one was, quite notably, not too far gone.

It was a farmer, once. Its wide-brimmed hat protected it from the last rays of the sun, its blood-stained overalls not thick enough to save it from whatever zombie bit it, blood staining the jean. Gloves hung from its belt, one almost entirely slipped out, just a finger pinning it in place.

It wasn’t quite a zombie, though, not yet. Sure, its skin was splotched with green, its mouth hanging open to show rotting teeth. Its eyes were completely clouded over with white, its fingernails cracked and blackened. But something about it screamed human, something in the way it checked right and left before lurching toward Etho, something in its repetitive swallowing of saliva instead of letting it all drip down its chin.

This was a freshly-turned zombie villager. Its reflexes were likely to be quicker, its bites stronger. Usually, Etho would turn the thing back, but as proved earlier, of course he didn’t think to bring an Ender chest with him.

He didn’t want to kill it, though. It was just a farmer, maybe still conscious enough to recognize that something was wrong, and he hated to condemn it to death for not being able to defend itself against a monster—not when he should have been able to help it.

Ah, well. He cared more about surviving this encounter than feeling bad for a zombie.

“Whoa there, buddy,” Etho said, hopping back a bit on his uninjured foot. His communicator remained on the ground as he tried to get his sword back out, sweaty fingers pulling fruitlessly on the handle. “If you want to just hang tight for a minute, my friends are on their way. They can turn you back.”

He didn’t think that the zombie could understand him, but there wasn’t any harm in trying.

His sword came free—

The zombie lunged—

Etho missed. Etho missed, and the zombie reached for him—he did his best to twist away, but his good foot slipped out from under him. He hit the ground and swung back blindly with his sword, pulling himself away on his bad arm. His wrist buckled under him and he gasped, pain surging through it.

Before he could properly turn around and defend himself, the zombie was on top of him. Etho writhed, tried to shove it off, but before he could get any leverage, it was biting down on his upper left arm.

A pained noise escaped his clenched teeth as he felt his flesh break under the zombie’s teeth, fire spreading from the bite. Involuntarily, his fingers released the sword, letting it clatter to the ground beside him. He shoved back, managing to dislodge the zombie—but a glance down showed several of the teeth still stuck in his bloody flesh. Etho rolled onto his back, scooted backwards as quickly as he could.

The zombie threw itself at him again, and Etho had nothing to defend himself with—

It bit into his chest this time, and Etho kicked and kicked and beat at its head with his fist, grimacing as its soft head gave way partially under the heel of his palm. White-hot pain burst from his chest as its jaw clamped down on him—Etho’s arms spasmed, but he just forced himself to breathe through it and kept trying to push the zombie away.

Without warning, his broken ankle erupted in pain. For a moment, he couldn’t make sense of it—the zombie was still on top of him, pulling away with a mouthful of flesh, blood dripping everywhere: how could it have grabbed his foot?

There was a hand wrapped around his bad ankle, and as the zombie pushed off of him, Etho saw it.

Another zombie villager, and this one was a teenage boy. It was a farmer as well, made clear by its jeans and straw hat, and Etho had a moment of staring at the two through tear-blurred eyes before he realized that they were probably father and son.

Then the son pulled, and Etho had a second realization.

He’d only seen this happen once. A villager reported missing from one of his villagers, that had been seen dragged away by multiple zombie villagers. Etho had ventured out in search and discovered an entire zombie villager family, feasting on the kidnapped villager.

These two were taking him to their family.

That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

“Hey,” Etho gasped, trying to spot his communicator as they started to haltingly drag him toward the forest. “Hey, I don’t really appreciate this. I’ve got—things—”

There it was, glinting in the grass—he reached for it—

The farmer’s boot came down on it, the screen cracking and fizzing out.

Maybe it still worked?

Etho twisted around onto his stomach, gritting his teeth against the scream that tried to tear from his throat at the turn of his injured ankle. His efforts were wasted, anyhow; his communicator was already out of reach.

He kicked, grabbed the grass, tried his best to fight, but the father growled something like a warning and Etho let himself go limp. He just had to wait for an opportune moment.

They breached the treeline, and Etho groaned aloud when the branches and roots of the underbrush began to pull at his clothes, scraping his skin up even worse.

This was going to be fun.

“Uh-oh,” Cub said as they landed at the coordinates that Etho had sent. Doc made a noise of unease.

Before them was Etho’s communicator, a large crack splintering down the screen. His sword lay abandoned a couple of feet away.

More ominous than anything, however, was the clear sign of something heavy being dragged through the broken grass and into the woods, the trail dotted and smeared with darkness that shines in the light of Doc’s torch. Blood.

They looked at each other, a quick analysis of the situation passing between them.

No discussion was needed. They turned toward the forest and charged in.

Following the trail was easy—blood marred it, of course, but whatever had taken Etho had made sure to drag him through the worst of the underbrush, making a clear path all the way through. Cub kept one eye on the ground while Doc followed close behind, his mechanical eye whirring.

Then they heard a sound that chilled their very bones.

A scream, cut-off and choked, sounding from not too far within.

Without a word, Cub broke into a run. Doc followed right behind.

Etho was still pretty sure he could make it out of this alive.

They hadn’t reached the rest of the zombie family yet, and the two dragging him hadn’t shown any signs of tiring out, but Etho was just resourceful like that.

He’d managed to roll back onto his back (terrible for his elytra, which he just knew were getting as destroyed as his mask already was), and from there he had pulled his satchel onto his stomach and begun pawing through it, ignoring the quickly-failing mobility of his right arm and the pulsing pain and slow seeping of blood from his chest.

He had torches, a pickaxe repair kit, some basic redstone. Food. Some finer instruments for chiseling. Not much, but certainly enough.

His left-handed throw would be rough, but surely he could launch something at these guys. If he could catch the kid in the face with his chisel, it might loosen its grip enough for Etho to sit up, then swing the miniature sledgehammer at the leg of the father. That should shatter the bone, give Etho a moment to grab his pickaxe off his back and swing.

He grasped the chisel, rubbed it between his bloodstained fingers. He had this. He just needed to breathe, ignore all the pain, and. . . .

Before he could take aim, they broke into something of a clearing—still with heavy tree covering, but few obstructions.

Sitting in the clearing were three other zombie villagers: the farmer’s wife, a baby, and another son.

Oh, no. He’d better not have left this too late.

“I really don’t want to die,” Etho said, as casually as he can manage. “I know that’s kind of your thing, but—”

He threw.

That part worked, somehow. The boy dragging him let go as the chisel hit him square in the nose, stumbling back and covering his face.

The next part . . . didn’t. Etho tried to sit up, tried to swing the sledgehammer at the farmer, but his back seized up with all-encompassing pain, just as it had earlier. He was stuck on the ground, muscles jerking, he couldn’t sit up—

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Etho muttered frantically, doing anything he could to roll to his feet. He’d run on a broken ankle, he didn’t care anymore, but this was getting dangerous and he had to go.

He was too late, not even able to turn onto his stomach as the farmer’s hands closed around his right foot and twisted. Etho screamed, briefly, at the horrible jolt and drag of pain as he felt his bones crunching together—he shoved his forearm into his mouth to stifle the noise, tried to focus through his watering eyes.

He threw the sledgehammer—missed. Just his luck. And now the other zombies were stalking toward him, and the older son was back to it, reaching toward his other leg with his mouth open—

The father bit down on his foot, his teeth held at bay by Etho’s shoe. Etho jerked, tried and succeeded in kicking him in the teeth, despite the added pain to his ankle. The farmer dropped him, but the son had his other leg and bit down on his shin—it hurt, it hurt, and the little baby was crawling toward his face, green hands reaching for Etho’s eyes—

This was it. Etho was going to die here.

He had a good run, he supposed. Friends, laughs, some redstone contraptions. Looking back, he’d had more good times than bad times, and that had to mean something. He must have done something right, right?

He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, but he didn’t give up. He still tried to get away, still struggled and kicked and flung out. He still shoved the baby away.

But his energy was flagging, and soon enough, he would be nothing more than zombie food. The farmer’s wife, bent over him, tore into his stomach—the other son was gnawing on his shoulder—this was definitely it—

He’d never been this bone-chillingly terrified before, it washed over him like a tropical storm, he was dying—

Etho didn’t hear the thud and twang of the crossbow firing, nor did he see the bullet land, but he did see the wife zombie stumble away from him, landing hard on its back. He watched it, confused, his left hand coming up to uselessly try to staunch the bleeding from the gouge in his stomach.

This time, he did hear the whistle of an arrow, which buried itself in the older son’s throat and sent him crumpling to the ground, dropping Etho’s leg.

Etho looked back, over his shoulder and to the left, and there—

Cub, Cub drawing another arrow, Doc tossing a crossbow to the side and coming forward, sword already drawn.

Etho could have cried.

They had come for him. They were going to get him out of here.

The other zombies were taken out with relative ease (though Doc did splash a weakness potion on the baby and led it away to give it a slice of golden apple), and Cub was at Etho’s side in mere moments, light touches cataloging each wound.

Cub’s face had never looked so beautiful. And Doc’s.

He was going to survive.

“Hey,” Etho rasped, trying to smile. “Took you long enough.”

“Dude,” Cub shook his head. “We can’t leave you for one second.”

“Yeah, I’m a noob.” He felt a bit lightheaded. Probably the blood loss. “Got any . . . uh, potions?”

Cub clicked his tongue. “Yeah, but we’re gonna want to clean these out before you have anything. Which ankle did you hurt?”

“Uh, the right one. My wrist, too.”

Cub examined them both, his frown growing deeper and deeper. “You’ll probably want to get these checked out by a real doctor, off-world. I don’t wanna give you a potion if it isn’t set properly.”

“Whatever,” Etho said, biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering. Now that the danger was over, he couldn’t seem to stop shaking. He watched as Cub uncapped a bottle of disinfectant, pouring some onto a piece of cloth and beginning to wipe down the wounds—it stung, of course it stung, he knew it would. Etho tried not to make too much noise.

“No head trauma?” Doc asked, approaching. Etho hummed, still gritting his teeth against the sting of the disinfectant.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “Don’t even remember hitting it on the fall.”

Doc knelt beside his head, took his face between his hands—surprisingly gentle, considering the cold metal of one of them. Etho’s mask was ripped to shreds by now, but Doc still straightened it as he stared into Etho’s eyes, his mechanical eye flashing.

After a moment, he smiled. “You can sleep, Etho. We’ve got you.”

Honestly? Sleep sounded really good.

So Etho fell asleep.

When he woke up, he was home, wounds bandaged and a soft glow coming from the lamp at his bedside.

He was safe.

He closed his eyes again and let sleep take him.

#whumptober2024 #no.19 #blood trail #hermitcraft smp #fic #blood and violence #hermitcraft #ethoslab #hermitblr #hermitcraft fanfic #mas writes #not my proudest work i'll be honest #but i don't have time to edit it any further #final performance tonight!#also happy life series day!!!#lmk what you think #love you guys

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