#names have power? i’m just saying that is also whooshing around in my big empty noggin. ALSOOOOO TOOTH!!! HI ZUB!!! TOOTHHHH!!!!! i love it

[supercorpkid]

Get the door, it’s depression.

Supercorp, Kara Danvers x Daughter!Reader, Lena Luthor x Daughter!Reader, Alex Danvers x Niece!Reader.

Word Count: 2850.

Warning: Yep, it’s depression. May cause some triggers, please do not read this if it could cause you any discomfort or pain.

You hear the knock on your door. Kara’s wake up call. You open your eyes, only for them to be filled with tears immediately. You can’t. Can’t get up from bed, can’t go to school, can’t face the world right now.

The knock comes with a weird tug in the stomach. You feel like throwing up. Your heart is racing, your palms are sweating, yet your mouth is completely dry.

Not another panic attack, not another panic attack.

You shut your eyes hard and pray to Rao they forget about your existence. You pray Lena doesn’t open your bedroom’s door with the same old wake up call. You can practically hear her saying, ‘come on, baby. School. Let’s go.’ The sentence makes your stomach twist and turn inside you.

“Babygirl.” You hear Lena’s voice and oh no, here it comes. You turn to the side of your bed. There’s no time to move her out of the way and run to the bathroom, so you vomit right there. “Baby!”

Lena rushes to your side, holding your hair out of the way, while you keep throwing up something that cannot be described as food. You haven’t eaten in more than 18 hours. This yellow thing coming out of you, is not food.

“KARA! Help, please!” Lena yells, stroking your back lightly, trying to calm you down.

“What’s wrong? What’s-?” Kara's face appears in the bedroom. By the time she walks in, you’re basically done leaving everything you had on your stomach on the floor. “Oh no.” She swopes you in, in bridal style, getting you out of your vomited bedroom and into theirs. “You’re ok. Mommy is here. It’s ok, little one.” She says while laying you down in their bed.

“What are you feeling, babygirl?” Lena asks and you think about it. What are you feeling?

You’re feeling sick, but you’re not sick. You’re feeling tired, but you can’t get physically tired so it’s obviously not it. There’s nothing left in your stomach still the tug is right there.There are no words to explain what you’re feeling. There’s no illness you can blame it on.

What if they tell you to go to school? What if they tell you that you must get out of bed? You can’t get up. Your body is not responding to movement.

“Just-” You think about it. Just what? What is this? Why can’t you find the words to describe it? “Sick.” You can’t believe you’re doing this, but you fake cough. Like Kara usually fakes cough. And it’s so obvious, it’s so ridiculously over the top, that you’re sure they’re going to yell at you about it.

They don’t yell. Instead, they share a look. They have one of their telepathic conversations that you are usually not a part of. But this time you can tell what they’re thinking. They know you’re lying. Maybe the fake cough was a little too much. But they also know you don’t lie. Well, almost never, anyways. And you did throw up, and you also skipped meals, and Lena is looking at you like that. So, she knows something is up, she just doesn’t know exactly what.

“Ok.” Lena lets it out, like a sigh. “So you’re sick.” She goes to the bed, sitting next to you and investigating you further. “That means you won’t go to school.”

“Thanks.” You’re immediately relieved about it. Maybe it shows because they look at each other again, no more puzzlement in their faces.

“Do you want to stay in bed today?” Kara asks, and you agree with your head weakly. Not because you’re faking being sick. What you wanted, right now, was to vividly agree with your head because staying in bed is all you want. But weak is all you can do, for some reason. “Do you want mommy to stay with you?”

“Ummm.” No. You don’t want Kara around. You can’t even fathom the thought of her trying to cheer you up or shoving food at your face like all of this can be solved with food. “It’s ok, you should go to work. Is nothing serious.”

“Ok.” She looks disappointed at your answer. “How about if Lena stays?”

No. You also don’t want Lena around. Just the thought of having Lena pressing you to tell her what’s wrong, or that she can look at your face and see all that you’re hiding, sends shivers down your spine.

“Guys, it’s ok. It’s just some stupid cold or something like that.” You can’t get a cold, moron. How is this a cold?

“I’ll bring something for you to eat.” Kara makes her way downstairs and you look at Lena, still looking too knowing next to you.

“I’m ok. I just need to sleep a little more.” You pat her leg to comfort her. Feels weird comforting her when you know you’re the one who needs it so bad. “Go to work, mom. There’s a lot to do before L Corp launches the new device.”

Lena’s hand goes to your cheek. Usually, you would try giving her a little smile, but there’s nothing inside you that would be able to fake a believable smile right now, and you don’t have to give her more reasons to worry.

“Go.” You pat her leg again.

She gives you the longest forehead kiss you’ve ever gotten in your life. “I love you.”

“I’m not dying, you know.” You complain a little, but Lena doesn’t move. Green eyes pleading you to say the same. “I love you too.”

“Rest, baby.” Another forehead kiss. “I’ll ask Kara to check in on you later.”

“Thanks mom.”

When Lena leaves the bedroom, you let out a relieved sigh. It’s ok. They don’t know. You don’t have to explain yourself; you don’t need to find words, you don’t even know, to describe how you’re feeling. You can try and find as many words as you would like but there’s only one that will do. You’re feeling empty.

There is this crushing feeling of worthlessness and hopelessness. There is a war inside your mind, and at the same time you feel like you’re underwater. And you don’t even know how this is possible. You keep hearing ‘you should die’, you keep thinking you hate the Luthor name, you keep wondering why you had to be born with super powers. But at the same time that’s all hard to understand, because your mind feels drowned in muffled noises. You are exhausted.

You hear when Kara walks back into the room with food. You pretend you’re asleep. She knows you’re faking. You know she knows. Yet, you don’t open your eyes, nor does she call you on your lie.

You feel Kara’s big warm hand stroking your arm. You hear a worried sigh. You hear her saying she loves you. And you fall asleep.

When you wake up, it’s because you hear Kara again. You don’t know how long it has been since she left, but you hear her on the phone, and still, you don’t open your eyes.

“Still asleep, love.” She says, right outside the bedroom door. If you wanted, you could use your super hearing and listen to what Lena is saying too, but it’s too much effort and you’re exhausted. “No, she hasn't eaten anything yet. I know, Lena! I’m worried too! Ok, fine. I’ll wake her up. Call you later.”

You bite the inside of your mouth, hold your breath, and wait for it. But Kara doesn’t come in, instead you hear a whoosh of air, and she flies out. You breathe out again. Great, you can go back to sleep.

“Little one. Hey.” You feel Kara’s hand on your hair. “Wake up baby, I brought you donuts.”

“No, thanks. I just want to sleep some more.” You shuffle in bed, turning to the other side and ignoring Kara’s loud sighs.

“You’ve been sleeping for eight hours straight. You’ve skipped dinner last night, breakfast and lunch today. I’m sorry, my heart, but you have to wake up and eat something.” She tries again, even more soft than she was talking before.

“I don’t want to.”

“Please baby, just eat a little bit. There’s donuts, pizza, and your mom sent your favorite pasta from that place you like so much.” Kara’s hand is stroking your back, and it feels nice. But her voice is annoying you. And you’re oh, so, so tired. Her hands move to your face, and she strokes your cheek. “There’s so much stuff you like, sweet girl.”

“Please leave.”

“Little one…”

“Momma, just leave.”

She does, you reckon. You can’t really tell. Your mind is foggy, and you think you’re asleep again. Or maybe you’re awake. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe it’s reality. Maybe-

“Hey kiddo. Can you hear me?” You can. You wish the world would just stop talking to you, though. You wish your phone would stop ringing. You wish there wasn’t a hot yellow sun lamp on top of your body right now. There’s really no reason for it. “It’s aunt Alex. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

“I’m tired. Let me sleep.”

“Your body functions are normal. Heartbeat, oxygen, temperature. The yellow sun light is on. You’re not supposed to be tired.” She says again, touching the pulse point on your neck.

“Leave, please.” You beg, weakly. There’s no strength, there is no will power inside you.

You pray the world would just stop. The world doesn’t.

“Listen-” The mattress dips next to you when she sits. Alex easily turns your face to her. “Open your eyes and look at me. Please.”

“Why won’t you leave?” You whine, incapable of doing what she’s asking.

“Because I’m worried, your moms are worried, your cousin is worried, and we need to figure this out.” You feel her hands cupping your face, her two thumbs getting under your eyes and pulling the skin down. Your eyes unwittingly open. “Keep them open, please.” Reluctantly, you do. “Follow my finger.” She starts moving her finger in front of your face from one side to the other. “Good. Besides feeling tired, what else do you feel?”

“Annoyed at your presence.” It’s out of your mouth before you can think about it. It’s not a lie, but also not something you would just come out and say it like that. But you have no strength to take it back.

She sighs, loudly. “Just tell me what happened, kiddo. I’m sure I can help you.”

“You can’t.” Your jaw hardens at its own accord. The thought of ‘what happened’ keeps pulling the string around your neck tighter and tighter. The pit on your stomach feels infinite. “No one can, so just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Would you be willing to talk to anyone about this?” Alex doesn’t leave. You wish you were angry about it. You wish you could just tell her to go to hell. But tears find their way into your eyes and down your cheeks without your control. You hate not feeling in control of your own body. She cleans the tears with her thumb, softly. “If you don’t want to talk to me. Maybe to one of your moms?”

“No. Please, no.”

“Jamie?” You think about it. You think about anyone you would like to talk to right now. Not a single name comes to mind.

“Can I just sleep and talk to someone tomorrow?” You beg again. All that you’ve been doing is begging and whining and praying, still not a single soul responds to it. “Please, I’m-I’m exhausted. I can’t do any more talking today.”

“Ok.” Alex agrees. “You can talk tomorrow, but you have to eat today and that is non-negotiable.”

“Ok. I’ll eat.” But you close your eyes again, and before you know it, you’re drifting back to sleep.

It’s night, it’s day. Maybe night again.

Time passes, but it doesn’t.

You twist and turn, and sleep, and sleep-

Kara doesn’t let go of you. Lena sighs and whispers. They worry, but there’s nothing you can do about it. You have no strength to do anything about it.

They sigh, you feel bad. Then worse. Then you don’t feel anything at all.

They cry, you feel shitty. Instead of making them stop crying, you cry too. Then it’s like you’ve never even knew tears in your life.

It’s a full circle.

And then maybe it’s day again.

“Please, little one, wake up.” You blink your eyes at the request. Kara is holding food, and Lena is holding water in front of your face. “It’s been two days, you have to eat or Alex will use the red sun lamp to do an IV rehydration, and it’s going to be so much worse.���

“Mommy.” You whine, closing your eyes again.

“I’m sorry, baby. But you need food.” She sets the food on the side of the bed and sits you up. “Come on, you eat a little and we’ll let you go back to sleep, how about that?”

“How about I just sleep?”

“Hey. No, no.” She holds you up, before you try to lay down again. You hear Kara whispering in your ear. “Remember that you are my heart, and I need my heart to be strong. So please.”

You whine one more time, like a hurt puppy, but you still eat. Anything they put in your mouth, really, you don’t even care what it is. You eat and drink, then sleep and sleep-

“Babygirl. Hey, mom is here with you, ok?” You feel Lena’s hand on your hair, scraping your scalp so softly; you want nothing but that for the rest of your life.

“Don’t stop.” You wail. You must be begging again. It’s all you do.

“Playing with your hair?” She asks and you hum in agreement. “Ok, I won’t. Can I hold you?”

“Yes. But no talking.”

Lena gets comfortable next to you. One arm is around your ribcage, the other one on your hair, scrapping, playing, stroking it.

Your heart is empty, your stomach is empty, now your mind feels the same. It’s almost nice to feel nothing at all.

“Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing.” Lena says a while later and again your words leave your mouth before you can even process them.

“Ignore it. It’s them.”

“Who’s them?”

“The bullies.” Lena’s hand stops moving on your hair, her body stiffens close to yours. But your mind is foggy. The string around your neck tightens harder. Your stomach is an endless void. “Don’t stop, please.”

Jamie comes, she leaves unnoticed.

Maya comes, she leaves unanswered.

You haven’t left your moms’ bed in so long. It’s day, it’s night. Is it day again?

Your therapist comes.

She is in a depressive episode, he says.

Your moms yell, our baby is depressed?

No. She is having a depressive episode. Those are different things, he answers.

You want to scoff. There’s no strength.

You’re not depressed, you’re tired. The world is an infinite pit of misery. He wouldn’t say that you’re depressed if he knew what you’ve been through. Oh, wait. He does.

You’re an infinite pit of despair. You wish people would just go on with their lives, everyone but you. You wish your life would just stopped until you’re not tired anymore and can deal with things.

Every time you’re awake, you hear a voice in your ear saying, ‘You should die. Your family will be better off without you’. And you’re so beaten down, you believe it. So you close your eyes, and sleep and sleep-

“Here, my love.” Lena holds a little pill in front of your face, with a bottle of water.

“What’s that?”

“This will help. I promise.” She asks, or is she begging? You don’t take it. “Please baby, you have to take it.”

“Here, little one.” Kara has to physically open your mouth and put the pill on your tongue. Water washes over it soon after. “You’re going to be fine, my heart. We promise.”

“What was that?” You try again. Their answers weren’t satisfactory.

They look at each other. Must be telepathic talking. You lay your head down on your pillow again. You’re exhausted. So, so fucking tired.

Why the fuck is the world still spinning? Why is the world still standing?

It’s night, it’s day. Is it night again?

“Are you reading this?” You hear far away. Like a dream. Like you might be imagining, projecting, or even hallucinating.

“I-I can’t read any more of that, Lena. Look at the things they are telling her.”

“All because of my stupid last name.”

“For how long? How long did we let this happen for? We should’ve-We-My God, Lena! How did we not notice this before?”

“Too long. But that’s enough. That’s it, Kara. I mean it.”

Is this really happening? Are you dreaming? You feel so disconnected from reality. But it matters not, if it’s real or hallucination. The pull tights around your neck, heart and stomach. There is no hope, no help. Anything they do, will make things worse. But your mind is foggy. By now, you’re just a shell of a person. So instead of screaming for them to stop, you sleep and sleep and sleep-

Notes:

@lilyduranhanna prompted me this and as painful as it was to write, I hope is still enjoyable somehow?

[sxfterhearts]

12. [8:50 pm]

Returning the final book to its original position on the Ancient History shelf, you ran your fingers through the rest of the book spines, happily making your way towards the counter of the library. Your footsteps bounced off the four walls of the almost-empty double-storey building that was practically your second home. You relished in the comforting silence. Work was done for today, and you could barely wait to get home.

The library in question was located right next to your faculty building where most of your classes were held, which is why it came as no surprise that a large proportion of your weekdays were spent inside here. You liked studying in quiet areas, where everyone minded their own business, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books and the ambient, white noise of rumbling from the air conditioners. You liked it so much, in fact, that you took up a job as a part-time librarian assistant this semester.

Needless to say, you enjoyed it. There was minimal human interaction, unlike your previous job as a waitress, because you always volunteered to shelve returned books instead of standing behind the counter. Thankfully, your co-worker-cum-friend, Jinyoung, was a friendly and approachable person, who had no issues with answering questions from nervous first years or teaching mature-aged students how to print their work.

Speaking of Jinyoung, you hadn’t seen him since you signed on for your shift. He had mentioned over text earlier today that he had to drift between the counter and the reserved section, because one of the newer assistants arranged the books backwards. When you received his message, amongst the other three relatable university student memes he sent, you nearly choked on your latte. Jinyoung had been working with you for over five months now and you were well-acquainted with his deadpan look and notorious eyeroll, which only made an appearance when it was absolutely necessary. You knew that he had a huge assignment coming up, which already caused several sleepless nights, and this incident with the newbie was just adding fuel to the fire.

You made a mental note to be extra considerate towards him today, while rounding the corner towards the counter. You found him sitting there, with his back towards you, scrolling through what seemed like the library’s catalogue system on the desktop. You tried to make your footsteps as quiet as possible so that you wouldn’t disturb him. You just had to grab your bag and leave-

“Woah!” Jinyoung suddenly whipped around, startled eyes meeting yours. “Y/N, I didn’t hear you.”

"Sorry, Jinyoung." You replied sheepishly, reaching towards your bag. “I didn’t want to bother you. I was just leaving, actually. Did you need help with anything else? I can stay back if you need me to.”

While the two of you were the same age, you considered Jinyoung as your senior simply because he worked at the library for over a year now. He also seemed to have the answer to everything. You’ve had several late-night conversations with him about life, about school, about anything, really, and he always knew exactly what advice to give you, no matter the nature of your struggles. It also didn’t help that he often dressed like a middle-aged man who liked playing golf and owned several yachts – sweaters over button-ups, wrinkleless trousers, loafers and silver-rimmed glasses to complete his look.

Tonight, he was sporting a knitted checker sweater, in varying shades of blue. He tore his glasses off his face and rubbed his eyes, clearly tired from the day’s work. “I was planning to tag some of the new books that arrived this afternoon but I’m starting to see double digits on the screen. My eyes are so sore.” He stifled a yawn. “I’m just going to grab a coffee and head back to my dorm.”

“A coffee? Right now?” You paused to check the time. “It’s nearly nine, Jinyoung. I thought your body can’t handle caffeine this late.” As he packed his stuff into his bag, you took over the desktop and powered it down. The new books could wait until tomorrow, you decided.

“I’m not sleeping tonight, Y/N. Besides, it's raining outside. Perfect weather for a vanilla latte.” Jinyoung said somewhat enthusiastically, giving you a forced smile and two thumbs up in an attempt to cheer himself up for the long night ahead.

“Is it your assignment? The one worth 40% of your grade?” You asked while walking towards the exit with Jinyoung right beside you, matching your footsteps.

“Yeah, yay me. Honestly, it’s starting to make me question my life choices. I could’ve just chosen one major, but no, I was greedy and chose both Psychology and Neuroscience, the two hardest majors on the planet.” Jinyoung grumbled. You found it amusing that the roles were reversed, with you listening to his complaints instead.

You patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Dr. Park. This is just one assignment in the big scheme of things. When you’re fifty years old and a successful neurosurgeon, you’ll look back and laugh at this small bump in the road as you score multiple hole-in-ones with your golf friends.” 

“I hate golf.” Jinyoung remarked while the two of you stood in front of the glass entrance, relishing in the toasty warmth of the library’s heating. He turned to you and gave your outfit a once over. “Is that all you’re wearing?”

You suddenly felt self-conscious of your decision to wear a skirt and a thin pullover. Clearly, you forgot to check the weather app before leaving your dorm this morning. “Yeah, I thought it was going to be sunny.”

“Wait,” He swung his backpack to the front and unzipped it, pulling out a grey hoodie that he’d worn on numerous occasions. It had a small crest of the Medical Society at the front, and his full name across the back in blocked letters. “Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.” Jinyoung held the piece of clothing in front of you expectantly.

“It’s fine, Jinyoung. I don’t-”

He shot you a death glare. “You’ll get sick. Don’t underestimate the winter rain, Y/N.”

“Thank you, but my dorms are really close by and I-”

“Take it, Y/N. It’s nearly finals season, your health needs to be in good condition.” Jinyoung insisted sternly.

You sighed, knowing you stood no chance against him. He was always quite protective of you. “Okay, I will. Thank you, Jinyoung.” You said in a small voice, pulling the clothing over your head. You inhaled. His hoodie smelled so much like him.

“Good.” Jinyoung pressed the button and the doors slid open, and a whoosh of cold, humid air slapped your faces. “I was going to offer you a warm drink from Starbucks, but it’s probably better if you went home straightaway.”

You hid a smile by pulling the hood over your head. You liked the idea of sitting in the campus Starbucks with him, nibbling on a blueberry crumble muffin and sipping your piping-hot vanilla latte. He would be reading, probably something by Haruki Murakami. You would sneak occasional glances at him from above your laptop screen as he savoured his pain au chocolat. It made you feel warm inside.

“I’ll take a raincheck on that.” You told him, just as the first few droplets of rain began its descent towards the ground.

[welcometothepenumbra]

JUNO STEEL AND THE LONG WAY HOME (PART ONE)

SOUND: RAIN. TRAIN ARRIVES, CREAKS TO A STOP. DOOR CLANKS OPEN.

CONDUCTOR: Ah, good evening, Traveler. And welcome… to The Penumbra.

SOUND: DOOR CLANKS SHUT.

Take your seat, please, take your seat.

MUSIC: STARTS.

The junction lies ahead, so if you’ll allow me just a moment.

SOUND: TRAIN WHISTLE.

We are now passing through Hyperion City.

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING.

Our next stop?

SOUND: TRAIN BRAKES.

Juno Steel and the Long Way Home.

SOUND: DOOR CLANKS OPEN, RAIN.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

MUSIC: STARTS (FROM COMMS).

VOICE 1 (FROM COMMS): A man who came from nowhere disappears back into it. one of the galaxy’s most beloved creative forces vanishes without a trace. A visionary builds up the release of his life’s greatest work for years, yet doesn’t show up for opening day… and is never seen again. It’s a mystery that’s haunted us for thirty years. Tonight’s question: where is Jack Takano?

LORENZO VEGA (FROM COMMS): —of course we miss him. He was the genius of a generation!

VOICE 2 (FROM COMMS): Humanity needs people like Jack, I think. People who can just see how things should be, without the reality of what they are getting in the way. That’s how progress happens.

JACK TAKANO (FROM COMMS): —olaris will be the culmination of our company’s new direction: to spare no pain and no expense in the pursuit of public good. Or as we at Northstar like to put it: welcome home.

VOICE 1 (FROM COMMS): I’m Hawk Hackett, and this… is Questions Unanswered.

JUNO: Ugh.

SOUND: FUMBLING, CLATTERING. BLIPS & BEEPS.

VOICE 1 [HAWK HACKETT] (FROM COMMS): Over our twenty-part series we’re going to take you through the whole case as we know it: every scrap of evidence, every interview, every toenail clipping—

SOUND: FAST-FORWARDING.

—but, the release of Chainmail Warrior Andromeda is where Northstar took its first steps towards becoming the entertainment powerhouse we know today. And instantly, the Jack Takano who his coworkers called quiet, reserved, and ‘more of a listener than a talker’ was pushed out into the limelight. Jack took to the public eye like a rabbit to sewage.

JACK (FROM COMMS): But the beauty of Andromeda is her optimism. She knows she will find the way home – she can feel it in her very bones – and we at Northstar believe that all of humankind should behave the same way. The way home through these troubling times is before us: we need only to seek it out.

SOUND: DISTANT MECHANICAL WHIR FADES IN. SPLASHING IN BACKGROUND.

JUNO: Huh?

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Within months, Jack Takano had become not only Northstar’s creative center, he was also the company’s face. And a very popular face it was, a—

SOUND: CLICK. COMMS CUTS OUT. SPLASHING CONTINUES. DISTANT BOOM.

THEIA: (DISTANT, MUFFLED, ECHOEY) This sector. Has been cleared.

SOUND: CREAKING.

JUNO: What the hell…?

JUNO (NARRATOR): I followed the noise around another pipe, staying as quiet as I could knee-deep in muck… but by the time I got there, the place was empty. Just some ripples in the sewage where something used to be.

That had been my whole return to Hyperion City so far. Rita, Mick, Oldtown, ‘Where is Jack Takano,’ all I could find were the ripples. Never the source.

MUSIC: STARTS.

My name’s Juno Steel. I’ve been away from home for just a few weeks now, but the city I’ve come back to… I don’t recognize it anymore.

No, that’s not right. It’s like it doesn’t recognize me.

I got back in town yesterday morning, and as soon as Brown-Jacket drove us into the city limits I could tell something was off.

SOUND: MOTORCYCLE ENGINE FADES IN.

Maybe I was still used to the volume of an election, but the place felt quiet to me.

MUSIC: ENDS.

You could hear sirens whistling in the distance, arguments in the balcony windows, but… nothing felt like it would last. No big moves. Just… waiting. Watching.

For once I felt like talkin’ about as much as the big guy.

SOUND: POWERING DOWN, ENGINE STOPS.

BROWN JACKET: We are here.

JUNO: Here?

Here where?

This is the Boiler, isn’t it?

JACKET: This is where you asked to go. Hyperion City.

JUNO: I asked you to bring me home! To my apartment? My office, maybe?

JACKET: This I cannot do.

JUNO: Why the hell not—

JACKET: Hold this, please.

JUNO: A… comms? Alright.

SOUND: CLUNK.

So… how long do you want me to hold it for?

JACKET: As long as you wish. It is yours now.

JUNO: Then why the hell didn’t you just say s—

JACKET: Also: Buddy was quite clear with me that I am not to let you out of that sidecar until you say “thank you.”

JUNO: You’re dropping me off three hours from my apartment and she wants me to thank you?

JACKET: That will do.

JUNO: Didn’t count.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

JACKET: Our time is limited, so you must listen. I’ve downloaded three items you will find useful onto that comms.

JUNO: (GRUMBLES)

SOUND: BLIP.

JACKET: The first is an audio file with some wisdom that has saved me many times before.

SOUND: TWO BLIPS.

It says, “we may look backward only to ensure we have not walked this path before.”

SOUND: BEEP.

JACKET (FROM COMMS): We may look backward only to ensure we have not walked this path before.

JACKET: Mmmm. Very wise.

JUNO: Real handy, big guy.

JACKET: Second: a report on that man you spoke of – Jack Takano. It surprises me that you have not heard of him. He did create the galaxy’s favorite hero—

JUNO: And third?

JACKET: Comms coordinates.

JUNO: You… gave me your– number? Seriously?

SOUND: TWO BLIPS.

JACKET: We are not there yet.

SOUND: BEEP, DIGITAL SCROLLING.

JUNO: Why not? We’re close enough for you to rip my eye out, but not—

Buddy Aurinko.

JACKET: Mm.

JUNO: You gave me Buddy’s number. Why the hell would I need her number?

JACKET: There is still a job offer waiting for you.

JUNO: I’m not gonna be a crook, big guy.

JACKET: That is your choice.

JUNO: Tell Buddy not to hold her breath.

JACKET: That is her choice.

And now I must leave. Buddy will never call you again, and I will follow you no longer.

JUNO: Wait, so… this is just… it?

JACKET: Unless you call. Please, get off my bike now.

JUNO: Fine!

SOUND: RUSTLING.

(GRUMBLING)

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

JACKET: (CALLING) Juno!

JUNO (NARRATOR): I turned to look at him one last time. And for a second I felt like I was gonna miss the big lug. And, feeling directionless as I was, I hoped he’d saved one last piece of quiet wisdom for me.

JACKET: (CALLING) You are still wearing my helmet.

JUNO: Oh.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. CLUNK.

(SNORTS) There. Happy now?

JACKET: Not at all. I have grown fond of your presence in this hovercycle. I thought my tears would imply that.

JUNO: Your what—

…Are you crying?

JACKET: Everyone cries, Juno.

JUNO: You’re that broken up about dropping me off, but you won’t even give me a ride—

JACKET: I must not be seen in this city. And if one wishes to keep one’s presence unknown, one never returns to the same location three times. I have already been to your apartment thrice.

JUNO: What about my office, then?

JACKET: Twice. But I must save one for when you call Buddy. Goodbye, Juno.

JUNO: Goodbye, …?

SOUND: WHOOSH, MOTORCYCLE ENGINE.

(COUGHING) Seriously? I still don’t get to know your stupid name, you— (COUGHS)

JUNO (NARRATOR): That was the day’s first disappearing act. No ceremony, just a cloud of dust, and then… alone.

I didn’t want to walk two hours. The radiation sickness wasn’t quite done with me, still curdled in my gut if I moved too fast or too long – so I took my new comms for a spin and made a call. I didn’t know what to do about Hyperion, but at least my first move felt obvious.

SOUND: CITY AMBIANCE. COMMS BEEPS.

RITA (FROM COMMS): Hiiiiiii!

JUNO: Rita! You took your time picking up. Listen, I’m in the Boiler and I need a ride—

RITA (FROM COMMS): This is Rita! And if you’re hearin’ this, that means my comms is outta juice, which means either that I’m in the middle of watchin’ somethin’ very interesting and I am not to be interrupted, or maybe that I’ve been kidnapped! But that second one sounds interesting too, so wait a few days before you come save me, okay?

JUNO: Uggggh.

RITA (FROM COMMS): So leave a message if you want and I’ll get right back to you as soon as I ca– ah-OH! Wait! Unless, the third option is that maybe, Mista Steel and I are up to some real sneaky stuff! And then don’t call or leave a message because if my comms goes off during another stakeout he is gonna kill me!

Anyway, leave a message I love you thanks byeeeeeeeee!

SOUND: LONG BEEP.

JUNO: Rita…

Rita, this is Juno – I’m back in town and you’re back on the job. Call me ASAP.

SOUND: COMMS BEEP.

JUNO (NARRATOR): So I found a bus station and told myself I needed the alone time to plan my next move. About how to take on Hyperion’s man of the future while part of me was still stuck on the man from my past. About what the hell I was supposed to do after that.

But I couldn’t take the silence very long. So I plugged the comms into my ear and got listening.

Or… tried to. Brown-Jacket’s comms was… a little more advanced than my old model.

SOUND: TWO BLIPS.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (QUIET) —from nowhere disappears back into it. One of the galaxy’s most beloved creative forces—

JUNO: (OVERLAPPING WITH ABOVE) What the hell is this saying?

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (QUIET) —vanishes without a trace.

SOUND: BLIP.

A visionary builds up—

SOUND: BLIP.

JUNO: (GRUMBLES) C’mon.

SOUND: TWO BLIPS.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (QUIET) —the release of his life’s greatest work for years, yet doesn’t show up for opening day—

JUNO: (OVERLAPPING WITH ABOVE) Give me a comms with the volume down, unbelievable.

SOUND: TWO BLIPS.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (QUIET) —and is never seen again.

SOUND: BLIP, FAST-FORWARDING.

(GASPS) Wait, stop!

SOUND: BLIP. BEEP.

JACKET (FROM COMMS): (NORMAL VOLUME) We may look backward only to—

JUNO: (SIGHS) No…

SOUND: BLIP.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (NORMAL VOLUME) Part Seventeen—

JUNO: (GROWLS)

SOUND: BLIP.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): —elcome back to Part 5 of Questions Unanswered: Where is Jack Takano?

JUNO: (OVERLAPPING WITH ABOVE) No, damn it!

HAWK (FROM COMMS): I’m Hawk Hackett—

SOUND: TWO BLIPS.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): —and our next segment is…

SOUND: BLIP.

The Rise.

JUNO: (SIGHS) Figures.

Rita’d be able to set this stupid thing up.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Andromeda’s rise to popularity was meteoric, and within months the financial troubles that had plagued Northstar were behind them. Cultural critics for the past thirty years have tried to account for this surge in popularity, often citing the pervasive cultural anxiety during the last years of the Galactic Civil War. But very few have explained this shift as succinctly as Takano himself, on the red carpet of his heroine’s second feature, Andromeda and the Sea of Sinners:

SOUND: CROWD CHEERING (FROM COMMS).

JACK (FROM COMMS): Well, I think the biggest reason people prefer Andromeda to Turbo, is that Turbo was never very good. (LAUGHS) And I can say that, I can say that, because Turbo was my project. But I was easily the least talented person on that team. It’s laughable to think about it now – a man showing up off the street without a portfolio, without a resume, without so much as a doodle on a napkin! And then they handed me the keys to a major property! Miranda must have been out of her mind completely.

SOUND: CROWD FADES OUT.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Northstar’s founder, Miranda Fairbanks, commented on Takano’s quick rise to management in her memoir:

VOICE 2 [MIRANDA FAIRBANKS ACTOR] (FROM COMMS): Jack never gave himself enough credit for the opportunities he earned. It’s true that he just showed up at our office one day with nothing, an– and I mean nothing – just his clothes and an ID that I suspected was fake, though I never looked into it. But within days made himself indispensable, filling in every gap in workflow he could find, learning every job that needed doing, and, most importantly, playing emotional translator to some of the more gifted artists on staff. We called him a writer, but, really he was always more editor, or manager… which certainly made Andromeda a happy surprise.

But even so, I never forgot how he looked at our door that first day, with his suit and his fake license. “I’m here to help,” he said. From his tone I couldn’t tell if he meant the company, or the world, or… just me.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Because Fairbanks repeatedly suggests that Takano may have been guilty of some form of identity fraud, rumors of a libel suit followed soon after her memoir’s publication… but these never went to court. Jack Takano was missing for ten years by then, and he’d left behind no family and no estate to file for him.

Again and again, this is the story of Takano’s four brief years in the public eye: appearances and disappearances. Or, as Fairbanks phrased it:

FAIRBANKS ACTOR (FROM COMMS): I often thought him our guardian angel, sent to watch over us.

SOUND: CARS DRIVE BY, CITY AMBIANCE FADE IN.

But he had another face, too: in the months planning Polaris Park. In that final letter he left. Then I felt he was a ghost, haunting and haunted.

SOUND: BRAKES SQUEAK, ENGINE RUMBLING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I was stir crazy and sick of buses by the time the last one dropped me off by my office. But even walking the couple of short blocks there made my head pound and my stomach feel like it was gonna flip inside-out. Every step I told myself it’d be fine — I’d make it back to the office, ask Rita to stay quiet a few hours while the nausea passed, then figure out what we should do.

Didn’t have to tell Rita to stay quiet, though.

SOUND: KEY TURNING IN LOCK. DOOR OPENS.

JUNO: Hello?

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

Rita?

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES. DISTANT, MUFFLED VOICE, NEWS JINGLE.

My office. Rita, are you watching your stupid shows in my office again?

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

I bought you a new monitor so you wouldn’t do that, didn’t I? I’m gone for a few weeks and you act like you own the—

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

…place.

VOICE 3 (FROM TV): This is day five of the Oldtown lockdown, and the official statement from Town Hall is that we shouldn’t expect the gates to reopen anytime soon. Quote, the specific nature of the threat in our poorest and most subjugated district cannot be overestimated. We must ensure that the Oldtown solution works before we can divulge the full scope of our strategy, endquote.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO: What the…

VOICE 3 (FROM TV): For five days now, citizens separated from their families have camped out at each entrance of the Oldtown border, on freeway ramps and border ports. Mayor O’Flaherty has yet to comment on his administration’s controversial approach to this situation.

SOUND: TV CLICKS OFF.

JUNO (NARRATOR): And… that’s when I got worried.

I called Mick, but the signal was blocked. Just a message saying that calls into and out of Oldtown had been temporarily suspended.

Then Alessandra, but the message said she was off-planet and not accepting calls. Same with Khan. And Sasha… I wasn’t going to find her number without Rita.

So I tried Rita again.

SOUND: COMMS BEEP IN BACKGROUND.

RITA (FROM COMMS): (IN BACKGROUND) Hiiiiiii! This is Ri—

SOUND: COMMS BEEP IN BACKGROUND.

JUNO (NARRATOR): (OVER THE ABOVE) Nothing. And then I got really desperate, read some headlines to see who I could trust, didn’t like what I saw. Saffron Pharma, bought by Northstar Entertainment. Kanagawa Productions, in talks to merge with Northstar Entertainment. Even Valles Vicky’s Vixen Valley had closed shop in the days after the election, and, where the hell they all were now, I didn’t know.

I didn’t know where anyone was.

I stayed there through the night, calling and trying to catch up on what happened to Hyperion City. Calls kept bouncing. The news streams didn’t know a goddamn thing, and they were turning not-knowing into a twenty-four-hour media special.

VOICE 3 (FROM TV): But what, exactly, has happened in Oldtown? We know it began with alerts of an Omega-class sandstorm approaching Oldtown Dome. But as was the case several times last year, the alert appears to have been a false alarm.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Just… that. Over and over again. So bad that I fell asleep to one report and woke up to another that sounded exactly the same.

VOICE 3 (FROM TV): Damages are reportedly intense in the district, though no footage has made it through the broadcast barrier surrounding Oldtown. Even so, some experts predict that without a strong local police presence, the damages caused by rioting may—

JUNO (NARRATOR): Until I heard this.

SOUND: NEWS BULLETIN JINGLE (FROM TV).

VOICE 3 (FROM TV): This just in, folks, this just in: Mayor O’Flaherty is issuing an official statement from Town Hall as we speak. We bring you live to the scene as the Mayor updates us on the situation in Oldtown:

RAMSES O’FLAHERTY (FROM TV): (FADING IN) People of Hyperion City. I recognize your great frustration in the quiet that has followed Oldtown’s terrible tragedy. But rest assured that progress is being made — and the path to our future is clear.

We are not yet ready to discuss the details of the Oldtown Solution, but I will say this: given the district’s poor treatment by every cabinet for the past century, its current state was inevitable. If we are silent, it is because we wish to do Oldtown the good it has been owed for one hundred years now. That leaves little time for talking about that good.

Because unlike Hyperion’s terms under Mayors like Pereyra, like Freeman, like Armada Incorporated, this cabinet believes in action. For years Pilot twisted facts and buried evidence to convince you change had happened, instead of spending that time to make change. In our silence, my cabinet and I are spreading the soil from which a better tomorrow will grow.

And so we must request your patience for just three more days. In seventy-two hours, the gates to Oldtown will be opened, and you will see the great future ahead of us.

No questions.

SOUND: CROWD MURMURING (FROM TV).

JUNO: Three days.

Three days ‘til what?

JUNO (NARRATOR): The “experts” dissected every word Ramses had said like he’d buried some hidden answer for them to find. They wanted him to be right. We’d all invited this man into our homes, and now all of Hyperion was quiet with hope that we wouldn’t regret it.

Right before I turned off the monitor to leave my office, the news stream showed a another snapshot of Ramses. It had only been a little over a month since I’d seen him but he looked so… different. Tired. Sick, and… maybe a little guilty?

I wondered if Jack Takano made that face at Ma’s pitch meeting. Jack and Ramses didn’t look a thing alike, not skin, hair, bone structure, nothing. But the guilt… if it was guilt… I wondered if that, at least, looked the same.

SOUND: COMMS BEEP IN BACKGROUND.

I tried Rita one last time.

RITA (FROM COMMS): (IN BACKGROUND) Hiiiiiii!

JUNO (NARRATOR): Nothing.

RITA (FROM COMMS): (IN BACKGROUND) This is Rita! And if you’re hearin’ this, that means my comms is outta j—

SOUND: COMMS BEEP IN BACKGROUND.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Out in the desert, out in my head, I’d learned I didn’t have to do it all on my own, but– right then it felt like I’d learned it all too late.

The feeling wasn’t helping, so I shook it off. I’d bring the others with me how I could. So I packed an Alessandra Strong bag with clothes, supplies, and provisions. Took inventory with Sasha skepticism. I took a breath to fill myself with Benzaiten courage and… sheathed a plasma-knife next to my blaster and once I felt ready I told myself a genuine King-of-the-Freeway whopper:

JUNO: (QUIET) You’ve got this, Steel. In and out in twenty minutes. Easy.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Almost took piece of Rita with me, too, but– it felt pointless, trying to replace her. So I wrote a note instead, locked up the office. And left. I still knew one way into Oldtown. One way they’d never close.

SOUND: WATER DRIPPING & RIPPLING, ECHOES.

Which is how I got down here. To the sewers of Oldtown.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS ON METAL IN BACKGROUND.

And, even here… nothing’s like it used to be.

I could tell right away. On my way down the first ladder my foot crushed a half-full—

JUNO: (IN BACKGROUND) Ugh.

JUNO (NARRATOR): —beer that made my socks and the whole situation stink.

The rabbits would never leave a half a beer lying around - somethin’ was wrong.

SOUND: METAL CLANKING STOPS, WET FOOTSTEPS.

And as I kept walking it just got wronger. Tubes that didn’t lead where they used to; toppled rabbits’ dens with singed old mattresses and waterlogged flashlights; and that noise…

SOUND: DISTANT CREAKING.

I kept hearing it down tunnels and across corners, but in the sludge, I couldn’t keep up with it. So all I’d catch were flashes. A glint of dirty metal. A crater in a wall. A red blip of light in the distance, then steam rising from the scum. And every so often, faintly:

THEIA: (DISTANT, MUFFLED, ECHOEY) This sector. Has been cleared.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Its voice. What it was saying, I couldn’t tell. But it didn’t feel… human.

At least it wasn’t interested in me, I thought. It wasn’t like I could stay silent down here. But the silence of everything else, the air that pulled tighter and tighter around me, it was getting to me. I had to block it out. Luckily, the big guy had given me something for that.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (FADING IN, OVERLAPPING WITH ABOVE) ‘The place that fun calls home.’ Now, these words come to us automatically; they’re as central to our culture as cricket pad thai, Bargain Day, even the chainmail warrior herself. But they didn’t come automatically to Takano. Everything was revised again and again and again – even the trash cans.

VEGA (FROM COMMS): —a man obsessed in those days. My team would be working on the design for an automated trash-collector in Resmirks and he would come look at our work closely, and then say something like, “it needs to be cuter,” or, “it needs to sing when it eats the trash.” He was like that in every department, no matter when they met, offering insights, and feedback.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): That’s Lorenzo Vega, current head of Resmirks and Developgrins at Polaris Park.

VEGA (FROM COMMS): Our success was still a babe then, after all: it had been only two years since the first Andromeda film was released, and no investor wanted to take a chance on Northstar. They wanted Jack – you could say he was their diamond duck. And so, for them to keep paying, he had to make it seem as though he’d laid every brick himself. I think I can say now that he did not lay every brick. But even with a staff of thousands on his side, he may well have laid half of them.

The, ehm, bricks. Obviously. But– but still, I have no idea when the man slept. Obsessed. Obsessed.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): For months after the release of Sea of Sinners, the public waited breathlessly for the third Andromeda film. And yet, week after week, and month after month, no announcement came.

SOUND: LAUGHTER (FROM COMMS).

VOICE 4 (FROM COMMS): Now, Jack, you must know I gotta ask you…

JACK (FROM COMMS): I’m certain your producers think you do, though you’ll get no secrets out of me.

VOICE 4 (FROM COMMS): Well, I gotta try, don’t I? So. Let me ask. Jack: the next Andromeda movie. When?

SOUND: CROWD CHEERS, APPLAUSE (FROM COMMS).

See? They wanna hear it, Jack, now come on, have a heart! Give the people what they want, ah?

JACK (FROM COMMS): (SIGHS) I can’t say anything about the release of our next project. But. But! I’ll say that what we’re working on next is… ambitious. Something no one is going to see coming.

VOICE 4 (FROM COMMS): Yeah, well, that’s fine, Jack, but can you tell us what it’s gonna do?

JACK (FROM COMMS): Of course.

It’s going… to change things.

VOICE 4 (FROM COMMS): Really? …Oh, Jack, you had me goin’ there for a minute! Give it up for world-class kidder Jack Takano, everybody!

SOUND: APPLAUSE (FROM COMMS).

HAWK (FROM COMMS): The public would remain in suspense until a full year after the release of Andromeda and the Sea of Sinners, when Takano revealed his project at a press conference in front of Hyperion Town Hall:

SOUND: CAMERA SHUTTERS (FROM COMMS).

JACK (FROM COMMS): Will Andromeda ever get home? This is the question we receive most often at the Northstar main office. Mostly from children, but…

SOUND: CROWD LAUGHS (FROM COMMS).

And I am thrilled to say that today, at this press conference, I will be able to answer that question. In a way. Because for me, the most beautiful thing about the Andromeda fable is the strength it shows we have for one another. Andromeda may try and fail to return to her home, but what does she do along the way? She returns others to theirs. She thaws Queen Pisces’s castle, she releases Aries from Orion’s curse, and everywhere she goes, she creates homes… even if she cannot find her own.

We at Northstar would like to learn from Andromeda. And if she cannot return home on her own, we would like to make a home for her, and for all of you. A home as good, proud, and safe as hers. And so today, Northstar would like to announce our latest project: The City of the Future.

Welcome home.

VEGA (FROM COMMS): It was genius! As Jack put it, Northstar’s priority has always been to manufacture public good. From the beginning, we’ve used entertainment as a vehicle for educating the children. That’s why our shows before Jack always ended with a lesson of some sort: Ian Ion had its seminars on the crossroads between theoretical physics and thirtieth-century warfare; Money Girl and the Subsidiaries ended with a forty-two-minute lecture on tax law. And now you have Andromeda, the peakedy-peak of our ideal, a film series that deals with morality, with charity, that makes heroism a process and not a goal… what else are you going to do in cartoons at that point? You-you have to reach past the screen and into the real world.

He always said that’s why he sought Northstar out in the first place: because we were trying to make things better.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Dr. Vega’s theory is consistent with Takano’s work: Turbo Saves the Day was often criticized for ending with morals too simple for all but the youngest children. And this do-good attitude has become central to Northstar’s raison d’etre, even in the years since his disappearance: to this day much of the company’s profits are donated to charity, and in recent years they’ve put nearly a third of their profits into affordable housing, and healthcare.

But this future wasn’t set in stone when construction first began on Polaris Park. At the time, many found Takano’s direction for the company… controversial.

VOICE 5 (FROM COMMS): Controversial doesn’t begin to cover it. At the beginning, the City of the Future project felt like a stab in the back.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): That’s Jocelyn Chen, former Head of Animation at Northstar.

VOICE 5 [JOCELYN CHEN] (FROM COMMS): I just want to start by saying this: I loved Jack. I think he had a great heart. He, clearly… you know, saw a future that none of us could really understand. But he wasn’t always great at explaining what that future was ahead of time, and that meant… well, for example, it meant sometimes he’d reassure you that getting into municipal planning didn’t mean he’d turned his back on making movies, and you couldn’t tell if that was true, or if he just needed it to be true right now.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): You had a disagreement with him.

CHEN (FROM COMMS): I did. I tried to get him to show me the full plan of his City of the Future, but he wouldn’t budge. So one day, I went into his office and I banged down the door and I said, “Listen, Jack, you can’t just yank us around like this. I’ve got a department full of people scared they’re not gonna have jobs in a year and they just want to know you’re going to do good by them.”

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Did he argue with you?

CHEN (FROM COMMS): (SIGHS) No. He looked pretty wounded, actually. Apologized too much. Then he showed me his plans up close, and… I mean, most of them were beyond me, but, the one thing I could see was that there was no Andromeda. There wasn’t a single Northstar character anywhere.

He asked how he could make things better for us. I said, “Jack, we’re a cartoon company. Let us draw some cartoons.”

HAWK (FROM COMMS): This was the first of many compromises Takano would have to make in order to build his City of the Future, which some say was not a theme park at all on first conception. Or as Miranda Fairbanks wrote,

FAIRBANKS ACTOR (FROM COMMS): I told him, “Jack, the tagline can’t be ‘Welcome home.’ People are going to think they can live there.” And he just looked at me like a kicked puppy and said, “Why can’t they?”

So I had to impose a few controls. “How’s this thing gonna make money?” I asked him. He didn’t have an answer, so I added some merchandising opportunities and a fee at the gate. He’d tell me his big ideas for hours and hours – that this place was going to change things, that it’d bring joy to suffering people. “Well, Jack,” I said, “do those suffering people have a lot of cash? Because the budget you’re proposing is way more than we’ll ever have, even with an interplanetary success, and I’d rather not end up in Hoosegow.”

SOUND: WATER DRIPPING FADES IN.

He didn’t have an answer for that, either. So we halved its size. The City of the Future wasn’t a city anymore, so we called it Polaris, and the tagline was “Welcome to our home.” Then a few investors dropped out and we made it smaller again: Polaris Park, tagline “The place we all call home.” Then when the focus groups showed nobody understood what a ‘place we all call home’ even meant, it became… “The place that fun calls home.”

JUNO: Huh?

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Jack… wasn’t happy with that.

SOUND: SPLASHING FADES IN.

He kept looking for another name for weeks and weeks, but, he never found one that he liked—

JUNO: The hell was… just shut up. (OVER THE BELOW) How do I get this stupid thing to shut! Up!

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) —and then he gave up. I sometimes wonder if tha—

SOUND: BLIP.

ANDROMEDA (FROM COMMS): —I stole your treasure, Draco! Now fight me!

SOUND: BLIP.

JACK (FROM COMMS): —something no one is going to see coming.

VOICE 4 (FROM COMMS): Yeah, well, that’s fine, Jack, but—

SOUND: BLIP.

FAIRBANKS ACTOR (FROM COMMS): —til he moved that hand and a layer of skin peeled off his face, only to reveal another—

SOUND: BLIP.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Welcome back, and thanks for tuning in to the final—

JUNO: (OVER THE BELOW) Damn it! Can’t hear a goddamn thing over this st—!

HAWK (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) —part of our series, Questions Unanswered: Where is Jack Takano?

SOUND: DISTANT BOOM.

JUNO: Welp. Heard that.

SOUND: CREAKING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I chased after the sound as quickly as I could.

SOUND: BACKGROUND DISTANT BOOM.

I was gaining on it… but so was somethin’ else. Somethin’ big.

JUNO: (PANTING)

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Our final chapter: The Homeless Hero.

???: (DISTANT YELPS)

SOUND: BOOM. CRACKING, CRUMBLING. CREAKING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): A laser hit the wall in front of me and cracked it like an egg. Brick and rubble scattered in viscous sludge. I smelled smoke and fur, thought the rabbit was a goner.

Then a gray-green shape scrambled through that hole, barking, and I felt my first pang of hope all day.

RABBIT: (BARKS)

JUNO (NARRATOR): I went in after it. A few seconds later I heard that thing chasing us – whatever it was – roll right by. We’d lost it.

SOUND: ELECTRIC WHIR. SPLASHES.

RABBIT: (WHIMPERING)

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Can you tell me about the park’s opening, Dr. Vega?

VEGA (FROM COMMS): We were all very busy that morning – several of the attractions—

JUNO: (OVER THE BELOW) Here, bunny bunny bunny… I got a billion-cred bill with your name on it.

VEGA (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) —had broken down the previous day and we’d stayed up all night to get them back on their knees again.

RABBIT: (SMALL BARKS)

VEGA (FROM COMMS): We were tired—

JUNO: Rabbit?

VEGA (FROM COMMS): —and dread-full—

RABBIT: (BARKS)

VEGA (FROM COMMS): —and excited.

JUNO: There you are.

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Jocelyn Chen describes the morning similarly.

SOUND: SPLASHES.

CHEN (FROM COMMS): I had my team out painting the walls themselves.

JUNO: (OVER THE BELOW) You’re just a… baby.

C’mere, small fry. C’mere. I’m not gonna hurt you.

CHEN (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) That wasn’t in their job description. I remember… thinking I was going to force Jack to give them all a vacation, when it was over, but still… I don’t think any of ‘em would’ve wanted to be anywhere else.

JUNO: There, see? It’s okay.

BABY RABBIT: (COOING)

HAWK (FROM COMMS): Then… you were too busy? You didn’t see Mr. Takano at all that morning?

JUNO: (OVER THE BELOW) That looks like it burned your leg pretty badly… whatever the hell it was.

CHEN (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) Nope. His park was about to open. At the time it felt like… you couldn’t get away from him.

SOUND: WHIRRING, BOOM.

BABY RABBIT: (YELPS)

VEGA (FROM COMMS): He was still making his rounds. He had a few last—

JUNO: (OVER THE BELOW) Damn it, it’s here!

VEGA (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) —minute demands, even then.

JUNO: Shh!

BABY RABBIT: (MUFFLED YELPS)

VEGA (FROM COMMS): This door should be—

JUNO: (OVER THE BELOW) Ah! (PAINED HISS) You’re gonna be okay, just– shh.

VEGA (FROM COMMS): (OVER THE ABOVE) —louder, that one softer, that sort of thing. But beyond that, he seemed… tranquil.

SOUND: WHIR. YELPS STOP.

CHEN (FROM COMMS): He looked calmer than he had in months; maybe years. He didn’t say anything that would make you suspicious, but, even so… I don’t know how, but, I was putting away the last can of paint, and I could just… feel it.

SOUND: WHIR FADES OUT.

VEGA (FROM COMMS): There was a rhythm to his check-ins, you got used to them, and so before I completely understood how I knew…

VEGA & CHEN (FROM COMMS): (IN UNISON) …he was gone.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) Is it gone?

You stay put; I’m gonna go look.

SOUND: SPLASHING FOOTSTEPS.

(GRUNTS)

HAWK (FROM COMMS): In her memoir, Miranda Fairbanks wrote:

FAIRBANKS ACTOR (FROM COMMS): —cover-up was quick. We put Naiya, Andromeda’s voice actress, in one of the chainmail suits and had her ad lib something. I don’t remember her speech, but, I remember she said ‘hero’ a lot. And every time she did, I thought of Jack.

SOUND: SPLASHING FOOTSTEPS STOP.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) I don’t see any— (GASPS)

SOUND: WHIRRING, LOUD BUZZ. SPLASHING FOOTSTEPS.

FAIRBANKS ACTOR (FROM COMMS): He was a hero, whoever he was. And a hero only exists as long as there’s a problem to solve, and as soon as it’s solved, we don’t need him anymore. I’d like to think he’s still out there, helping someone else. The galaxy needs heroes. Without them, who’s going to fix this mess we made—us?

THEIA: Target recognized.

SOUND: SPLASHING FOOTSTEPS STOP.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) What—!

…Theia?

FAIRBANKS ACTOR (FROM COMMS): Jack changed lives. And I firmly believe that was only the beginning of the man he turned out to be. Because when a person like Jack Takano rolls through… everything changes. And—

SOUND: CLICK, COMMS CUTS OFF. WHIR.

THEIA: Target is. Juno Steel. Directive: do no harm. Message: Mayor O’Flaherty. Requests your presence.

Current form of this Theia Order unit. Is incapable of nonviolent capture. Report to the surface. This is your only warning. Farewell. Juno Steel.

SOUND: CREAKING, WHIR FADES.

BABY RABBIT: (MEWLS)

JUNO: Don’t sweat it, small fry. You did good.

BABY RABBIT [SMALL FRY]: (MEWLS)

JUNO: It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna patch you up, and we’re gonna get movin’, and… we’re gonna find you a home.

SMALL FRY: (BARKS)

JUNO: Whatever the hell that looks like now.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING, MUSIC.

CONDUCTOR: If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider donating to The Penumbra on Patreon. Our artists work tirelessly to bring you these stories, and if you have the means, we hope you will support our efforts. Every dollar helps. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast. If you support us on Patreon at the $10 level or higher, you’ll receive access to commentary tracks like this one, from co-creators Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert:

SOUND: TRAIN STOPS, DOOR SLIDES OPEN, RAIN.

SOPHIE: …then, y’know, like– okay, here’s an example of my insanity is like, in Monster’s Reflection, I remember I spent a really really long time splicing together footsteps, because I wanted to be clear that Juno was crossing a threshold from, um, a wooden floor into a carpeted room. So it was really important to me that we go from wood floor footsteps to carpeted footsteps. (GIGGLING)

KEVIN: And that’s not even rare! You do that a lot!

SOPHIE: I know. And I think I told Joshua that, and he was like yeah, I wouldn’t…

SOUND: DOOR SLIDES SHUT.

CONDUCTOR: You can also support The Penumbra by liking us on Facebook, following us on Twitter @thepenumbrapod, following us on Tumblr @thepenumbrapodcast, telling your friends about us, telling your friends to tell their friends about us, and especially by rating and reviewing our podcast on iTunes. Every rating, comment, and kind word spreads our stories further and inspires us to keep creating more and better tales to come.

We would like to give special thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Minchowski, Camille Blanton, Christine Kim, Rowan Collins, Garrett M, Jay Iannuzzelli, Karin Z-H, Canteloupe, Fiona Parker, Regan, Ko, Kim Zeugin, Atha Lang, Vron, Charlie Spiegel, and Jaimie Gunter for their incredibly generous contributions per episode. Thank you.

Did you know that The Penumbra has merchandise for sale? It’s true! The Penumbra has partnered with DFTBA to bring you the posters, shirts, and pins your heart desires. Just go to dftba.com and search for The Penumbra Podcast.

This tale, Juno Steel and the Long Way Home, was told by the following people: Joshua Ilon as Juno Steel, Matthew Zahnzinger as Jack Takano and Ramses O’Flaherty, Marge Dunn as Hawk Hackett, Bob Mussett as Lorenzo Vega, Melissa Barker as Jocelyn Chen, Allison Choat as the Miranda Fairbanks reader, Sophie Kaner as the Theia, and Alexander Stravinski as the Man in the Brown Jacket.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert. If you wish to know more about our ever-expanding, infinitely-creative team of artists, musicians, editors, designers, and managers, you can read about them in the show notes of this episode.

I’m afraid this is the end of the line for today, dear Traveler. We hope you will ride with The Penumbra again soon.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

[slothgiirl]

blinding part 6 (a theo raeken story)

mariella gallagher, lydia’s younger cousin, has always had a soft spot for theo raeken, and now that they’ve brought him back to help, she can’t seem to help herself when it comes to him. it also doesn’t help that she’s slowly losing her grip on whatever powers she has as an empath.

ao3 // part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 

Liam looks over at me, “Mari, get behind me. If anything happens,” his eyes full of worry, none of the bitterness from earlier because at the end of the day the bond between us all, between pack, meant more then anything. 

We’d spend hours after school with the whole pack together, feeling stupid as we traced Scott’s pack symbol into the dirt, laughing at how serious and solemn Scott had been then. It had worked to his credit. 

We’d talked and laughed and things had felt good, had felt back to normal again, stronger than that because we’d been tested once more and survived, all the stronger for it. 

Bone heals stronger after it breaks, and so had we. 

“Don’t say that,” I says, lips drawn, “nothings going to happen.”

“But if it does,” he says grimly, no longer the dumb teenager who jumped off his roof and into the pool because if he missed he’d heal, “run.”

“Okay.” 

He nods and walks to the door, placing himself between me and the ghost riders, Theo’s face impassive as he watches the corridor. My mind instinctively reach for him, the hard and sharp sting of jealousy and longing bleeding through despite his best efforts. 

On anyone else it would be imperceptible, but he’s such a blank slate anything that manages to slip by stands out. 

He still wants a pack, the wolf in him lonely, the human in him just wanting to belong after so long. 

“So what’s the plan,” Theo says, without ceremony. 

“We rush them and run for it,” Liam says, more of a question then statement. 

“I really hate your plans.”

“Shut up Theo.”

They wordlessly move the metal table into position and I can’t help the sharp bitter feeling that coils in my chest at my lack of ability to help, to do anything in a fight. Always reliant on others to do the fighting for me. 

It wasn’t too bad when it was Lydia or Mason, both more brain and cunning that more then evened the odds, but even Stiles went around kicking up a fuss when overpowered. 

I had none of their ability to figure things out, to take all the pieces and help in a real tangible way. I hated it. 

The slight metallic clang of spurs sounds across the linoleum floor and Theo and Liam tense up, both their bodies ready to spring into action. 

They’re all too empty and cold to sense how many there might be outside, blending into each other, none of the million little quirks that distinguished one persons happiness from another’s joy. 

A  ghost rider comes to a still outside the doors and the boys burst through, ramming the ghost rider into the wall and knocking it out cold. Its unconsciousness feels no different from its awakened state, sending a chill running down my spine. 

One goes down and another four take its place. 

“Time to run,” I mutter, walking backwards, not wiling to let them out of my eyesight as they filled my bones with ice, “again.”

“Hide with the dead,” Theo says, already taking a step back.

Liam turns, breaking into a run and pulling me with him, “it was worth a try,” his hand iron around my wrist as he shoves me around the corner and into safety, Theo on our heels. 

Gunshots ring out behind us, the whooshing sound filling the hall as they explode on contact. 

Liam waits until they reach us, just as they’re turning to launch himself claws first at them, tackling the first one he can to the ground and bolting up, a shot narrowly missing his head as he turns to face the next ghost rider, the one on the floor already getting up. 

Theo cocks his head over at me before following suit, ghost of a smile on his lips and for a second I believe he can take them all before he throws the ghost rider taking aim at Liam against a wall. 

I push my hands into my temples as the throbbing pain that rises whenever they appear surges once more, threatening to split my head open, the numbing pain emanating from my head. 

Goosebumps appear on my arms as I try to imagine a wall, building it slowly, laying a layer of brick, pressing in the motor between each piece. 

My name is Mariella Gallagher. 

I am seventeen years old. 

My name is Mariella Gallagher. 

My cousin is Lydia Martin. 

I live in Beacon Hills. 

My name is-

I look up into the barrel of a gun, the ghost rider clicking off the safety and I let go,   the hands clutching my skull relaxing their hold on my hair. Ice in my veins, numb, and peer right up at it. 

Feeling as raw and empty as the ghost rider appeared, a black mirror. 

It turned, face sliding from mine as Theo grabs a hold of it, dragging it away-away from. . .me? I shake my head, caching my breathe as I watch, everything playing out in front of me, feeling disconnected. 

No sounds, no smells, nothing. 

My head tilting as I see but can’t comprehend, threads of thought evaporating as soon as I try and tie them together. Nothing. 

Nothing. 

I feel scrubbed raw and bloody, head lightheaded the way I always do after a long cry. 

Liam and Theo lock the ghost riders into a room but even the colors seem leeched from the world. Everything that happens. . .I feel disconnected, pulled away from the . . .my body isn’t real?

Movements slow, air thick like. . .honey. . .I could blow away like smoke in the air. Blow far far away. 

East of sun and west of moon. 

“El,” someone calls distantly. “El?”

I peer at a girl, eyes vacant as she stands still. A boy’s hand on her cheek as he turns her chin towards him. 

I think that was-is. . .

“huh,” I ask, looking wildly around. 

“Stay with me El,” Theo whispers.

“They’re everywhere,” Liam notes, looking curiously at us while he listened as best as he was able to, tracking the ghost riders movements on different floors. 

“Good,” I note. One less thing for Lydia and Scott to worry about. They’d remember Stiles and Malia and Kira could take any wayward ghost riders that hadn’t come here. 

“Really,” Theo snarls, looking at us both disbelieving, mossy eyes flat, sneering, “you really need me to remind you that getting captured by the ghost riders isn’t going to help save your friends?”

Before Liam can snap back, eyes flashing at Theo, the silhouettes of more oncoming ghost riders fills the hall like macabre shadow puppets. 

Instead, he sighs, “we’re all getting caught. You can do it while you’re running. I’m going down fighting.”

I laugh in spite of myself, “like big damn heroes,” smiling over at Liam. It feels wrong. My lips smiling even as the terror of being taken, the look in Hayden’s eyes as she resigned herself to her fate, make me want to scream and never stop. To scream until my throat goes hoarse. 

I turn to face the oncoming riders, Liam growling besides me, claws sharp. 

“Don’t be stupid El,” Theo utters, “go.” 

“El,” he snarls. 

I ignore him. 

Liam roars. 

They charge. 

*

Theo barely dodges a whip, falling to the ground. 

The cold heart stone in the pit of my stomach grows heavy, tongue pressing hard to the roof of my mouth as I stand over him, staring down the ghost rider. My will is iron as it palms it’s whip drawing closer. 

All the rabbit brained fear, the panic that has sent so many running as the whip cracks and takes them, backs turned, the crushing hopeless I’ve been privy to ever since we’d found that boy, ever since Corey had pulled one of them into our world swells up inside of me. 

Theo had once said that my mind acted like a two way street, pulling everything and sending anything, but it didn’t have to be. It was my mind, and I could control it and I wanted them to feel that same panic and fear. 

My face twists in concentration, angry and tired and so done with this supernatural bullshit. 

It raises it’s hand, ready to send it’s whip flying and I focus, sending all that paralyzing fear like a knife and jamming it right into the empty space where it’s mind should be, the empty pit that was it’s mind. Erased and gone and the perfect mirror. 

The whip slips out of it’s hand, body hitting the floor with a dull thunk. 

I let a breath I hand’t known I’d been holding out, laughter threatening to spill out in relief but this isn’t over. 

Theo shoves me out of the way as another ghost rider strikes and I am left helpless once more, drained and fighting the heaviness creeping into my eyes. It’s stronger than Theo, but he’s clever, wrestling the gun from it and shooting the thing. 

Then whipping around to shoot the one that has Liam pinned down, before looking over at me, “you couldn’t have done that to all of them?”

My eyes are wide, still shocked that I’d even managed to control, really control and use what ever abilities I had, “I-I don’t. . .I’m not even sure what I did.” 

Liam grins at us both, “and you thought my plan sucked.”

“It still sucks,” I retort as more ghost riders appear. 

“Cut off one head,” Liam mutters under his breath, fangs elongating once more,  “and two more grow back.” He roars, his fear never lasting long before it transforms into red hot pipping anger, rushing through his veins and blocking all else out. 

Theo rolls his eyes, wrapping his arms around the beta as he yells, “let’s go,” and dragging Liam into the elevator. “El that means you too,” he snaps, but my feet stay rooted to the ground. 

The elevators doors shut and the ghost riders charge once more, Theo growling behind me, “El,” he urges, “run.” He charges them and it’s an eerie sensation to have nothing rise out from them. No anger, no determination, just robotically following command. No that wasn’t right. There was no queen or king giving handing down orders here. 

Just a hive mind, following their nature, following their purpose in the natural order. Nothing but vessels for a force older and more powerful than any of us. 

With a deep sigh, I steel myself, pushing all other thoughts and sounds out of mind, for what I am about to do. Supplanting the sheriff’s emotions had been difficult because he already had some to start with, and I’d had to change them. Changing will’s-this should be easy. 

I close my eyes, hands shaking so hard I have to clench them into fists, nails digging into my skin. 

Force them. 

My will, my feelings, all mine. 

I feel for those cold hard empty spaces, the lack of something sending a nauseating feeling through me, the way a black hole seems to go against everything in nature. Anti-matter. 

I can’t remember anything Lydia told me about it. Her words often going above my head as she talked at me, going through her thoughts out loud. 

Focus. 

I grab ahold of those cold empty spaces, and think of all the love I have for my cousin, my aunt, my friends who’d do anything, even for a boy they didn’t know, for Allison that had carried Ethan out of the club, so dedicated to her new motto. Scott’s warm smile as we’d traced his dorky circles into the ground, Liam and Stiles breaking out into lightsaber fights not ten minutes later as Stiles complained about disney scarping his extended canon. 

Corey had stayed on the eyes watching us all, until Mason and I had grabbed his hands and dragged 

Lydia painting my nails in my room, carefully splaying the brush until every spot was evenly coated, neither of us feeling the need to talk after a long week at school. They way Kira and Malia would sleepover, Malia claiming all the pillows early on in the night as we all laid in Lydia’s bed, Kira’s foot nudging mine while Malia and Lydia bickered. 

Kira’s smile as she forced me along to a school dance, turning her boyfriend down who pouted and complained all week, before laughing as we all danced together, forming our own little spot on the dance floor. 

Her fingers braiding my hair as she smiled knowingly after watching me and Theo talk, his lips full of such sweet lies and-

and the way he’d believed me about everything. The only person who’d believed I wasn’t crazy or hearing things. Who wouldn’t give me those pitying or worse, indulgent smiles as I tried to explain what was happening. 

Theo who had chosen to stay and fight and saved Liam’s neck twice in the last hour. 

Focus. 

I imagine all that warm love pouring out of me, amplified as it travels from one ghost rider to another, mirroring and focusing my deep rooted tenderness I had for my friends, who were more of a family, a pack, and send it smashing into the ghost riders. 

*

Theo’s shirt is ripped to shreds under my cheek, his arms propping me up against his chest as I regain consciousness, fog clouding everything. His hand rubs the back of mine as he clasps it against his chest, rising over his heart, beating solidly under my hand, ungloved. 

For once, I don’t sense a brick wall of deceptive calm, fake like artificial sweetener. There’s just a wave of relief before he speaks, “Don’t do that to me again,” a mere whisper befitting the empty hall. 

I jolt, glancing around wildly, remembering the mass of ghost riders. He pulls me closer against him, “Don’t you dare do that to me again.”

Confused, I ask, “do what,” racking my brain together to piece together what happened and how I had ended up here. Not that I minded being held by Theo. Sometimes you need a monster of your own to keep all the others at bay. 

His eyes widen, the deep green of his eyes staring into mine, for once, he’s at a loss for words. 

Theo looks away, swallowing thickly, his hold on me tight even as I sit up, bones aching. “You took them all out El,” his hand stilling over mine, “the whole hospital.”

I panic, “like-killed them?”

He shrugs, “they just dissolved into the green dust like their victims do.” Theo meets my searching gaze once more, his lips so close to mine I can feel his warm breath tickling my skin. “I knew you could.”

“Well,” I admit, “I just listened to your advice.”

He laughs humorlessly, smiling crookedly, “didn’t anyone ever tell you not to listen to a word I say.”

“You never hurt me.”

“That’s not true,” he says quietly, as we both think of Lydia and how angry I’d been when my aunt had placed her in that place. How scared I was that she would do the same to me. 

“You know what I mean,” I say softly, hoping I’m not reading this all wrong, “you didn’t use me.”

“I didn’t need to,” he says, bringing a hand up to my cheek, caressing my skin soft tenderly it sends warm tingles throughout my body. “You were a non factor.”

My eyes narrow, “you could have lied and said Mariella if I’d used you all my plans would have fallen apart because you’re too powerful.”

He laughs quietly, shoulders shaking as he looks down at my, hand stilling on my chin, tilting my head closer to his so that out foreheads are resting against each other. 

A longing runs from the base of my throat, wanting nothing more than to kiss him, but I can’t summon the courage to do it. The last thing I want is to scare Theo away. 

“Is that what you want from me,” he wonders softly, “lies? Because I can tell you any lie you want to hear if that’s what you want.”

“No,” I respond, studying the dirt on his jaw, the mole on his cheek that I’d thought of kissing before everything had gone to hell like it inevitably does in this town. “I just want you to be you.”

“Even if I’m a horrible person that’s done awful things,” he says, barely audible. 

“I don’t think you’re a horrible person,” I confess, “and maybe thats a mistake, but I don’t think anyone is ever bad or good, except maybe for Scott. I think people do bad things, just like hey do good things, but that doesn’t make them good or bad.” My words are clumsy and I blush feeling stupid. 

Theo smiles, his hand dragging me forward catching my lips with his, kissing so hard, like I’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second. My first kiss and my heart can’t stop racing, leaning into him, kissing him back eagerly. 

My hands grip his ripped shirt, unafraid of anything I might sense, lost in Theo, in the feeling of his lips against mine, lighting my skin on fire with desire. 

He pulls away first, leaving me breathless, and yearning for more. 

“We need to find Liam and the others,” he states, reluctantly, his hands grasping mine. 

“You’re probably right,” I utter, standing up and dusting my jeans from the grime of the floor. “Gloves,” I say, hand outstretched towards Theo.

He chuckles, lips pulling up into his signature smirk, “you really think you still need them after that?”

“Theo, I still can’t control it. That was a one off.”

He shakes his head, “You don’t really believe that do you,” but hands over the gloves anyway much to my relief.

I pull the soft leather over my hands and follow behind Theo, walking back out into the hallway. But instead of the linoleum floors, we’re treated with railroad tracks coating the ground, railroad tracks crisscrossing beacon hills leading await some other unknown place, the focal point. 

“I bet it’s the high school,” I mutter, “it’s always the high school.”

“Let’s go,” he says grimacing even as he leads the way however reluctantly, not really believing he was really walking towards the very ghost riders we’d barely escaped from. 

@josie605

[dargeereads]

"A book that tells a story ... a beautifully brilliant, powerful story about love and pain; trauma and forgiveness and discovering your truth while finding your place in the world." ~Denise, Shh Mom's Reading®

Bitter Sweet Heart, a forbidden hockey romance from New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting, is now available!

From the outside looking in, I live a charmed life: hockey legend for a father, my own promising future in the league, a great family, awesome friends. It’s not untrue, but it’s not quite that simple either.

My dad’s advice has always been to make hockey my number-one priority—at least until I make it to the pros. So, going into my senior year of college, I have a plan. I’ll put in the effort required to pass my classes, play hockey like my life depends on it, and avoid relationships. All I have to do is stay focused on the end game, and I’ll walk away with a degree and into a career in the NHL.

It should be easy.

But when a woman literally floats into my dock, just before summer ends and my senior year begins, I can’t resist one last hookup. What harm could a one-night stand do? It’s not like we even exchanged numbers.

Everything is fine until I run into her on campus.

It’s a big school. I should be able to avoid her.

Except she happens to be in my class.

And she’s not a student.

She’s my professor.

Read today, exclusively on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3MofZDk

Amazon Worldwide: https://geni.us/BitterSweetHeart

Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/3xt69KT

Amazon Worldwide Paperback: https://geni.us/BitterSweetHeartPB

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3xaMYFn

Keep reading for a look inside Bitter Sweet Heart!

When seven o’clock arrives, I introduce myself and explain that I’ll be taking over for Professor Connelly. I field a few questions and reassure the students that he’s okay. I also brought in a get well soon card for them to sign. I pass it to the student directly in front of me, then pull up my attendance list and start calling names.

The door opens when I’m halfway through, and a student straggles in. It happened in my English class earlier, but in a class of three hundred students, it’s easier to slip in the back door and quietly find a seat. That’s what I expect this student to do.

Except his phone starts ringing. And it’s not a normal ringtone. It’s a song blaring through the room at full volume.

“Fuck. Shit.” He’s standing in the middle of the room, facing the back of the class, every single student staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out the offending device as Justin Bieber croons “I’m so fucking lonely” to the entire class. Instead of silencing it, he answers the call—on speaker.

A male voice that sounds like an angry father starts yelling. “Why the hell am I getting calls about you being late for practice, you’re—”

He spins around, gaze moving over the class as he takes in their looks of horror. He’s wearing a baseball cap, and the lights above cast a shadow over his face. “Oh, fuck me,” he mutters. “Hey, Dad, I’m in the middle of class. I’ll call you back later.” He rushes the words, so it all sounds quite garbled. Then he drops into the closest empty desk and slams his elbow on the edge on his way down. He sucks in a groan.

I give the student a look that I hope conveys how unimpressed I am. “Are you quite done?” I’m ready to go off on him, but he raises a hand and knocks his hat off his head.

“Uh, sorry, Professor. I think I might be in the wrong class.” His eyes dart around the room. “Or maybe not?”

“Professor Connelly is out for back surgery. Professor Sweet is taking over the class,” the student beside him says.

“Oh shit.” His vibrant green gaze, ringed in hazel, meets mine.

All the air leaves my lungs on a whoosh. The room tilts, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I can tell instantly that he recognizes me, and the silence in the room is deafening. Fortunately, he fills it by rambling out an explanation.

“Sorry about the phone call. And for being late. Coach kept me after practice and my dad’s on my ass because I had a bad game. I’m so sorry, Cl—” He clasps his hands in front of him and bites his lips together.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, and the rest of me feels disconnected from my body. Because this student, sitting in the middle of my sophomore class, is my summer fling.

My one-night stand who left behind an origami crane and a lot of memories I wish I could now erase.

About H. Hunting

NYT and USA Today bestselling author, Helena Hunting, writing as H. Hunting, lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She started her writing career with new adult angsty romance and branched out in sports romance and romantic comedies that will make you laugh and swoon. But sometimes she likes to serve up a little heartache on the way to the happily ever after.

Connect with H. Hunting

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3NVxqwe

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[anitabyars]

"A book that tells a story ... a beautifully brilliant, powerful story about love and pain; trauma and forgiveness and discovering your truth while finding your place in the world." ~Denise, Shh Mom's Reading®

Bitter Sweet Heart, a forbidden hockey romance from New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting, is now available!

From the outside looking in, I live a charmed life: hockey legend for a father, my own promising future in the league, a great family, awesome friends. It’s not untrue, but it’s not quite that simple either.

My dad’s advice has always been to make hockey my number-one priority—at least until I make it to the pros. So, going into my senior year of college, I have a plan. I’ll put in the effort required to pass my classes, play hockey like my life depends on it, and avoid relationships. All I have to do is stay focused on the end game, and I’ll walk away with a degree and into a career in the NHL.

It should be easy.

But when a woman literally floats into my dock, just before summer ends and my senior year begins, I can’t resist one last hookup. What harm could a one-night stand do? It’s not like we even exchanged numbers.

Everything is fine until I run into her on campus.

It’s a big school. I should be able to avoid her.

Except she happens to be in my class.

And she’s not a student.

She’s my professor.

Read today, exclusively on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3MofZDk

Amazon Worldwide: https://geni.us/BitterSweetHeart

Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/3xt69KT

Amazon Worldwide Paperback: https://geni.us/BitterSweetHeartPB

Add to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3xaMYFn

Keep reading for a look inside Bitter Sweet Heart!

When seven o’clock arrives, I introduce myself and explain that I’ll be taking over for Professor Connelly. I field a few questions and reassure the students that he’s okay. I also brought in a get well soon card for them to sign. I pass it to the student directly in front of me, then pull up my attendance list and start calling names.

The door opens when I’m halfway through, and a student straggles in. It happened in my English class earlier, but in a class of three hundred students, it’s easier to slip in the back door and quietly find a seat. That’s what I expect this student to do.

Except his phone starts ringing. And it’s not a normal ringtone. It’s a song blaring through the room at full volume.

“Fuck. Shit.” He’s standing in the middle of the room, facing the back of the class, every single student staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out the offending device as Justin Bieber croons “I’m so fucking lonely” to the entire class. Instead of silencing it, he answers the call—on speaker.

A male voice that sounds like an angry father starts yelling. “Why the hell am I getting calls about you being late for practice, you’re—”

He spins around, gaze moving over the class as he takes in their looks of horror. He’s wearing a baseball cap, and the lights above cast a shadow over his face. “Oh, fuck me,” he mutters. “Hey, Dad, I’m in the middle of class. I’ll call you back later.” He rushes the words, so it all sounds quite garbled. Then he drops into the closest empty desk and slams his elbow on the edge on his way down. He sucks in a groan.

I give the student a look that I hope conveys how unimpressed I am. “Are you quite done?” I’m ready to go off on him, but he raises a hand and knocks his hat off his head.

“Uh, sorry, Professor. I think I might be in the wrong class.” His eyes dart around the room. “Or maybe not?”

“Professor Connelly is out for back surgery. Professor Sweet is taking over the class,” the student beside him says.

“Oh shit.” His vibrant green gaze, ringed in hazel, meets mine.

All the air leaves my lungs on a whoosh. The room tilts, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I can tell instantly that he recognizes me, and the silence in the room is deafening. Fortunately, he fills it by rambling out an explanation.

“Sorry about the phone call. And for being late. Coach kept me after practice and my dad’s on my ass because I had a bad game. I’m so sorry, Cl—” He clasps his hands in front of him and bites his lips together.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, and the rest of me feels disconnected from my body. Because this student, sitting in the middle of my sophomore class, is my summer fling.

My one-night stand who left behind an origami crane and a lot of memories I wish I could now erase.

About H. Hunting

NYT and USA Today bestselling author, Helena Hunting, writing as H. Hunting, lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She started her writing career with new adult angsty romance and branched out in sports romance and romantic comedies that will make you laugh and swoon. But sometimes she likes to serve up a little heartache on the way to the happily ever after.

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My Review

5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Bitter Sweet Heart! (Lies, Hearts & Truths Series #2) by H. Hunting.

Utter Perfection! Page by page this brilliant, addicting, raw, emotional book consumed me. Infused with H. Hunting’s unique style, she weaves a sexy, forbidden love story, full of emotion, between these two broken characters with such finesse that I simply could not put this down and for me this is one of my top reads of 2022.

Maverick (Mav) Waters, is the son of hockey legend Alex Waters. With his college ice hockey career in the final stretch, all he needs to do is focus on his grades and hockey, and he will be rewarded with a degree and a NHL career. But then on one of the last days of his summer break, fate floats right into the dock he is sitting on, in the form of a beautiful, sleeping woman Clover Sweet.

This is Maverick and Clover’s story. Well written with strong characters, I was addicted after the first few pages. I fell hard for Maverick. He’s so protective and caring that every little action brought a smile to my face. I adored Clover she is just simply lovely, trying to fight for herself and put her past behind her. But what made this book one of my top reads of 2022 was the emotions they endured on their journey. It’s forbidden, charming and juicy and has the best banter. I swooned hard, smiled a lot, and savored the moments of angst that squeezed my heart until I had tears. The chemistry between Maverick and Clover is electrical. The heat level is incendiary, the heart even stronger. I could not get enough of them.

I am loving this series and I can’t wait for more! 5 STARS are not nearly enough for the journey H. Hunting took me on. Get in on this Utter Perfection today!!

Received an early copy and this is my honest review.

[speedilyloudpaper]

1 0    t o    w i n

‘OK Jeff. Which group supported Smokey Robinson on The Tears of a Clown in 1970?’

A clock sound effect ticks.

‘Um.. I think that were The Miracles’

Ding

‘Correct, well done! Question 10, listen carefully… name the song title and artist of the following 90s one hit wonder.’

‘You’ve got this, Jeff!’ adds the radio Dj, nonchalantly. Despite his genuine admiration at Jeff’s knowledge of music, he couldn’t make himself interested in the outcome of today’s Ten to Win.

And if you think

That I've been losing my way

That's because I'm slightly blinded

And if you think

That I don't make too much sense

That's because

I'm broken minded

Jeff did have this, he remembers playing a cover of it when he was younger. Suddenly he’s back on stage of the Hillsborough Working Men’s club, clad in freshly ripped jeans and a white T shirt with the sleeves rolled over his shoulders, thrashing his bass guitar like his life depended on it. Yes, he can see the setlist in front of him in his mind’s eye.

‘I think that was... Inside, by um Stiltskin’

‘Congratulations Jeff! That’s 10 out of 10, you really do know your music. You just won yourself a digital radio!’

Jeff feels immense elation having won the quiz, indeed this is the most exciting thing that has happened to him all year.

‘Aw fantasti-’

‘Yeah really well done. Is there anyone you’d like to give a shoutout to, Jeff?’

Jeff sits on the sofa in his living room with his new smartphone held next to his ear, wearing an old Aerosmith T shirt and dressing gown. The room is small and sparsely furnished, with a threadbare carpet and dated off white floral wallpaper. Beside the sofa is a small wooden cabinet. Across the room, next to a fireplace in which stands an electric fan heater, is a huge flat screen impulse-bought television playing on mute. There are no ornaments other than a few photographs on the mantelpiece and an ashtray on the cabinet. Old and yellowing white lace curtains droop over the window, allowing in a little light. In the corner by the window sits an acoustic guitar on a black stand.

‘Um, yeah.. There’s my cousin Derek, who’ll be listening at work’ says Jeff. His cousin wouldn’t usually be the first person to enter his mind, but hearing that track had started a flood of memories of his days in his old band, which Derek, or Del back then, was the lead singer, along with his best mates Tony and Gaz on drums and guitar. The memories bring a wave of nostalgia, but also something else.

‘Also my two sons, Will and Joey, they’re both at their mother’s today, but they said they’d listen t’ the show… um.. All the fellas at work and… and’

He stares at the bare wall above the television set. Suddenly his eyes feel weary and his face feels heavy. Another memory comes to him.

He’s sitting in the passenger seat of his uncle’s van with his bandmates, their equipment in the back. BBC radio 2 is playing over the speakers, for background noise and so the guys could complain to each other about radio stations never playing ‘real music’. In truth, Jeff quite liked the old pop songs they would play, but he wouldn’t have told any of the others. He liked and respected most genres of music, which was probably what made him the most talented at writing songs for the band.

A man had just lost a quiz and was asked if he’d like to mention anybody. It was always men or women of a certain age, who would proceed to reel off a pre prepared list of people they knew like they’d just won a BAFTA, usually followed by the line ‘and anybody else who knows me that I haven’t mentioned’, like everybody they’ve ever met is listening, and they can shout in all of their faces ‘Remember me? Look at me now! I’m on radio!’, Jeff thought.

‘Listen to this guy, makin’ such a big deal of being on the radio’ grunts Tony distastefully, his elbow resting on the window frame, holding a lit cigarette out of the window. ‘I bet this feels like his 15 minutes of fame. After he hangs up he’ll go back to being a fuckin’ nobody.’ The rest nod in agreement. ‘I tell you now lads’ he continues ‘we’re not gonna be like that. We’ll be on the radio alright, just not doing a stupid quiz’

‘Hopefully we won’t be played on a crap station like this.’ adds Jeff, earning him a few chuckles from the others. He didn’t like classing people as nobodies or successes, but he did agree with his mate. In fact each member of the band had a desire to make something of themselves. He supposed it was due to angst of growing up in a small northern town, however he was sure that in himself, and perhaps the others, it came from something much deeper, didn’t it?. It was about doing more with his life than he watched those around him do. He didn’t want to live in the future, in the past or only at the weekend, he wanted to really live for every second, following his passion and putting his heart into what he did; and what he was passionate about, more than anything, was music.

‘Jeff? Sorry I’m going to have to hurry you up’

‘Um yeah. Sorry. A-and...’ he lets out a sigh and a dry laugh, almost mocking himself.

‘And everybody who knows me who I haven’t mentioned’ he hears himself say.

The nostalgia recedes like an ocean tide, leaving him empty and all too aware of the present moment, the empty flat, the familiar silence except the sound of water running through pipes and occasional quiet whoosh of a car passing outside. The radio host says something but he isn’t listening, and he’s put on hold.

Jeff thinks of all the people who know him who he hasn’t mentioned. Other members of his family, who he keeps meaning to see more often, his friends he meets at the weekends to play pool and get drunk, and his coworkers, who he sees almost every day.

Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ plays in his ear, distorted and crackling, as he pictures the last 20 years of faces, and with the faces, memories.

The band had played regularly for three years, playing to crowds that increased in size each night, earning themselves a small following. One of their best performances was at a nightclub in Leeds, to a crowd of over a thousand people. The frenzy of the crowd was like nothing the band had seen before. People were jumping up and down and bouncing off of each other like one giant crazy pounding mass of screaming faces and waving arms that could burst through the walls. The energy that came off this thing was immense, like a powerful force that spurred the band to another level. By the end of the show, each member of the band was utterly worn out and dripping with sweat, the pickups on Gaz’s guitar were splattered with blood from his fingers (which they all found extremely cool).

It wasn’t just the performance that made that night so special for Jeff, it was also the night he met his wife. After the show, the band had gone to the club’s bar, where each had necked the most refreshing beer they would ever taste. After ordering a second they were approached by a girl with red lipstick and a big wavy hairstyle, who introduced herself as Debbie, saying how great the performance was. She was clearly drawn to Jeff more than the others, to his surprise. Admittedly, being the bass player, he was often overlooked by their female fans after the show, something that Del and Gaz would enjoy winding him up about. Because of this, and the fact he was still coated with sweat and had beer dripping from his chin, he didn’t expect her to be interested in him, but she was, and the two got on well. She had travelled with the band for a while before moving into Jeff’s flat. She saw Jeff as a perfect opportunity to get away from her parents, and the fact he played in a rock band was an added bonus. Perhaps she had rushed things a little, but she did suppose she loved him.

Six months later. The two are in the kitchen. Debbie is pregnant. The two had known for a while, yet neither had really mentioned the changes that were soon to come, especially regarding the band. Eventually she decided they’d avoided it for long enough, and brought it up one day before breakfast. She explained that having a baby meant that he’d have to get a job with a more steady income, and that he wouldn’t be able to travel as much with the band anymore. Of course Jeff had already thought about this, he just didn’t want to face the truth. On top of this, she also said that traveling with the band had had an effect on her as well, and that they weren’t spending as much time together as she’d like. This he hadn’t thought about. Obviously they weren’t the only couple to have thought about this, as a day later, the band were in Gaz’s living room, his girlfriend in the kitchen, when Gaz suggests that they call it quits on the band. They all eventually agree.

Del manages to get Jeff a job at Hardy & Co, the factory where Del’s brother worked. Jeff remembers being in the interview, sat across from some miserable looking manager, who had huge bags under his eyes and yellowed uneven teeth and sour breath, trying to explain his O levels and how hard he was willing to work blah blah blah, when all he could really think about was leaving his dreams and passion behind for a 9 to 5 job that meant nothing to him. He got the job and since then life had gone on like it does for most. He and Deborah got married. The baby was born followed by another a year later. At the factory he worked his way from floor assistant to supervisor. He struggled to think of anything that had made his life much different from the thousands of other ‘nobodies’ his age, apart from, maybe, the fact that his wife cheated on him. Then again that might be more common than you think, he thought, if television dramas are anything to go by.

Of course, he hadn’t spent his life in misery, dwelling on the fact that his band never became a major success. He’d had his ups and downs like anybody. There had been moments of immense happiness, such as his wedding day or when he held his children for the first time. In fact, until hearing that song in the radio quiz, he hadn’t thought about his band or old dreams in a few years. He never forgot his love of music either, as he was always listening to new tapes and CDs, and was known by his colleagues as the man to go to to settle an argument about who topped the charts in what year, or who played a certain song. He had a job to do all day, friends to meet at the weekend, and kept himself entertained in his free time, like everyone does.

Only seeing the years flash before him now made it seem so empty and pointless, leaving him feeling overwhelmed with regret and hopelessness and with a sinking in his chest. He felt like he’d failed himself. Like he’d let himself down. He couldn’t just blame himself though, and he started to feel irritated at the whole world for screwing things up for him.

His talent, his dreams, his passion for music had come to nothing. Well, he had gained one thing from it all; winning this radio quiz. Maybe he’d impressed a few listeners. Maybe he’d --

‘Hello? Is that Jeff’

Jeff stands up quickly when he hears the voice, remembering he should be ecstatic that he’s won the quiz, but unable to shake that strange mix of wistfulness and exasperation.

‘Yeah... still here’

When did I become such a fucking failure

‘Hi, congrats on winning today’s quiz. Could you please tell us your full name and address so we can send you your Sony D.A.B radio?’

This is what his lifelong love for music had come down to. This is what he had to show for it all. A Sony D.A.B fucking radio. Maybe he could show it off to visitors. Maybe people would ask him where he got it from, and he could tell them how he had won the quiz. It wasn’t much but it was something. He snickers at himself again, sardonically.

‘Yeah yeah, it’s um Jeff Stephens--’

The phone beeps.

‘Hello?’

No reply.

He takes the phone away from his ear and looks at the screen. Instantly he realises the stupid phone has hung up, like it keeps doing all the fucking time. I don’t even get the fucking radio. He isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry.

He stands motionless in the silent room for a few seconds. The empty hole inside him has quickly filled with white-hot rage.

‘FUCK!’ he screams at the top of his voice, straining the veins in his face.

‘FUCKING SHIT FUCKING--’ he aggressively lobs the piece of shit smartphone at his guitar in the corner, smashing the screen, snapping the case and leaving a huge dent in his guitar.

‘PIECE OF SHIT’ he yells, his voice faltering this time. He collapses into the sofa, his anger becoming despair.

‘Stupid fucking phone’ he cries.

‘Stupid fucking guitar, fucking band’ tears fill his eyes.

‘Fucking job... fucking kids...fucking...all this shit’

He opens his mouth to say something else but doesn’t, and slumps back further into his sofa and he doesn’t move for a while.

[sammy-writes-stuff]

Traits, Trials and Truth, Ch 30

FINAL CHAPTER

Chapter Thirty: Aftermath

Start.  Previous.

Thomas' finger hovered over the "enter button on his keyboard dramatically.

"Come on Thomas! Just one more click then hello success fame and fortune!" Roman practically danced from his corner of Thomas' living room. He no longer simply worse a plain white costume with red and gold additions: his whole outfit was now gold, still with his signature red sash, no white in sight.

After he had regained all his colour (and his hair), he had vowed to never be that colourness again.

"You have completed the project there is no use in delaying submission." sighed Logan, adjusting his glasses.

"I'm SO PROUD of you SON!" Patton squeezed, dancing on the spot.

"Not your son..." Thomas sang playfully.

"I dunno you guys..." Virgil sighed from the stairs. He recoiled a little under the gaze of the others. "Putting yourself out there like this...a lot could go wrong."

"That's true, Virgil." Thomas conceded. "Are you comfortable that we've assessed the possible risks and outcomes?" Logan asked.

Virgil swallowed. "Yes actually. You guys were very thorough." He paused for a bit.

"We understand Virgil." Patton said softly. "It was a hard process for everyone."

Several months had passed since Pitch had disintegrated. True to his word - he showed up every now and then. Never in human form, in the form of black sludge.

Logan now routinely strolled through the infospace, cleaning it up and disposing it. They would then have a casual talk about what may have caused it. There wasn't always something obvious, but they always enjoyed the chance to discuss things.

Roman kept an eye on the dreamscape - it being mostly back to normal. It took a while not to flinch at the sight of his subjects and he had completely remodeled the throne room, scrubbing any memory of what had happened there.

The meadow wasn't there. Roman guessed nothing would grow there even if he tried. Instead he left the barren patch of earth as a reminder.

It was humbling.

Patton kept an eye on the back of the mind.

Virgil would always double check the areas after the others had finished. They understood, and were grateful for it.

"Okay." Virgil mumbled. Roman punched his arm affectionately, but immediately regretted it.

"God, I'm so sorry Verge...I forgot - "

"Don't get your pantyhose in a twist Princey." Virgil smiled slightly. "It doesn't really hurt anymore."

Thomas smiled, then took a breath, and hit send.

With a whoosh his manuscript was sent out into the world of publishers.

"No matter what, it's my favourite book!" Patton said proudly, grinning and putting his hands theatrically on his hips.

"Well it is about us after all." Roman laughed. "Though I still think you should have left out the part about the hair and the glitter..."

"Gotta be honest Roman!" Thomas shrugged. Partly as a coping mechanism, and partly because writing it all down was an easier way for Thomas to communicate with his friends what exactly had happened to him over the past year...he had turned his story into a book. Maybe it could help someone else be a little more truthful with themselves.

His friends had rallied by his side, that day, and he would be forever grateful.

If they hadn't been there...

Virgil had nearly completely faded. Thomas had nearly set the house on fire even under supervision.

"Well done buddy." Virgil nodded.

Thomas' phone buzzed.

"Huh." He said, reading the text. "Leo wants to hang out."

"Sounds good...but maybe a movie night? Something quiet..." Virgil suggested nervously.

"You know, a movie night sounds wonderful." Thomas smiled, and Virgil relaxed.

The sides said good night, then sank into the mindscape kitchen.

"Alright, I'm taking orders." Virgil announced. All three hands went up. "Cool...four then."

"I would prefer a HOT chocolate rather than a COOL one if it's an option!" Patton spoke up, eliciting a groan from Virgil as he set about making them.

He'd made his now famous hot chocolates half a dozen times now, and reserved them for special occasions.

He set the steaming cups down in front of each of them, then went around and slowly applied whipped cream and grated chocolate to the tops - completing his masterpieces.

"You are a true marvel, Gordon Restlessly."

"Come on dude, you can do better than that." Virgil grunted as he sat down in his own chair.

"Paul Hollywood?"

"You did not attempt to wittily adapt that name at all." Logan frowned.

"Yeah because I didn't need to! Hollywood...because of his dramatic nature and his make-up."

"Wouldn't you be the Hollywood then?" Patton asked cheekily.

"Fine. I'll be Paul Hollywood..."

"Is this a role play now?" Logan raised his eyebrow. "If so I will be Jamie Oliver."

"NOOOOOOOO..." Roman groaned.

Virgil just smiled and raised his mug. The others followed suit and their glasses met in the middle, making a merry "chink!"

They each drank deeply, then pulled away with a salacious moan, mustaches plastered on their top lips, then dissolved into giggles.

When Virgil reached the bottom of his drink, he swirled the choclately dregs thoughtfully.

"Do you think we'll ever truly get rid of him?" Virgil almost subconsciously flexed his arm slightly.

Patton looked at Logan, then to Roman, then set his own mug down too.

"I don't know." The father figure said softly. "Maybe one day, well into the future. But for now...we keep doing what we are doing."

Logan set his own empty mug down. "Patton his quite correct. As an illness, Pitch is frightfully lawless - he doesn't need reason to sprout where he does. However, I can confidently say we will never give him solid power ever again."

Virgil nodded, still staring downwards.

"He was never meant to be a side, he had to force that and I think he made a mistake doing that." Roman nodded.

Virgil lifted his chin slightly. "I think Tristan...well the parts he took...held him back in places." He had been mulling over every exchange he had had with Pitch since he'd been beaten.

"Like Malachite!" Patton gasped.

Logan looked thoughtful. "That may make some sense actually...Pitch was a much more efficient villain before he bonded..."

"Trust you to admire his efficiency." Roman huffed, folding his arms.

"Puns." Virgil said suddenly, cutting off Logan's angry retort and eyes growing wide.

"Yes?" Patton asked, now extremely invested.

"Pitch started making really bad puns and dad-jokes."

"He was being unproductive!" Logan gasped. "Tristan was stalling where he could..."

"He's a bloody hero." Roman mused.

They lapsed again, all staring in their respective empty mugs.

"No matter what comes," Patton finally said. "We just have to take it day by day. Maybe Pitch will be gone for good, but for now: we be mindful. We be on-guard. But we function. Sure - we may have bad days, but even on my worst days I will never be unhappy to spend time with all of you."

Virgil smiled in spite of himself.

He was not one for change, but they had all gone through a big one. Things wouldn't be the same, at least not in a hurry.

But maybe Patton was right, and at least they can rely on the solidarity of each other.

Feeling warm inside, Virgil snuggled deep into his hoodie as Patton began to clear up.

Logan looked around, and found it hard to picture how alone he had felt in the thick of it all.

As Patton rejoined them, he grabbed Patton's hand and squeezed. Patton linked up with Roman, but both Roman and Logan paused - waiting for Virgil's permission.

"Are we really doing this?" Virgil groaned.

"Not if you don't want to." Logan assured.

Virgil paused for a moment, them grumbled moodily and completed the circle.

They were on a journey, but they were not alone.

There was a slight silver glow to the group that flashed as they connected.

No. Virgil smiled.

They definitely were not alone.

THE END.

Authors Note: 

Wow! I just want to say a MASSIVE thank you to those of you who commented, left kudos, and even just reading it. This process of writing and posting has honestly helped me so much! This is the first time I’ve published my writing in years and your interest, tips, and kind words have honestly just made my day every day.

My goal for this was to have some choice Virgil angst, but it kinda spiralled into angst for everyone! I never set out to make Logan the hero, it’s just how it happened but I’m happy that I gave Logan that role, he don’t get enough love!

To be honest, when I set out I had a vague plan but I let it go where I felt it went naturally.

Originally, Pitch was going to be the voice that Virgil hears the start, but I loved Tristan too much to make him a simple mask, and I like them as separate characters.

It was important to me that Pitch wasn’t a side. Personally, I have accepted my own anxiety (in part thanks to Thomas and his videos), but I’m not prepared to accept that my depression is anything more than a disease.

It was also important for me to try and not play down the severity that is depression, and that it’s not an easy fix. The ending isn’t a slam dunk win for the sides, but they are helping Thomas function with a mental illness, even if Pitch is much weaker at the end. And I owe a lot to my medication and other outside help, so I wanted that to be a big factor too in Thomas’ recovery.

I just love these guys so much! And I loved sharing this with you. Remember to be honest with yourself and your feelings. They are valid, if only for the reason that you are feeling them. There doesn’t have to be a reason to be sad, because often there isn’t.

So thank you, once again, for the love and support.

Kia Kaha,

-Sammy

xxx

Tag List: @callboxkat @potatogirl309 @thegreyacefromspace

[peopleandrhythm]

S2E7: Suffocate the Atmosphere

Friends, I don’t know what to say. This time, both the preview and the post were deleted from my queue. I’m terribly sorry about that, but I also don’t know what to do to fix it. Sunday nights are usually not a very good time for me to keep an eye on Tumblr, so I suppose I will have to post these chapters manually on Monday mornings, which is not typically a problem for me. Thank you for your patience, and if you have a solution to this really frustrating problem, please let me know.

Hayley jerks awake to a loud bang. She blinks rapidly to focus, and it’s only when she hears the rumble of the garbage truck down the street that she realizes what ripped her from sleep. She groans and rolls over, and that’s when she notices the empty half of the bed beside her, still perfectly made. She furrows her brows and looks around the bedroom. “Elijah?” She’s met with silence. There’s no sign of him anywhere.

She gets up, pulls a sweatshirt over her head, and pads out into the hall. “Elijah?” No response. Hayley makes her way through the compound, poking her head through doors, looking for him but coming up empty. When she makes it to Rebekah’s bedroom, she knocks and waits for the quiet, “Come in.”

Hayley pushes open the door. Rebekah is still in bed, her blonde hair strewn wildly across her pillows, and scrolling on her phone. “Hey, have you seen Elijah?”

Rebekah doesn’t look over. “Hayley, I have yet to get out of bed this morning, and I have no plans to do so in the foreseeable future. I have no earthly idea where my brother is, but it’s not in here.”

Hayley makes an unimpressed face. “Did you hear him come in last night?”

“Last I heard he was enforcing Hope’s new curfew.” She finally tears her eyes away from her phone. “Is he not here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he already left. I’ll call him.” She leaves the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind her.

Still making her way through the halls, Hayley pulls her phone out of her pocket. She navigates quickly to Elijah’s contact and dials. She presses the phone to her ear and waits.

“You have reached the voicemail of: Elijah Mikaelson. At the tone, please leave a mess—”

Hayley hangs up with a frustrated sigh. She stares at her phone screen for a minute, debating how worried she actually wants to feel, before tapping out a text. Hey, call me when you get this. Then she slides her phone back into her pocket and, an uneasy expression on her face, continues on.

Things are swirly when Elijah comes to. This isn’t his first time recovering from a stake to the heart, but judging by the fire surging through his veins, he’s been injected with more than enough vervaine to kill another sort of vampire. That theory is compounded by the searing around his wrists; though he can’t see what’s binding them behind his back, he knows vervaine ropes when he feels them melting off his skin.

He blinks once, twice, and, panting, tries to take stock of his surroundings. He recognizes the vague shape and look of a shipping container—the docks, then. He jockeys himself into a somewhat sitting position, using his shoulder to push himself off of the floor, and hears a cold rattling. His ankles are chained together, and the chain disappears into the dark half of the container.

Elijah’s head tips back against the wall of the container. He focuses his energy on the vervaine ropes; he’s weak, and pulling against the vervaine is excruciating, but if he can just get free—

Sharp footsteps against the metal floors divert Elijah’s attention away from his task. He looks over to see a figure emerging from the darkness. He narrows his eyes and whispers, “I…I know you…”

The figure smiles. “We met a few days ago. We have a mutual friend. Hayley?” He brings his face fully into the light from a tiny hole in the wall. “My name’s Joel.”

The entire Mikaelson clan gathers in the courtyard. Hope and River sit close on the edge of the fountain, River’s arm around Hope’s shoulders.

“It’s been hours,” Hayley says, standing apart from the others. “This isn’t like him.”

Klaus strides in, phone in hand. “He isn’t answering any of us.”

Hayley turns to Freya. “Nothing on the locator spell?”

Shaking her head, Freya answers, “I could feel that he was still in New Orleans, but nothing more specific than that.”

“Same here,” Hope pipes up, voice quiet. “I couldn’t get a read on him.”

From his place leaned up against a wall, Kol drawls, “Well our big brother might be the prissiest of us all, but he doesn’t go down without a fight. Now who do we know who could take down an Original?”

There’s silence, and then Hope murmurs, “Marcel.” All eyes turn to her. “He’s, like, a super-charged vampire, or whatever, and his bite is lethal to all vampires, including Originals. He’s pissed at me right now. Maybe, to teach me a lesson…”

“No,” Klaus insists, shaking his head. “Marcellus would never.”

“Marcel hates Elijah,” Kol says with an eye roll. “He doesn’t need an excuse. One would think tearing his heart out and tossing him off a bridge would be enough to earn some revenge.”

“Enough,” Rebekah snarls. “This isn’t Marcel’s doing.”

Hayley’s already heading for the exit. “It’s worth an ask, don’t you think?”

“Wait.” Hayley stops, and everyone turns to look at Freya. She’s seated, arms crossed in on herself. “I think…I think may know what happened to him.” She takes a deep breath. “There’s a vampire hunter in town.”

Elijah shakes his head, partially to clear it, partially in disbelief. “You…you’re…”

Joel leans against the container wall opposite Elijah. “Yeah. Looks like you and I both found ourselves smitten with Hayley. Oh, that isn’t what this is about, by the way. I’m not, like, jealous or anything. God, we slept together, what, eight years ago? Please, I’m just relieved that that kid she was talking about is too old to mine.” He snorts. “Nearly had a heart attack in the middle of the farmer’s market.”

“Then what is this about?” Elijah grits through his teeth.

“Oh right.” Joel rocks himself off of the wall and walks closer. “So, I’m a vampire hunter. I know, I’m a little short to play the part, but I’ve been staking vamps like you since I was eighteen years old.”

“I highly doubt you’ve ever staked a vampire like me.”

“Right, right. You’re an Original. Hadn’t even heard of you until a couple of days ago. See, when my sister got accepted to grad school here in New Orleans, I thought, This is the perfect opportunity to do some real good. Everyone knows that New Orleans is crawling with all sorts of supernatural witchery, and I assumed I’d spend my night staking as many vamps as I can.

“That’s when I found out about you.” Joel squats in front of Elijah. “Kill an Original, wipe out their entire line. That’s a lot of vampires in one fell swoop.”

“Genius plan,” Elijah says dryly. “There’s just one problem.”

“And what’s that?”

Elijah stares him right in the eye. “You can’t kill me.”

Joel pushes himself back up with a groan. “Right, right. Original vampires can’t be killed in the usual ways—stake to the heart, beheading, fire, tearing out the heart. That is inconvenient, not going to lie. The only thing that can kill you is white oak.”

“And there’s no white oak left. You’re only…oh, fifteen years too late.”

“Right, right.” Joel digs around in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a tiny vial filled with what appears to be dirt. He carefully extracts the stopper and dumps the vial onto Elijah’s lap. “Maybe not so much.”

Elijah eyes the substance warily. “What is that?”

“I thought you’d recognize it. Heard your aunt Dahlia tried to poison you with it once back in the day.”

Elijah goes very, very still. “Where did you get that?”

Joel shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. What matters…” He grins. “…is that I’m going to kill you with it.”

The breath whooshes out of Hope. “I’m sorry, what?”

Rebekah looks aghast. “Freya, how long have you known about this?”

“Just—just a couple of days—”

“A couple of days?” Hope leaps to her feet. “Three vampires were staked yesterday and you never thought to bring up that you knew there was a vampire hunter in the Quarter?”

“What the hell, Freya?” Hayley snaps.

Freya takes a deep breath. “There was someone I was…protecting—”

“And what of my daughter?” Klaus’s eyes are boring so hard into Freya it’s a wonder her skull doesn’t burst into flames. “When did you decide to stop protecting her?”

Kol snorts. “That’s rich, coming from the lunatic starting wars in the city just to undermine his daughter’s power.”

Hayley’s head snaps back and forth between them. “Wait, what?”

Hope lets out a strangled groan. “Oh my god.” Freya finally looks up to see Hope staring at her. “It’s her, isn’t it?” Freya nods.

Klaus looks bewildered. “Her? Her who?”

“Her name is Amaya.” Freya’s voice is barely above a whisper. “She works at Rousseau’s. We’ve been…seeing each other for a few weeks now.”

Silence reigns. The other Mikaelson siblings exchange glances of varying degrees of surprised, before Rebekah says, “You’ve been dating a woman?”

“Well why the bloody hell should we care about that?” Kol bursts out. “My god, Nik fell for a seventeen-year-old beauty pageant winner back in Mystic Falls and no one batted an eye. Surely we can’t be fazed by this.”

Unimpressed, Klaus ignores his brother and says, “I fail to see the connection between this girl and—”

“He’s her brother.” Klaus falls silent. “The vampire hunter is Amaya’s brother. And she doesn’t know—not about him, not about me, not about any of this. And I knew if word got out that it was a vampire hunter was killing people in New Orleans, it wouldn’t be long before someone killed him, and then her brother would be dead—”

“And what of our brother, sister?” Rebekah asks. “What of Elijah? Should he die to spare her feelings?”

“No, of course not—”

“The threat comes from outside the city.” Everyone turns to look at Hope, confused by her sudden interjection. She’s staring at the ground, thinking hard. “That’s what…that’s what Esther said to me. ‘The threat comes from outside the city, but it will consume our communities, setting them aflame from the inside.’” Hope looks back up at Freya. “It’s him. This burgeoning war between the witches and the vampires, the chaos and the confusion and the fear. You knew what was causing it all and you didn’t say anything. And now my uncle’s life in at risk.”

Freya’s eyes slide close. “I am so sorry—”

“Save it, Freya,” Hayley snarls.

“I’m going to go commune with the ancestors,” Hope says. “See if they can’t get a read on where Elijah is.” She heads for the stairs, River close on her heels.

Rebekah walks over to Hayley and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Come. We can be of use to Hope.” She leads her after the girls.

Klaus stalks up to Freya. “Tell me everything you know about this hunter. Now.”

“I don’t know much,” Freya insists. “Amaya never spoke much of Joel—”

“Joel?” Hayley comes to a halt and whips around. “The hunter’s name is Joel?”

“Yes.”

The final piece falls into place. “I know exactly who he is.”

Joel has his back turned to Elijah, fiddling with something in the darkness. Elijah pulls slightly on the vervaine ropes, but the sizzle of his skin burning off earns a quiet tut from the hunter. “If I have to, I’ll stake you again. But that would just be a waste of both of our time.”

“I’m sure you have some tragic backstory that I would love hear another day,” Elijah says tiredly, “but today I’m just not in the mood. If you let me go, I’ll do my best to ensure that you actually have another day.”

Joel turns around, some sort of device in his hand. “No one’s going to find you here. I got a witch to do a little cloaking spell for me.”

Elijah’s face betrays surprise. “A witch from New Orleans is helping you?”

“Oh no, no one from this city. Well, actually now that you mention it, it was a New Orleans witch who told me all about you and your family. She’s the one who gave me the idea to wipe you all out so I could rid this city of vampires once and for all.”

Impressed, Elijah says, “Quite the operation you’ve got planned. Pity it’ll never work.”

Joel makes a face. “What does that mean?”

“The vast majority of the vampires in this city belong to my brother’s sire line.”

“So?”

Elijah smiles. “My brother’s link to his sire line was severed fifteen years ago. Killing him will do nothing but rob a young girl of her father.”

Joel stares at Elijah for a long time, face impassive. Then he blinks. “Well then, screw New Orleans. You have to have sired vampires wreaking havoc somewhere in the world. I’m thinking more globally than just one shitty city in Louisiana.”

Elijah lets out a dry, breathy laugh. “You should be grateful that it was I who heard that and not my brother.”

“Well you’re not going to get to tell him, because this is the part where I kill you.” Joel presses a button on the device in his hands, and something starts whirring in the dark half of the shipping container. Elijah can hear the air shift, and there’s something heavy about it. Suddenly, he feels it, clinging to his nostrils, to the back of his throat—white oak ash.

He starts to choke, coughing and sputtering uncontrollably. His body screams to get it out, get it out, but the ash is being blown his way, surrounding him in a slowly thickening cloud of poison. Joel leans back against the metal wall of the container, crosses his arms, and watches.

After pulling on her second boot, Hayley pushes herself off of the bed and stalks toward the door to her bedroom. She pulls up short, though, when someone appears in the hall. “Out of the way.”

Freya puts out a hand. “I just wanted to apologize—”

“I don’t want to hear your apology,” Hayley snaps. “Not after what you did to Elijah, to me, to Hope.”

“I was trying to protect someone I care about—”

“And in the process you let a murderer run free in New Orleans, in the city where my daughter lives.” Hayley shakes her head. “I don’t care if you love this girl or not. You had the choice to stop this guy and you didn’t. That’s the only thing I care about.”

Before Freya can say anything else, Hope appears beside her. Without looking at her aunt, she says, “Uncle Elijah’s somewhere by the docks. The ancestors can’t get more specific. He’s being cloaked.”

Hayley nods. “Okay, stay here. Your father and I are going to go get him.”

She starts to push past Freya, who begins, “I can help—”

“I’m going too.” Hope juts her chin out defiantly. “You’re going to need a witch. I can help.”

“No,” Hayley says emphatically. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What’re you going to do, search every building, every shipping container, every warehouse on the docks? He could be dead by then.”

“We don’t know that this hunter has the means to kill an Original,” Freya points out.

Hope finally looks at her aunt, and her glare is piercing. “No. We don’t. There are a lot of things we still don’t know, things that we might have known if you had chosen to tell us anything. But my uncle’s life is on the line, and I’m not taking any chances. So I’m going to go down to the docks, I’m going to find him, and I’m going to bring him home.” She marches down the hall toward the stairs. “And none of you is going to stop me.”

The sun glints brightly off of the Mississippi, and Hope holds an open hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare. “There are thousands of places he could be.”

Klaus places a hand on her shoulder. “Anything you could do to get more specific would be a great help, luv.”

Hope nods, and then bows her head as if in prayer. Her parents watch her warily, unsure of what to do. There’s a sound, gradual, as if a breeze coming in from the sea, that only Hope can hear: whispers. She starts to walk, eyes still closed.

Hayley and Klaus exchange a wild look. “Hope?” her mother calls.

“They’re helping me find him,” is the only response. She keeps walking, and her parents, with no other choice, follow.

Elijah is coughing heavily, curled over on himself grotesquely as he tries to expel the white oak ash from his body. His throat is closing, growing tighter and tighter, and as he struggles to breathe, he can see his skin start to gray.

Joel coughs too, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, if I stay in here, this ash just might kill me too. I’ll head out, come back when you’re dead.” He strides for the container entrance without a backward glance at the dying man. The clang of the metal door is deafening as Elijah is left to choke alone.

Hayley and Klaus follow Hope through a maze of shipping containers and warehouses, not sure at all where they’re going. They double back when they hit dead ends, or even just when Hope spins around without warning. Each of them want to say something, to ask what she’s hearing, but they let her be, choosing instead to walk behind in uneasy silence.

Finally, Hope stops dead, smack in the middle of a large path between two long rows of containers. Her eyes are still twisted shut, as if she’s listening intently to something. After half a minute, Klaus decides to ask, “Hope? What is it?”

Without a word, Hope’s eyes spring open, and slowly, she lifts up her head.

A few hundred yards down the path stands a man, staring at them with wide eyes. Joel. A growl rips from Hayley’s throat. She takes a step, but Klaus grabs her arm. When she turns, wild-eyed, to glare at him, he says, “You deal with him. Hope and I will find Elijah.”

Having gotten all the confirmation she needs, Hayley tears off in a blur after Joel, who disappears like a rabbit between two containers in terror.

Hope’s walking faster now, her father hot on her heels. “He’s dying,” she says, panicked. “I can feel him dying, but I can’t see him—”

“Hope.” Klaus steps in front of her, places his hands on her shoulders to stop her.

“What’re you—”

“Breathe. You are the most powerful witch this city has ever seen. If anyone can find your uncle Elijah, it is you. Believe in yourself. I do.”

Hope nods, and lets her eyes slide shut. She listens as the voices of the ancestors wash over her, a cacophony of chatter and information. She focuses on sifting through the noise, searching for the one thing that can help her find her uncle. Then, out of the blue, a thought: Blue container, fifty yards due east.

Her eyes open again. “I know where he is.”

Joel steps as silently as he can manage, picking his way through the shipping yard like a big cat in its jungle. He knows what Hayley is now, knows how easily it would be for her to track his every move. He keeps to the mosaicked shadows on the ground, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

Still, he can’t help but taunt her. In a low voice, he says, “Gotta admit, you snuck it past me all those years ago. I had no idea you were a bloodsucker. Didn’t even know there was such a thing as a werewolf, either.” There’s a loud bang off to his right, and he flinches violently, but there’s nothing there. Pressing on, he says, “I didn’t mean to shoot your kid, you know. I don’t hunt humans. It was a mistake. I’m glad she’s okay. So I get why you’re pissed, but—”

And then he’s flying through the air, tumbling limb over limb until he crashes onto the pavement and skids. He pushes himself up with a groan, but before he’s back on his feet, a punch like a wrecking ball crashes across his face. He falls again, and this time, before he tries to stand, he whips a small gun out of his pocket. He rolls onto his back and fires, but Hayley dodges the vervaine dart easily.

She stands tall over him, eyes black as night, fangs bared. “You nearly murdered my daughter, and now you’ve taken one of the people I love the most. You think I’m pissed?”

Joel swipes a leg out and trips Hayley up. She easily rolls and hops back onto her feet, but when she looks down, he’s gone, up and running between containers again. She rolls her eyes, and a blink later, she’s in front of him, clutching him by the neck. He grabs at her arm, gasping desperately for breath, but her grip is far too strong to break.

She pulls him close and hisses in his face, “I’ll tell your sister you died doing something brave. The lie should bring her some comfort.” Then she sinks her fangs into the scar along his neck, tearing out his throat. Blood spurts all over her, and she drops his corpse to the ground with a satisfying thud.

Hope comes to a stop in front of a blue container. “This is it?” Klaus asks. Instead of answering, Hope holds out a hand. The door to the container bursts open, and a gust of air and ash follows it out. Klaus immediately begins coughing, but blurs into the poisoned air anyway. He looks down and sees his brother, his skin nearly completely grayed. Klaus easily snaps the chains around his ankles, then scoops one arm under Elijah’s back and another under his legs and whisks him out of the container and into the clear air.

Klaus lays his brother on the ground, ripping the vervaine ropes from his wrists. “He’s not breathing.”

Hope falls to her knees beside her uncle just as Hayley appears, still splattered with Joel’s blood. She looks down at Elijah, distraught. “Is he…”

“Hold on.” Hope settles her hands about a foot over Elijah’s chest and closes her eyes. After a few seconds, ash starts to rise out of Elijah’s mouth. Suddenly, he’s coughing, hacking up the ash as Hope pulls it from his lungs.

As the gray starts to fade from his skin, Hayley crashes to the ground beside him, pulling his head into her lap. “You’re okay,” she says softly, brushing the ash away from him. “You’re okay.”

Once she’s finished pulling as much ash as she can, Hope stands up. Klaus immediately grabs her and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you,” he breathes into her hair.

Hope wraps her arms around her father’s middle and, face buried in his chest, hugs him back.

[scrumptiouswombatpeach]

MSC Episode 3

Scene 1: The Highly Trained and Efficient Testicle Kicker

           Maybell was a highly trained and efficient testicle kicker. She ran in the woods nearly every day of the summer. All sixty pounds of her was lean and heavy muscle. She could slip her fingers between the wobbly planks on the front side of the big red barn and putting pressure on the wall with the grip on her shoes, she could shimmy up the loose beam, reach over, grab the ledge of the loft, swing over, and pull herself onto the dusty floor of the barn’s second story. She could swim across the fish pond and back. She could dig post holes, carry 50-pound seed bags, and drive nails.

Her daddy had taught her how to fight too. They had spent a lot of time leaning to kick. She knew the aim of any strike was to put all her focus and all her power into one full-body motion. She knew how to point her knee just beyond what she wanted to kick, that the real damage came from putting an extra snap of force and hip power into the kick by sitting down into the motion just as the extended foot reached the point of impact. She knew that she needed to snap her foot back as soon as it connected to block her inner thigh and return to a stance that is not so vulnerable. She had practiced kicking a feed set up between two posts until the sack ripped open.

           So, when Maybell kicked Cliff in the nuts on the bus in front of the bus kids, Mrs. McClellan, Sylvia, and all the light and darkness residing in the fog and mist of Hickory Hollow that morning, her foot hit Cliff’s soft bits like a god-hammer wrapped in canvas shoes. It went into him until it was stopped by something hard as stone that might have been his pelvis and might have been his hip bone. She felt as the thing that might have been his pelvis and might have been his hip bone was raised up in the air a full two inches. Whatever it was, it would have bent her foot back a touch too far, far enough to pain her, but true to her training (and like I mentioned she knew to do once already), she snapped her foot back and set it on the bus floor. Then she lowered her weight, got centered and balanced and ready for more.

           Cliff made a squawkish horrible noise when she kicked him. It was half-grunt and half-scream, one of those inhuman animal noises people make when their reaction is all involuntary. Everyone who heard it recoil. His heels left the bus floor by a full two inches. His heels touched the bus floor again. He crumpled to the bus floor in a fetal position and stifled a cry.

The bus kids turned their heads and covered their faces with their hands when they heard Cliff cry out like that. It was not the kind of sound that made anyone want to giggle and laugh. It was a serious pain noise. Most of these bus kids were also farm kids. They knew enough about pain and life and death to feel a sort of horror-struck empathy for Cliff

Besides, Cliff was liked by almost everyone who met him. He was not a good kid. People liked that. He was also not a rude, arrogant, or unduly abrasive kid. People liked that more. He had helped or been kind to everyone on that bus at some point. No one was in a rush to laugh at him.

           Mrs. McClellan was the only person on the bus who managed to retain a smile. Her smile was perfect. It was placid. It was angry and full of glee and somehow not the least bit vindictive.

Looking at that smile, it occurred to Maybell that fireworks, ball-kickings, and gut-wrenching screams were not such a big deal to a woman who lost a pinky and ring finger in an accident involving a hatchet and a drunk older brother. Mrs. McClellan had a different way of assessing the normalcy of a situation other people. Maybell began to respect for Mrs. McClellan in a new way. She saw a whole lot of strength in Mrs. McClellan. Her new found respect did not, however, make Maybell think fondly of the woman.

           Mrs. McClellan’s head rocked back. Her poufy mullet bounced. She cackled, leaned over Cliff, and said,

           “Boy howdy! Didn’t count on that, eh?” Cliff ignored Mrs. McClellan. He looked at Maybell astounded. He said,

           “What was that for Maybell? I mean, really? What was that?” Mrs. McClellan pulled Cliff up to his feet by his thick camouflage jacket. He bristled and threw up his fists like he was ready to fight. She shrugged and said,

           “Chill out, kid. You are in enough trouble already.” She set him on his feet. She leaned in close. She said,

           “Learn this little lesson while your guts are squashed, and your groin is exploding all full of hurt. The pretty one’s aren’t all nice. They are some nice, but not nice through and through. Learn that little lesson right now. Learn it for good.”

           “I was just…” said Cliff, but he never finished the sentence. Maybell tackled him back down with a fit of fists and enthusiasm. She punched him twice in the face with her left hand. She gut-punched him with her right hand. He took a few swings at Maybell, and each one missed as she rolled clear of him. Then she put a foot against the wall of the bus and used that as a base-point. She pushed off that wall with her foot and flew from one side of the bus and across the middle isle in the bus to land on him again. She hit him with her shoulder in the solar plexus so hard that she knocked the air out of Cliff’s lungs. He coughed and she started slapping at him all over.

           Mrs. McClellan laughed and loaded Maybell on her shoulder like a kicking slapping sack of horse feed. All the kicking and slapping Maybell could manage did not phase the woman. Mrs. McClellan grinned down to Cliff, Maybell still kicking and slapping on her shoulder,

           “Nope. The pretty ones aren’t all nice. They sure are precious, just not all nice, not the way the rest of us have to be nice.” With that, she raised her voice and spoke loud enough for all the bus kids to hear,

           “What I’m about to say isn’t fair. I don’t give a roadkill opossums last thought that it isn’t fair. All I care about is that you hear the truth of it in my voice and act right. I don’t want to hear one peep out of any single one of you for the rest of our ride together to the school.” She walked slowly with Maybell on her shoulder until she reached the front of the bus. She turned and said, “Not one peep. Don’t breathe too hard. Don’t think too loudly if you can help it. If I hear one sound that is not this loud bus engine or that squeaky bus door,” she gestured toward engine rumbling under the yellow bus’s front hood. She motioned toward the bus door. “If I hear a squeak out of any one of you before we arrive at Hickory Hollow Elementary, the squeaker I catch will be in just as much trouble as this one here. I will find you. You will go to the office. Your folks will receive a phone call. I will ruin your whole life. Try me.” She punctuated the last statement of ‘try me’ by plopping Maybell down in the right-side front seat of the bus. Luckily, that seat was empty. Mrs. McClellan knelt in front of Maybell, looked her in the eye and said,

           “Don’t move. Don’t talk. You will get through this. Try me and you won’t.” She patted Maybell on the head twice, got into the driver’s seat, and pulled the big bus back onto the highway.

.     .     .     .     .

           It might be a testament to the power Mrs. McClellan had to terrify young children that, where a speech like this would normally backfire or fall flat, this one worked. Where most bus children around the world would scoff at a speech like that and start making loud fart noises just to be heinous, these bus kids were quiet for the rest of the ride to school. They did not cough. They did not whisper. They did not even snigger and chuckle as quietly as they could. They were quiet, completely quiet, silent.

           And that should have warned everyone that strange things were going on in Hickory Hollow. No one is so terrifying that they can make a bus full of children quiet like that. Someone should have remembered the two reasons silence occurs in the woods. The first is that everything that lives and makes noise has already gone. The scorched earth left by a forest fire is quiet. The second reason silence occurs in the woods is that something horrifying and powerful is present. Nothing wants to draw its notice. Someone should have remembered that, looked at Mrs. McClellan, discounted her as nothing more than another hardline authoritarian bus driver trying to keep her rout on schedule, and they should have looked around for the truly frightening thing that could make a bus load of children fear to speak. It was there.

Scene 2: Arrival at Hickory Hollow Elementary

           Mrs. McClellan pulled her bus into the big half circle loading and unloading zone at Hickory Hollow Elementary a bit late. All the other busses were already in place. Each of the other busses had a roaring engine and hydraulics that made a steady chugging racket punctuated by whooshing and wheezing noises at odd intervals. Each of the other busses was filled with screaming, shouting, window pounding, smiling, and laughing children. Filled with these youngsters, the buses were these fantastic big yellow joyous organic things of roaring machinery radiating naivete and unabashed silliness.

Mrs. McClellan’s bus did not radiate anything. It was a dead-zone, an unnerving static point causing dissonance in that cacophony of enthusiasm, movement, and sound. Mrs. McClellan left the engine running like all the other busses, but the children on Mrs. McClellan’s bus did not scream. They did not shout. They did not pound the windows, smile, or laugh. They sat still looking terrified or bored or worried. Their silence had its effect on the silly happy children on the other busses. The other children turned to look. They began to point toward Mrs. McClellan’s bus. A hush fell on the bus loading zone.

Mrs. McClellan sighed. She opened the bus door. She motioned for a teacher to come help her. A youngish lady with long brown hair and a plain face left the bunch of teachers she had been talking to and walked to the bus. Her name was Mrs. Ivey. She taught one of the second-grade classes. Her face was stern when she said,

“Hey, what’s up?”  Mrs. McClellan did not respond to Mrs. Ivey right away. She shook out her poufy mullet, stood, and called to the back of the bus,

“Cliff and Sylvia. Up here please. The rest of y’all were lovely. Stay lovely for a little longer, hear?” Then she turned to Mrs. Ivey,

“Hey, would you be a doll and watch this bunch until the bell rings. Just keep them quiet and get them to their classes for me if you would. I got a situation to deal with.” Mrs. Ivey nodded and stepped onto the bus.

“All right you three, let’s walk,” said Mrs. McClellan. She marched them off the bus and onto the semi-circle sidewalk of the bus loading and unloading zone.

           All the children on all the buses got to their feet to see why a teacher had been called over. The young one’s stood in their seats. They put their faces to the bus windows and peered out through the hazy windows to see what had happened to make a bus come in late and so quiet on the first day of school. There was something primal and other-than going on at Hickory Hollow that morning, and if the children had been aware enough to notice, they would have noticed that they felt the oddness before they noticed that the bus was quiet. The oddness was there before Mrs. Ivey had been called over. It was an oddness like the one felt at the bottom step of the stairs in a dark basement, the final step before reaching the floor that is longer than the others. It was a sudden weak feeling in the stomach and a need to find the ground.

The bus kids watched Maybell step off the bus trailed by Cliff and Sylvia with Mrs. McClellan hunched over them. Grayson McCann, a ruddy freckled cheeked boy who had been in Maybell’s class the year before called out his open bus window,

           “Aye! Look who’s in trouble already!”

           All the bus kids started to hoot and holler. The hollering began as an “oooh” that started low and the pitch went up until it became uncomfortable for them. Then the hooting started. It was a steady, “Woo! Woo! Woo!” The children quickly bored of “Woo! Woo! Woo!” and started chanting in a sing-song way, “Maybell’s in trouble! Maybell’s in trouble!”

           Maybell got so angry at the bus kids for hooting at her she felt she could burst. She felt like she could come apart into a million pieces, die, come back to life, and throttle every single hooting one of them. She could cry and scream as she scratched at all their faces. She could punch them all in their stomachs and kick them all down to the ground. She could stomp on the as tear poured out her eyes and blurred her vision.

           But she could not do any of those things, not really. She could only be an embarrassed little girl with no recourse at all to the taunting of the bus kids. She could keep breathing. She could keep walking. She could refuse to cry. She could forbid the tears to come, stuff the sobs back into her belly, and just not cry. That is all she could do.

It’s what she did. She kept her eyes focused on Mrs. McClellan’s poufy mullet. She put one foot in front of another. She breathed deeply. She held her head high, and when she had composed herself, she turned and waved to them all the way she thought Jaquelin Kennedy might wave at a line of reporters. She flashed a brilliant smile. She took a long slow and deep bow. Some of the hooting turned into cheering. Small victories.  

Maybell felt a small clammy hand take her own hand. It was Sylvia. Sylvia was grinning a frightened grin and sobbing openly. She was looking at the school busses horror struck. Maybell gave Sylvia’s hand a reassuring squeeze. They were in this together.

Maybell tried to catch Cliff’s eye as they marched away from the busses, He would not look at her. He kept his focus straight ahead with the hard gaze Maybell had seen on photos of Greek statues. The ancient generals and of the great thinking men from way back always had a proud look to them. Her father wore that look sometimes. She poked Cliff with her finger, and he still would not look at her. She said, “Psst,” to get his attention. Cliff nodded his head “no” without looking at her and suddenly tripped over his own feet. He fell on the sidewalk hard and grunted. He grabbed his knee and winced shutting his eyes against the pain. He grunted again and rolled to his back.

“No, you don’t,” said Mrs. McClellan. She pulled him up by his jacket for the second time that day, set him on his feet, and kept walking, but he fell again. This time he fell into Mrs. McClellan. She grabbed him by the shoulders and said,

“Hey there, buddy. You get your feet under you.”

“Yes ma’am, sorry. I’m just still feel’n it you know?” said Cliff. Mrs. McClellan nodded and kept marching. The three of them marched behind her in a line along the sidewalk in front of the red brick buildings and halls of Hickory Hallow Elementary. The hooting of the bus kids fell behind them so much that they could hardly be heard, and soon enough, they came to a pair of doors with a little overhang over them. Mrs. McClellan held one of the big doors open and urged the sisters and Cliff inside.

They walked into a room Maybell instantly recognized. She had never entered it from the outside, but she knew it. The teachers usually gave her a wooden hall pass and made her walk to the school office herself to Principal Harrison why she was in trouble. The receptionist’s desk was covered in a tidy mess of papers and folders. There black push-button phone with dingy manila buttons the size of hard candy sat on one side of the tidy mess on the desk. A clunky, dirty grey personal computer that had not been turned on sat on the other side of the tidy mess.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Bee, sat at the desk. She looked to Maybell like a potato might look if the hair from a Chatty Kathy doll had been placed on top of it, and whoever had done the hair placing had been too rushed to do a good job. Mrs. Bee had better skin than a potato, but not by much. There was a hallway leading beyond Mrs. Bee’s desk to a place only teachers could go. A door beside Mrs. Bee’s office bore a name plate that read Principal Albert Harrison. The walls of the area in front of Mrs. Bee’s desk were lined with folding chairs. The sort of green leafy plants that look fake but aren’t fake had been placed in the corners. The floor was covered in dingy white tile. It all formed a chintzy waiting room. Mrs. McClellan cleared her throat. She said,

“Mrs. Bee, we had some excitement this morning. I need to see Albert.” Mrs. Bee raised her eyebrows and gave Mrs. McClellan a hard look. She picked up the phone headset with so much force it made a chingging sound. She dialed an extension without saying a word, which was odd to Maybell. Mrs. Bee normally chatted with Maybell until Maybell grew visibly exasperated. Mrs. Bee spoke into the headset.

“Principal Harrison?” Mrs. Bee gave Mrs. McClellan that same reproving raised eyebrow look again and went on, “we had an incident in transportation that requires your attention.” There was silence as Mrs. Bee listened to what Principal Harrison had to say. “No one is hurt, I don’t think. I believe this is a disciplinary matter, sir,” said Mrs. Bee into the phone. Another silence. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay. I’ll tell’m.” She hung up the phone with another chingging clang. She said, “Mrs. McClellan, if you will have a seat, Principal Harrison will be with you shortly, and…” and she stopped. Her large potato face broke into a very large broad toothed smile, “Maybell? Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Maybell.

“What did you get into this time, hun?” Maybell shrugged. “Well, you and your friends best have a seat and wait on Principal Harrison too.” Mrs. Bee returned to her work typing, filling out forms, and sorting stacks of paper.”

The wait for Principal Harrison was short and miserable. Cliff slouched in his chair. He stared at the ground. Maybell sat beside him. She nudged his knee with her knee. She said,

“I’m sorry, okay?” but Cliff only shook his head again and turned away from her. Mrs. McClellan sat on Cliff’s other side. She hushed Maybell and said,

“No talking, sweetie,” and she smiled so sincerely that Maybell felt perplexed by it. Mrs. McClellan sat back in her seat. She pulled a pack of Marlboro Red’s out of her jacket pocket, looked it over fondly, smiled, put it back in her pocket. She bounced one knee and checked her wrist watch.

Sylvia still held Maybell’s hand. The place where their hands met was sweaty. It was gross to Maybell, but she could tell that holding her hand mattered to Sylvia. She put it out of her mind.

What Maybell cared about was how she could get Cliff to look at her again. She knew that if he would just look at her, he would think it through. He would understand. He would keep what he saw of the little blue orb of light Sylvia had produced to light the bottle rocket on the bus to himself.

The minutes crawled by. Maybell felt a big throw-up inducing doom in her belly as she looked at the principal’s door. The doom sank down to her feet. It made her legs feel weak. It rose back up through her. Her heart started to beat too fast. Her head began to spin. She saw visions of military men bursting through the big double doors of the school office to take her sister away. Maybell was deep into a reverie about armed men in black suits with high powered riffles and walkie-talkies when the phone on Mrs. Bee’s desk rang. Mrs. Bee answered it before the first ring ended. She listened to it for a moment. She said,

“Alright. I’ll tell’r.” She placed the phone back on its base with a clattering chunk, and she addressed Mrs. McClellan,

“You go on in and catch Principal Harrison up on this business. He’ll take it from there.” Mrs. McClellan scratched her poufy mullet with the two good fingers on her right hand and went in to Principal Albert Harrison’s office.

“Psst,” said Maybell again. She shook Cliff’s knee with her hand and said, “Now, what woulda happened to Sylvia if you got it out and told Mrs. McClellan and the whole bus what Sylvia can do?” Cliff shrugged. He looked at the ceiling.

“Ya’ll be quiet over there,” said Mrs. Bee without looking up from her work.

Maybell heard Mrs. McClellan’s muffled talking through the door. Then a deep voice spoke. The deep voice broke out in laughter, but it wasn’t the sort of laughter that made Maybell feel good. It was the other kind of laughter. Mrs. McClellan laughed and cackled too. The door to principal Harrison’s office opened. Maybell could hear Principal Harrison clearly through the open door. He said,

“Well you know, these things happen. The first day is always a gut buster. We’ll get it sorted,” Principal Harrison and Mrs. McClellan stepped into the hall. They shook hands just outside Principal Harrison’s door. Their eyes creased when they smiled at one another. Mrs. McClellan popped a cigarette into her mouth and let it hang from her lips. She said,

“See you around,” then she burst out in a big grin, crossed the room, and stepped outside through the big office double doors.

Maybell nudged Cliff in the ribs with her elbow.

“You’re not going to tell the principal about what Sylvia can do are you? He’ll call the police. They will take her away. Scientists will put her through tests. They will stick her with tubes and cut her open. You can’t tell. You can’t.” But Cliff just kept looking at the ceiling. “Will you at least look at me?” said Maybell. He never changed his gaze at all. His face gave away nothing at all. Principal Harrison started walking toward them.

“Please,” said Maybell one last time as the principal approached. The principal wore a bushy mustache, had thick round eye glasses, and wore a green cardigan with a thick yellow border along the collar that continued down on each side to form a thick yellow line along the middle of his chest where the garment was buttoned in the middle. His belly was big and paunchy enough to round out the bottom of his shirt in a way that made Maybell think of water balloons. He passed his hand through his shaggy curly grey-white hair and looked the sisters and Cliff over with intelligent analytical eyes. His eyes paused on Sylvia, and for a split instant his gaze changed. His eyes looked much like the big brown eyes of a dog that has been confused. He shook his head and walked to where the children were sitting. His voice boomed again,

           “Maybell! Lovely to see you again. You had a terrific summer holiday, I hope. And this must be Sylvia.”

 Scene 3: Principal Harrison’s Office

Principal Harrison’s eyes took on that same curious dog look again. Maybell got the feeling that Principal Harrison wanted to sniff and howl. He did none of that, of course. He said,

           “It is so nice to finally meet you. Jim has told me so much about you. All good things, I promise. And Cliff! I’ll be honest. I expected to see Maybell today, though, not this early.” He gave Maybell a reproving look. “I’m surprised to see you here at all. Please, don’t misunderstand me… but the circumstances of our meeting could be more pleasant for all of us if… Well, it will be better if we all talk this over in my office.” He held a hand out toward his open office door.

           Principal Harrison’s office was small. It looked cramped and uncomfortable from the outside. Maybell did not want to go in, but Principal Harrison raised a bushy eyebrow and motioned with his arm for the three children to enter the room before him. The first thing Maybell saw when she walked inside was a large painted portrait of Principal Harrison holding a grey-white Tibetan Tarrier in his lap. If you do not know what a Tibetan Tarrier looks like, it is a mid-sized dog with a grey, white, and black shaggy coat, kind of like a small sheep dog with extralong mustaches. The dog and his owner looked the same, same bushy shaggy appearance, same stately bearing, same mildly aggressive and perplexed look on their faces.

The next thing Maybell saw was an uncomfortable looking couch. It was the sort of antique couch people keep in a room with glass cases containing the dishes and tea china they only use on Easter and Christmas and an out-of-tune piano that no one ever plays. Only, this couch was upholstered with an odd ugly yellow and green paisley pattern. It had dingy yellow tassels hanging from a bottom fringe. It was so ugly that even the sort of people who like to keep an uncomfortable couch in an uncomfortable room for uncomfortable events and uncomfortable company would have been uncomfortable looking at it.

Maybell saw a big desk beyond the ugly couch. The desk was of dark stained wood, and it was so big that it made the already cramped office feel much smaller and much more cramped. The legs of the desk were round and thick with scrollwork done into them. The wood on the front of the desk had been carved to depict three women, presumably witches, stirring a caldron in the middle of the woods and hidden in the woods surrounding the women and the cauldron on the fire were hundreds of dogs, dogs of every shape, breed, and size. It was impossible to tell if the dogs were protecting or attacking the women. The leaves of the trees in the carving were all plated with silver.

Photos of Principal Harrison’s family were placed in thick and overly large silver leaf frames that covered most of the useable space on the desk. The photos featured a wife and two boys who had something of the Tibetan Tarrier to their appearance, which did not mean that they were ugly people. They were mildly attractive doggish people with bushy bangs and eyebrows and haircuts that parted down the middle.

Two book cases loomed over the desk just beyond a large leather rolling swivel chair that was for sitting at the desk. The shelves of the book cases contained thick new books with glossy covers. Several diplomas were mounted to the wall between the two book cases in overly large silver-leaf frames that matched the ones on Principal Harrison’s desk. Principal Harrison walked around he desk, sat down in his chair, leaned back, put his hands behind his head and said,

           “No one is in trouble yet,” said Principal Harrison, “Then again, I’d be lying if I said I expect that to remain the state of things once our conversation has concluded, and it is so important to be honest, don’t you think?” He motioned toward the couch and said, “Please sit.” The sisters and Cliff sat. “Good,” said Principal Harrison. He placed his hands on the desk before him. “I’m leaving the door open. Mrs. Bee will be able to hear what you say.” He scrunched his face. His bristly mustaches flared out like spider legs. “But… she isn’t exactly paying attention and she promises to keep what she hears to herself.” Principal Harrison’s voice boomed, “Isn’t that right Mrs. Bee?” Mrs. Bee leaned back in her desk chair to see into the office. She said,

           “What was that Principal Harrison?”

           “Don’t worry about it,” said Principal Harrison with a conspiratorial grin he expected Maybell, Sylvia, and Cliff to share with him. Sylvia tugged on Maybell’s arm. She looked horrible. Her eyes darted around the room one moment and lulled back in her head the next. Her face was pale, extra pale, pale even for her; ghost-like. She was breathing in long deep breaths like a sleeping person. A sheen of cold sweat had appeared on her forehead.

           “Your best bet is to be honest with me and trust that I have your best interest in mind,” said Principal Harrison.

           “Nothing happened. Can we go?,” said Maybell in a rush.

           “Nothing?” said Principal Harrison. “What about you, Cliff? Did nothing happen? Just a pleasant ride to school?”  Cliff looked up from the ground. He shook his head.

           “Cliff says no, Maybell. How about that? Alright Cliff, what happened?” said Principal Harrison. Cliff pointed at Maybell,

           “She kicked me in the nuts for one thing.” Principal Harrison’s bushy eyebrows went up. He said,

           “Maybell did you kick Cliff?”

           “Yeah, but I had to,” said Maybell. She felt like she might cry again. She was so tired of feeling like she might cry. She had been so busy feeling like she might cry that she had not yet had time to feel bad about kicking Cliff. Suddenly, she did feel bad about it, and that almost undid her. Principal Harrison said,

           “Why did you have to? I thought the two of you were friends.” The rolling leather swivel chair squeaked as He leaned forward over his desk.

           “We were,” said Cliff, and he glared at Maybell.

           “That was a vicious use of the past tense, Cliff. You’ll want to reconsider that. You don’t want to add to the list of apologies you’ll need to make later. If she thinks she needed to kick you, you can bet she thinks you did something that warrants an apology. Don’t make life harder than it has to be.” Cliff’s face softened. It hardened again.

“I’m not going to apologize to her ever,” said Cliff.

“I thought you were smart, Cliff. Of course, you will apologize, and now you will have to apologize for saying you wouldn’t apologize. Come on boy, get with it.” Principal Harrison addressed Maybell again,

           “I believe we have established this much at least, that you struck a student while on school grounds. You will serve a detention for that. Let’s keep talking.” He beamed an overly warm smile at the three children. It was the smile that did it, not that he smiled; that he smiled the way he smiled, like a bully or like a bad guy in a film. Maybell did not know how, but she would fix him for that smile and for what he was doing here with his questions. She would ruin him and his whole Tibetan Tarrier-looking family. She would put him in a chair in front of her someday. She would ask him questions while she sat in a desk. She would be the one making judgements and proclamations.

           But right now, she just needed to get out of this room without letting this dog-looking friendly faced not-friend know anything about anything. He looked so pleased with himself at his desk with his mustache and his little twinkle eyes.

           “Don’t all speak at once,” said Principal Harrison. No one said anything. Principal Harrison waited a few moments. Those moments drifted on by, and no one said anything. They all listened to Mrs. Bee clicking the large buttons on a calculator the size of a shoe box. She must have pulled out of a drawer somewhere. But she could click away at the buttons and every now and then a ticker tap printer would print the sums that had been calculated with a little buzz and whir. They listened to that for a few moments. Principal Harrison squinted his eyes at Cliff. He squinted his eyes at Maybell. He squinted his eyes at Sylvia. He had a thought. His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open. He looked around the room, and he almost seemed to be sniffing the air when he stood up, leaned forward over his desk, pointed at Sylvia and said,

           “This is all about you somehow. I know why Maybell is here. She kicked someone. I know why Cliff is here. He got kicked, but there’s more. There’s something more that matters. No one will talk. And here you are. But, why? I could think they sent you along with your sister as a matter of keeping the two of you together, but that doesn’t really make sense.” He sniffed the air. “No, this is somehow all about you. So, tell me, Sylvia. Why are you in my office?” Sylvia started to cry. She put her face in her hands and sobbed. Her shoulders shook, and her chest heaved. She turned and buried her face in Cliff’s shoulder. Principal Harrison rolled his eyes,

           “What about you, Cliff? Why did you get kicked in the nuts by your friend here?”

           “Couple reasons,” said Cliff. He put a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. His eyes flashed with anger for an instant. He said, “but they all boil down to Maybell be’n so even tempered and nice to everyone all the time. You get me Mr. Principal Harrison Albert?”

           “Albert Harrison,” corrected Principal Harrison. Principal Harrison thought a moment and corrected Cliff again, “and that would be Principal Harrison to you, Cliff.”

           “Whatever,” said Cliff. Principal Harrison smiled his least pleasant smile yet. He checked his watch and said,

           “Tell me about the bottle rocket.”

           “What bottle rocket? All I saw was this one,” He gestured toward Sylvia, “do’n magic tricks in the back seat. First, she started farting out live pigeons. They flew right out the window of course, but not before they each laid a few golden eggs a piece. We were all fight’n over the golden eggs when the eggs turned into little golden monkeys and jumped around the back of the bus caus’n trouble. I don’t know where they got off to neither, because Silvia here started the fireworks show then. Shot’m right out her eyes. One of’m got out of control and hit the front of the bus. Plumb wore her out. She don’t look good. I don’t feel so good either after have’n my nuts pushed into my liver either, not that you and the T-Rex lady care much. My daddy’s on the school board. I recon I’ll be explain’n all this to him in a few minutes when he comes to pick me up. I want to go home.”

           “That will be a detention for your lip, young man,” said Principal Harrison.

           “Sorry Principal Mr. Albert Terror-son,” said Cliff.

           “Harrison. Principal Harrison,” corrected Principal Harrison.

           “Principal Terror-son, again. I’m sorry. I just can’t get it right.” His eyes had that look like the Greek and Roman statues again and Maybell fell in love with him a little bit for that just for a moment, maybe for a little longer than a moment.

           “You will serve two detentions for that. What about the lighter?” said Principal Harrison.”

           “What this?” asked Cliff. He produced the lighter from his back pocket again. “Oh, I sneaked it back from Mrs. McClellan while the bus kids were yelling after us. Faked a fall. She fell for it. Helped me up. Standard stuff if you have four older brothers. I was going to barter a cigarette or two from a 6th grader. It’s a lot easier to do if you bring your own lighter. They snatch a few cigs from their parents, but lighters and matches are harder to come by. Snatch your parent’s lighter and they’ll be looking for it fifteen minutes later when they go for their next smoke. If I light the cigarettes, I can get one for free usually, and since my daddy don’t smoke, he won’t miss the lighter till we light candles on the next birthday cake. It’s a good trade.”

           “Oh really? Which 6th graders have the cigarettes?” said Principal Harrison.

           “Officially? No one yet. This is the first day remember. But you aren’t so good at this if you don’t know who comes back from recess smelling like an ash tray.” Mr. Harrison was ruffled. He ran his hands through his hair again and sighed.

           “Look,” said Cliff, “You wanna make me sit still for an hour after school and get me in trouble with my parents because I had the bad luck of sitting next to this one,” he pointed at Maybell, “and got kicked in the gonads so hard my spirit drifted through the furthest realms of outer space before I came back to my senses and felt like I’d been drawn and quartered, you do it. I have done harder things than sit still in a chair. I’m not scared of your detentions. Just right now though, I don’t feel good. Will you please call my father to come pick me up. I’ve got not much more to say.” Principal Harrison, who was still standing leaned way over his desk. He put a finger in Cliff’s face. He barked, “Look kid…” Then he stopped. He sat back down in his big comfy leather swivel chair. He leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands across his belly and said,

           “We will arrange the details of your three detentions and Maybell’s one detention when everyone has had some time at home to refresh themselves, sure. Principal Harrison picked up the phone on his desk. He dialed an extension. The phone at Mrs. Bee’s desk rang. She picked it up before the first ring had finished.

           “Yeah huh?” said Mrs. Bee from her desk.

           “Call their parents and send them home.”

           “Mmmhmmm, will do,” said Mrs. Bee.

           The sisters and Cliff were brought to the waiting room again. Maybell grabbed Cliff’s hand, and he looked at her. Just that was enough to make Maybell’s shoulders relax.

           “Thanks,” she said. Cliff rolled his eyes.

           “You are going to tell me everything you know about that blue light business.”

           “No, I won’t,” said Maybell.

           “You should tell someone,” said Cliff.

           Silvia’s daddy arrived at the school twenty minutes after Mrs. Bee placed the phone call. He pulled up in the old pick up truck that smelled like gasoline, walked through the big double doors and into the school’s front office where Maybell and Sylvia were waiting for him. He stood there, chest heaving and back bowed for a moment. He was 100% red-faced wide-eyed and effervescently angry. He looked at Maybell. He looked at Sylvia. He said,

           “Come on.”

Scene 4: The Pickup Truck

Sylvia’s daddy walked back out the big double doors to his big orange pickup truck. The two sisters followed him out. Sylvia got into the pick-up truck first. Maybell hopped in after her. Her father stood with the door open for a moment seething with anger. He looked at Maybell and said,

           “What were you thinking?” and he slammed the door before she could answer. Her father walked around to his side, got in, slammed his door, started the truck, and drove the pickup out of the school parking lot and onto the highway in brooding silence. Maybell said,

“I’m sorry okay?” but her father never answered her. The rest of the ride home was the most horrible kind of quiet, and the quiet was not the most horrible part. The pickup smelled like gasoline for one thing. Sylvia already felt nauseous for some reason. The gasoline smell was not helping. For another thing, it was cold and damp. The vinyl bench seat was cold to the touch. Everything felt so cold. Then she would touch her forehead and it would feel extra warm. So, it was cold and stank and she felt like she had a cold and no one was happy.

Sylvia liked the middle seat most days. Her chances of a good cuddle in the middle seat of the pickup were twice as good as they were at home. She could cuddle up to her daddy while he drove. That was almost always a sure thing. If her daddy got too caught up in driving to pay her any attention, Maybell was on the other side of her. Maybell would be willing to cuddle her in the truck even if she was in a bad mood. It was nice, and there was nothing else to do in the truck anyway.

Sylvia wanted so much for someone to put a comforting hand on her back and help her get warm. It seemed irrational and insane how much she wanted someone to put their arm around her. She specifically wanted her father to be the one who comforted her. She wanted him to make jokes, to speak with his big deep warm voice, and to make everything okay, but he middle seat of the big orange pickup was devoid of affection and warmth that day. Maybell had pulled herself as close to the door as she could go and had put her forehead on the glass of the window. The glass in front of Maybell’s face was fogging up and unfogging as she breathed. She had fixed her eyes outside the truck at the morning light flickering between the trees as the big orange pickup drove by them, and Silvia’s daddy was so angry he was breathing hard.

Sylvia had seen a television show once. It was educational, and the people on the show had dipped a banana in liquid nitrogen before shattering it with a hammer. Something like fog had come billowing off the banana once they pulled it out of the canister with the liquid nitrogen, and that is how Sylvia felt her father’s anger as she rode on the bench seat beside him, like the anger was flowing from him the way the fog billowed off that banana. His jaw was clenched tight. His knuckles were white on the steering. Sylvia figured that if the steering wheel had been a living thing, it would be dead by now.

All cuddling was right out. It was almost too much to bear. She decided that she was too tired to deal with anything anymore. She had encountered entirely too many things today. The things she had encountered in the last hour had all been so awful. She decided that there should be no more things to encounter, no more things to seem nice and turn out awful, so she pulled her knees up to her chest and went to sleep until the ride was over.

.     .      .     .     .

She woke when blast of cold mist blew over her face. The truck had stopped. Her daddy was gone from sight. The driver’s side door slammed shut with a metallic clatter.

“Get up,” said Maybell’s voice. Maybell sounded scared, which was odd. Maybell never sounded scared. Sylvia felt a hand on her knee. The hand gave her a gentle shake. Sylvia opened her eyes. She saw Maybell’s face. Maybell looked sad, and Maybell never looked sad. She was usually too proud to look sad. Maybell took Sylvia’s hand and started to gently and forcefully pull Sylvia out of the truck. Sylvia let herself be nudged and tugged out of the truck.

Sylvia could feel the sadness in Maybell every time Maybell touched her though. It was an astounding sadness. It made Sylvia want to cry. It seemed silly to Sylvia that she should want to cry just because the person who touched her felt sad. That was silly, but it happened like that all the time. They had gone to a funeral when Maybell’s uncle Joe had died of lung cancer. She had only been two years old at the time, but she still remembered all the sadness all the other people had brought with them into the room with the flowers and the casket.

Sylvia followed her sister across the yard and up the stairs to the porch. Her father opened the door to the house with a key and said,

“Sylvia, sit here on the porch swing while I talk to your sister. I’ll come back to get you in a bit.” He picked her up and put her on the swing, got down on one knee, looked her in the eye and said,

“Sit still now. Don’t you come inside till I come get you.”

Sylvia’s daddy probably thought he was talking the way he always talked. It sounded a lot like the way he always talked, but it was not the way he always talked. It was a little louder than he always talked. She could not typically hear what he said inside from the porch swing, but now his words were percussive enough, the consonants all had enough click to them, that she thought she might be able to understand what he was saying if she really listened. Sylvia could not identify exactly what else was different about her father’s voice as she sat outside on the porch swing. She only knew that it made her feel afraid.

His voice grew a little louder. She heard the word ‘delinquent’ through the walls. She did not know what delinquent meant, but there was so much anger in that word. She could feel it like a physical blow, like someone had punched her in the stomach and given her a fever at the same time. She wiped her forehead. She had started to sweat. The cold outside air was making her head feel funny.

She tried to distract herself by swinging in the swing she was sitting in, but she was awful at swinging. She had short legs. She was a bit clumsy. She could never do the thing she saw Maybell do where she sunk her body weight down as her legs went out and brought her body up as her legs came back, doing all of this in tune and in timing with the swing as its pendulum arch grew wider and wider. She had not managed that yet, so even the diversion with the swing made her feel upset.

And that is when the bright thing said, “Hello.” It was not a literal greeting, like a person on the street or even an old friend saying hello. It was a flicker and a flash in her mind. She had discounted that flicker and flash as odd and wrong. Lighting the bottle rocket on the bus had caused so much trouble, but the flicker and flash was reasserting itself in her mind. It flickered. It flickered again. It flashed. It flashed again. Then, in a way that felt disconnected from Sylvia’s own wants, in different frequency and tone than the thoughts and desires that belonged to her and composed her inner dialogue, the bright thing began to shine in her mind.

Have you ever gone walking in the woods with a friend? If you go walking in the woods with a good responsible friend, this will never happen to you, but since going into the woods is risk intensive, you will probably go walking in the woods with an idiot at some point. This idiot will rush off on their own and leave you alone in the woods. They will run off and leave you alone listening for their steps in the woods. It is amazing how quick an idiot can vanish from the senses in the woods despite the ruckus that same idiot will make when they are walking beside you. And if you have been alone in the woods like that, you might know how Sylvia felt, because the moment before the ruckus making idiot that ran off and vanished int the woods comes back into view, the moment before his or her vanished footfalls become audible again, there is a feeling. It is the feeling of no longer being alone. It can be terrifying feeling to suddenly feel the presence of another after an extended period of loneliness. It can also feel wonderful.

Sylvia thought the feeling was delicious. She said “hello” to the thing that had appeared in her mind. It was not a literal hello. It was more of a friendly recognition of the presence that had appeared. The bright thing in her mind acknowledged her presence as well. It asked her what was wrong. It was not a literal question. It was something she felt. The tiny bright thing in her mind was curious about her. She could feel the curiosity.

Just then her daddy’s voice came roaring out. It said,

“What am I going to do with you, Maybell? What am I going to do?” She heard Maybell’s voice answer. It said,

“Daddy, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, daddy!” Sylvia felt the tiny bright thing in her mind offer to help. She ignored it. She heard her father’s voice say,

“Sweety baby, I love you, but I can’t just let you hurt people. That wouldn’t be right. Come here.” Maybell was going to get the paddle. The tiny bright thing in her mind have her a feeling that if it had been translated into words would have sounded like,

“I can help.” Sylvia didn’t want Maybell to get paddled. She moved her lips and said,

“Okay.” The words came out of her mouth out loud.

“Okay, sweet one,” said the bright thing in her mind, and now it most certainly did have a voice. If a spider web wet with morning dew and yet still bathed in moonlight had a voice, the bright thing in Sylvia’s mind would have a voice like that. It was light and airy and almost like nothing at all, “You can help,” said the bright thing. Sylvia said,

“I can help.” And she scooted herself off her seat on the swing. She balled up her fists and placed them at her sides. She walked to the big white-washed oak door to her house. The bright thing said,

“How should we help first?”

“We should open the door,” said Sylvia.

The door shuddered in front of her. The door shook in front of her. The door flew forward in front of her and crossed the living room between the television and the couch. The bottom half of the door struck the island in the kitchen. It flipped forward and shattered to pieces on the refrigerator. Sylvia’s daddy had been talking to Maybell on the couch. He stood up and said,

“What?” He came rushing toward Sylvia. The bright thing in her mind said,

“How should we help now?”

“We should hold Daddy still,” said Sylvia.

Sylvia’s daddy stopped moving that instant. He came to a full and rigid stop. A moment later he started floating backward and up toward the ceiling. The bright thing said,

“What about his bones?”

“What about his bones?” repeated Sylvia.

“Good,” said the bright thing, and Sylvia’s daddy’s body was thrown against the wall above the couch. He hit it with a series of wet smacking sounds as different parts of his body all hit at different times. Sylvia’s daddy floated slowly back toward the center of the living room. He said,

“Sylvia! Baby!” but the bright thing asked Sylvia again,

“What about his bones?”

“What about’m?” said Sylvia out loud. The bright thing smiled in her mind. It was a nasty greasy smile that she could not see. She felt it in her heart. It felt like pure joy and eons of starvation.

Maybell’s daddy flew into the wall above the living room couch, crashed through it, and vanished from sight.

But now all she could see was Maybell’s face. Maybell was crying. Maybell took Sylvia’s face in her hands. She said,

“Stop! Stop! Please, stop! You’ll kill him! Stop!”

The bright thing said,

“What about her bones?                        

Sylvia thought about it. She said,

“No.” She said the words out loud. Maybell gave her a funny look, but the bright thing was gone, just like that. And just like that, she felt cold inside and out. She said,

“Maybell, I’m so cold.” She saw darkness creeping into the edges of her vision. The darkness swept over her. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, she was warm in her bed. She out her bedroom window. The sun was rising pink and yellow through the trees.